A family transformed
Deaf father, mother and daughter gain hearing together through cochlear implants
Heather Knight, Chronicle Staff Writer
Sunday, September 23, 2001
©2001 San Francisco ChronicleThere will be piles of presents and scoops of ice cream. There will be schoolmates, grandparents and lots of pictures of ladybugs, the birthday girl's very favorite insect.
But those gathered today around picnic tables in Menlo Park for Samantha McBride's second birthday will celebrate a lot more than the passage of another year.
They'll revel in the fact that little Samantha, along with her mother, Sarah, and father, Todd, will hear the joyous noise of a kid's party for the first time. Children's squeals. A balloon's pop. Wrapping paper being ripped. The off-key strains of "Happy Birthday."
All three have been deaf since birth, but now hear the sounds of everyday life swirling around them with the help of cochlear implants. In June, Sarah and Todd had the prosthetic devices surgically implanted at the Stanford Hospital and exactly one month later, Samantha underwent the same procedure.
Doctors at the hospital know of no other case in which an entire deaf family has undergone the controversial surgery. While the implants have created a chasm in the deaf community, with some deaf people vehemently opposed to them, the McBrides say they wouldn't trade their exciting summer -- and the promising years ahead -- for anything.
"I can hear the door close," Sarah said the July morning her implant was turned on. "I can hear water run. I can hear myself walking."
That night, she heard her fork clink against her plate at the dinner table. The wind blow. Samantha's heartbeat.
It was shortly after sunrise on June 16. Sarah smiled bravely as nurses prepared her for surgery at Stanford Hospital. Todd sat in the waiting room, complaining about the butterflies in his stomach.
Cochlear implants, approved by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration in 1985, are now used by more than 20,000 people, but weren't an option for Todd and Sarah when they were growing up.
Both were deaf at birth. It wasn't diagnosed, though, until they were toddlers, when their parents grew worried because they weren't speaking.
Sarah, 28, works at Project Hired in Santa Clara, helping other deaf people get jobs. Born and raised in Palo Alto, she's always used hearing aids and speaks well because of it.
Todd, 38, is a financial associate at Novell Inc., a computer networking company in San Jose. As a boy growing up in Modesto, he complained that his clunky hearing aids gave him headaches and rarely wore them. His speech suffered as a result.
As the family awaited news of Sarah's surgery, Samantha rested in the arms of her maternal grandfather, Bill Petersen. Her grandmother, Yvonne, paced the halls. Bouncing his legs nervously, Todd said he didn't know what to expect from the implants.
"A good friend of mine in Arizona says he can hear the difference between motors of cars -- like that's a truck, that's a Porsche, that's a Ford," said Todd, through a combination of speech, gestures and writing on a notepad. "I don't know if I believe him."
Todd said he wants to communicate with his boss and co-workers better. He wants to hear waterfalls. Birds. The oven timer. The halftime show at the Stanford football games he loves attending.
"I want to hear the yelling, the announcer, the cheerleaders, the Stanford Band," he said.
"But the most important thing is I'm the father and if I hear better and talk better, it will be better for my baby girl."
Soon, Dr. Joseph Roberson, a neuro-otologist, emerged with good news. Sarah's surgery had gone perfectly.
"She's wonderful," he told them. "She's safe, doing great."
Butterflies or not, it was Todd's turn.
"I'm ready," he said. "I'm ready."
"I know you are," Yvonne told him. "We are too."
The McBrides hope the implant will make school easier for Samantha than it was for them. With the help of a classroom interpreter, Todd graduated from California State University at Northridge with a bachelor's degree in business administration in 1992. Sarah took classes at De Anza College and the University of California at Santa Barbara.
After meeting through a mutual friend and dating for a year, Todd and Sarah married in 1997 in front of 200 people at Stanford's Memorial Church.
Two years later, Samantha was born at the Stanford Hospital. Beginning the morning after her birth, doctors tested Samantha's hearing three times. She failed all three.
(Stanford Hospital does hearing tests on every baby born there, but not all do. Next year, all state-approved hospitals will be required to screen newborns for hearing loss under a law passed in 1998.)
After learning his daughter was also deaf, Todd was surprised.
"But all I cared about was that she was very, very, very healthy."
Sarah and Todd knew they wanted to raise Samantha the way their parents raised them: with oral education. Children in that system learn to speak and read lips with the goal of integrating into mainstream schools. They don't learn sign language, but may opt to when they're older.
The McBrides enrolled Samantha at Jean Weingarten Peninsula Oral School for the Deaf in Redwood City, where almost all the students have cochlear implants.
The McBrides decided getting the implants together would help their daughter flourish.
"She'll grow up with the implants learning how to talk, to listen, to talk on the phone, whatever -- like a normal kid," Todd said.
Many deaf people, though, believe implants erode deaf culture. Those who get implants at a young age and never learn sign language may have trouble communicating with deaf people who rely solely on sign language.
Those against implants also decry the notion that the devices are a "magic cure." They aren't -- those with implants require many sessions with speech therapists so they can understand the sounds they're hearing.
For example, a person with a new implant might hear a humming sound coming from the kitchen, but not realize it's merely the refrigerator running because he's never thought about a refrigerator making noise before.
Some say implants imply there's something inherently wrong with deaf people and they need to be "fixed." They liken it to changing someone's race or religion.
