Although we've matured into sweet, caring, and compassionate adults, my brother and I were sometimes, I must confess, mean little children -- although he was the older child who probably should have known better, while I was the innocent and adoring younger sister who wanted to imitate and impress him. But, anyway, I particularly remember our torturing Aunt Ceil, who wore a hearing aid, by pretending to yell loudly into her face when we were, actually, silently mouthing words.
Well, there is such a thing as Karma, you know.
I know, because I was Karma-lized, not for the first or last time, about six years ago. Convinced that I was losing my hearing, I scheduled an appointment with the audiologist. He put me through the entire audio-file, checking to see if my ears were waxing prolific, ascertaining my ability to raise a hand upon hearing beeps or peeps, and testing whether or not I could distinguish and repeat whispered words.
When informed that I had passed every examination, I expressed incredulity. "There's definitely something wrong with my hearing," I insisted.
"Why do you say that?" asked the doctor.
"I can't hear my son when he speaks," I said.
"How old is your son?"
"You can't hear him," explained the wise doctor, "because he doesn't want you to hear him."