And what are the ethics of withholding when that technology has safety implications, and could enable the deaf child-then-adult to apprehend dangers to themselves or others? Footsteps in the dark, a window breaking, a car approaching on a quiet street, a fire alarm, a scream in the shopping centre, a baby crying in the next room – none would be audible to my daughter without an implant.

And from a feminist perspective she might need, as women always have done, a loud voice to shout, or to argue with her healthcare providers, or to advocate for herself in an emergency. The implant would provide her with a clearer pathway to power and impact in the world, and to positions of influence where she will be underrepresented both as a woman, and as a deaf person.

She writes well and nailed to understand what the cochlear implant is able to do.

Our neighbourhood pear tree is just beginning to rouse itself after winter, and my little girl has been emerging too – into a Jamesian ‘blooming, buzzing confusion’ of new sounds that were beyond the reach of her hearing aids. Yesterday she heard the tiniest, most pitiful bird chirp, and told me so excitedly, with a strong, clear voice. On a windy day she stopped, wide-eyed and said: ‘I hear the leaves rustling with my coch-le-ah!’ with all the triumph she saves for brandishing found treasures on walks.

We hold a both/and view here too, and also celebrate the magic of her ‘quiet ears’ and the unique perspective they afford her. When she removes her processor before sleep, it’s clear she’s relieved to submerge into calm again. But she holds the dialectical promise of both silence and sound at once – this time literally, insisting on holding her processor tightly in her palm while she falls asleep. In this way she stands pragmatically astride both worlds. In silence, but with a hearing key right at hand; ready to unlock the blooming, buzzing cacophony of the world whenever she chooses.

It’s beautiful 🥹