But none of that made the McBrides hesitate. Like most insurance companies, theirs covered the $50,000 cost of each surgery and device. After a year of visits to eye doctors, physicals and a host of MRIs and other tests, they were ready.
Todd's surgery also went smoothly. That afternoon, the McBrides went home, exhausted, with purple bandages wrapped around their heads.
Yvonne watched over Samantha as she played with a baby doll. Thanks to her grandfather's ingenuity, it looks just like Samantha -- he used some Velcro to affix one of Sarah's old hearing aids to the doll's head. Known for her bubbly personality, Samantha likes to say "Mama," "Papa" and "ladybug."
A few days after her surgery, Sarah said she'd been talking to several friends who'd also gotten the implants, trying to understand what she could expect once the swelling went down and the devices were turned on a few weeks later.
"I want to hear the wind in the trees. I want to go out for a walk and hear people on Rollerblades," Sarah said.
She wants to hear people on the telephone. The conversation between people at the next table at a restaurant. The ocean.
"Now, I don't hear anything but airplanes."
The morning of July 16, it was Samantha's turn. The whole family gathered in a room at the Stanford Hospital. Sarah and Yvonne wiped away tears of worry as their beloved baby was prepared for surgery.
"I'm afraid the time has come," said Michael Champeau, Samantha's anesthesiologist. "I'll take care of her like she was my own daughter. Do you want to give her a kiss?"
Sarah hugged Samantha, then wept as Champeau carried her baby away.
Mary Ruth Leen, the director of the Jean Weingarten Oral School, sat with the McBrides in the waiting room, encouraging them that they'd made the right decision. With implants, children can enter mainstream kindergarten as early as 5.
Todd nodded and said, "She's only 21 months, but we have to do this, we have to. Then she'll be able to hear her whole life."
After a long couple of hours, Dr. Roberson came in and kneeled before Sarah and Todd.
"Everything went perfectly," he said. "She's safe."
The family rushed into the recovery room, where Samantha slept, her blond curls poking out from the purple bandage wrapped around her head. Sarah sobbed as she wrapped a blanket tightly around her baby.
Todd laid her doll, also wearing a purple bandage, in the crook of her tiny arm.
It was July 25. Samantha was recovering nicely at home with Todd's mom, Margorie, while the rest of the family crowded into a tiny conference room at Palo Alto's California Ear Institute. Sarah and Todd eagerly awaited the big moment: their implants would be turned on.
Audiologist Becky Highlander attached the magnetic microphone behind Sarah's ear.
"OK, are you ready to start listening?" Highlander asked.
She turned on her laptop and had Sarah listen as it emitted low-pitched beeps.
"Yes, yes, oh my gosh!" Sarah shouted, bouncing in her chair and putting her hand to her mouth in amazement. "Wow, it sounds great! Thank God!"
Todd wiped his eyes and caressed Sarah's shoulder. Yvonne and Bill sat behind her, also teary-eyed.
Sarah described the sounds as "interesting," "weird," "wonderful," "perfect. " Next came the human voice. Highlander counted to five and said "good morning. " Sarah heard it all.
"How does your mom and dad's voice sound?" Highlander asked her.
"They haven't said anything," Sarah said, nervously. Had she missed something?
Bill tapped Sarah on her shoulder and she turned around in her chair.
"I love you," he said, his voice catching.
"I can hear that!" Sarah said, embracing her father, crying.
Todd told her he loved her, too, and kissed her on the cheek. She heard the smack of his lips for the first time and said it sounded funny.
"The hearing aid is totally different," Sarah said after her session. "With it, it goes to my ear drum and moves, but with the cochlear implant, it goes to my brain. There's more volume. With the hearing aid, I could hear a door slam, but with this, I can hear a door open slowly."
Audiologist Lisa Tonokawa worked with Todd, who, as expected, had a harder time processing the new sounds. He complained that the computer beeps felt like vibrations in his head and made him dizzy.
"Your brain does not know that it's sound," Tonokawa explained to Todd. "The electrical signal is going to your brain and your brain says, 'What's that?' "
But things got better for Todd as the session wore on. His father, Tony, sat behind him, his chin quivering.
"It's something that as a parent you wish for," Tony said. "We want our kids to be normal, whatever normal means, and you want them to have a good life and this is all part of it."
On August 22, Samantha's implants were turned on, too. Her parents, grandparents and teachers crowded around, but Samantha ignored them as she played with a pile of toys. Highlander tried putting the magnetic device behind Samantha's ear, but Samantha playfully pulled it off each time.
She's gotten used to the implant now, though. She responds to her name, has learned her colors and when asked, can point out the facial features of Mr. Potato Head with ease. Her grandpa Bill called the manufacturing company to buy another implant, which he fastened to her doll's head.
It's not always fun being able to hear everything around them. Sarah sometimes complains that Samantha's voice is too loud. Todd was puzzled by his car's clicking sound -- until he realized it was merely the turn signal. The hammers and saws at a construction project down the street are annoying.
Today, though, they'll only hear the sounds of happiness. Singing. Shouts.
They'll ask Samantha to make a wish and blow out both candles. Maybe she'll wish for a new toy, or a fat slice of birthday cake. No matter.
Her family's greatest wish has already come true.
E-mail Heather Knight at hknight@sfchronicle.com.
©2001 San Francisco Chronicle