Talking Hearing Loss

Before diving into Frank’s story, here’s a quick disclaimer: the real “Frank” gave his consent to share this story, provided I changed his name. During our appointments, it quickly became apparent that he often began his thoughts with phrases like “I’ll be frank with you…” or “Frankly…” So, for the sake of this tale, we’ll call him Frank!

Frank’s wife, Betty (also not her real name), was referred to me by a longtime client. She explained that she and the rest of the family were at their wit’s end. Frank wasn’t responding when people called him, he misheard things constantly, and often responded in ways that were completely off-topic. The TV was at ear-splitting volumes, and his frustration levels had skyrocketed. Betty put it bluntly: “He’s just angry all the time.” Even the grandkids had taken to calling him ‘Grumps’—a nickname that, while affectionate, spoke volumes.

Now, Frank was adamant there was nothing wrong with his hearing. He agreed to come in for a test, not to get help, but to prove to Betty and the family that they were all wrong.

When he walked in for his appointment, Frank was the epitome of a bloke—jeans, work boots, a well-worn Cold Chisel t-shirt, and arms covered in tattoos. He made it clear he had better things to do. His answers were short, his arms were crossed, and his expression was pure skepticism. Meanwhile, Betty had a lot to say.

She told me how she would call him from another room, only to get no response. How she gave him shopping lists, only for him to return with all the wrong things. How he was withdrawing from friends, avoiding family gatherings, and barely talking when the kids visited. Most of all, she worried that if she ever needed him in an emergency, he wouldn’t hear her.

Frank sat through all of this with a look that said, “Here we go again.” I could see the tension building, so I decided to take a different approach.

I asked him who he followed in the AFL. That got his attention. Turns out, Frank and his entire family are diehard Bombers supporters. He launched into stories about his playing days, his injuries, and his lifelong motto: “Go hard or go home.” He told me about the time he played through a fractured rib, or when he sprained his ankle in the first half but refused to come off the field. We got chatting about footy, his time as an electrician, and even swapped some renovation horror stories. Bit by bit, the arms uncrossed, the scowl softened, and Frank started to engage.

Then, as Betty became visibly emotional and excused herself to feed the parking meter, I saw an opportunity.

Frank sighed, rubbing his face. “Look, mate, I know she’s frustrated. I get it. But it’s not like I’m doing it on purpose.”

He hesitated, then continued, “It’s embarrassing. People think I’m rude or ignorant. My own grandkids don’t even want to talk to me. But half the time, I don’t even realize I’ve missed something until everyone’s looking at me like I’ve got two heads.”

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I’ve started avoiding things because it’s just easier that way. The tennis club, the Men’s Shed, even just having the kids around. It all feels like work now—like I’m constantly trying to piece together what’s going on, and by the time I do, the moment’s already passed.”

Then, Frank got quiet for a moment before he said something that struck a chord. “You know, when I was a kid, my grandfather used to sit me on his knee and tell me stories about when he was young. He had the best stories—some real, some made up, but they were magic. I’d hang on every word. I always thought, one day, I’d do the same with my own grandkids. But now… I barely even know what they’re saying half the time.”

That was it. The breakthrough. Beneath all the gruffness, the frustration, and the denial, Frank wasn’t just stubborn—he was scared. He was struggling, and deep down, he knew it.

A hard thing for a bloke to admit.

By the time Betty returned, Frank and I were having a chuckle about the mischievous antics of his youngest grandson. The tension in the room had shifted. Now, it was time to get to the heart of the matter.

I asked Frank four simple questions:

1. How much would you like to enjoy watching TV with Betty and the family again?
2. How important is it to be able to share your stories with your grandkids?
3. How much do you want to enjoy Sunday roasts with the family without retreating to the lounge?
4. Would you like to get back to enjoying time with your mates at the tennis club and Men’s Shed?

And finally, the big one: “Are these things you’re willing to ‘Go Hard or Go Home’ for? Because it won’t be easy.”

Frank sat quietly for a moment before saying, “I’ve never backed down from a challenge in my life.”

His hearing test revealed a mild to moderately-severe sensorineural hearing loss. When I explained the results to him, he was quiet. I could tell he was taking it in, processing the reality that maybe—just maybe—his family had a point. But Frank being Frank, he wasn’t going to admit defeat just yet.

We fitted him with mid-range hearing aids for a trial period. Frank wasn’t thrilled, listing every reason under the sun why they were a hassle. “They feel weird.” “They make my ears itchy.” “I don’t like how my voice sounds.” Every classic excuse, I’d heard them all before. I reminded him of his footy days—the injuries, the grit, the determination. “Compared to that,” I said, “this is nothing.”

In the days following this appointment, I braced myself for the call telling me he was giving up. Instead, almost exactly a week later, my phone rang. It was Frank.

“I need to see you,” he said. “Today.”

When he walked in, he looked different—like a weight had been lifted. And then, with tears streaming down his face, he told me this:

“This morning, I was coming downstairs for breakfast, and I heard Betty singing. She was at the stove, just like always. I told her I loved that song and was glad she was singing. She stopped, looked at me, and said, ‘Frank, I sing every morning when I’m making breakfast. Today is the first day you’ve noticed.’”

He paused, shaking his head. “I can’t believe I’ve missed that for so long.”

It wasn’t just the song. It was the laughter of his grandkids as they played in the backyard. The subtle inflections in his mates’ voices when they cracked a joke. The comforting background noise of life that had slowly faded away without him realizing it.

Betty had no idea Frank was coming to see me that day. He wanted to surprise her by taking the plunge with top-level hearing aids. Not for himself, but for her and for his family.

Since then, I’ve seen Frank a few times, and the transformation is nothing short of remarkable. He’s reconnected with his friends, reclaimed his spot at the family dinner table, and most importantly, earned a new nickname from his grandkids: ‘Gramps’—not ‘Grumps.’ He and Betty are enjoying watching the TV together every night and every morning he enjoys hearing her sing as she makes breakfast.

Frank tells me that Sunday roasts can still be a bit noisy, but now he wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s back at Men’s Shed, swapping stories with the boys and every now and then one of the boys walks into my clinic as a new client and tells me ‘Frank sent me!” But best of all, Frank is finally sitting his grandkids down and telling them all the stories he’s been waiting a lifetime to share.

And you know what? Frankly, I think that’s a pretty incredible outcome.