I experienced an overwhelming passion to become an American Sign Language interpreter long before laws were passed to assure communication access to deaf people. In other words, I volunteered my interpreting services often. Sometimes, I’d work for a hug or a home-cooked dinner.
It took me nearly ten years to develop fluency and skills as an interpreter. The work was mentally and physically challenging. It was also incredibly rewarding when the thoughts and feelings of a hearing person went through my hands and actually registered understanding in the eyes of a deaf consumer. It was equally exciting to be the channel through which hearing people discovered the intelligence, talents, humor and value of individuals within the deaf community. It was truly fulfilling work.
Then it happened.
It started out like any normal Saturday morning. We were driving to a downtown restaurant to treat ourselves to brunch. My husband, Loui, was driving and I was window-shopping from the back seat. “Mountain of Love” was playing loudly on the radio and I was dancing in my seat as I celebrated the meaning of this song as it applied to our wonderful relationship.
Then BAM! I felt a force that thrust my head away from my body. I thought in that second, something really terrible is happening to us. I wasn’t sure what. I fought the force to reclaim my head and turn to see Loui, perhaps for the last time. He did the same. As our car continued to spin in what seemed like slow motion, we locked eyes and without a word said it all - including good-bye.
When the car finally came to a stop, a crowd of people peered into our car window. We ignored them and embraced each other in a hug that I was determined to last forever. When we finally got out of the car, I realized what had happened. A young man had been on his cell phone and had forgotten he was driving. He sped through a red light and smashed right into our lives.
I felt pain in my neck and back immediately, but felt sure I was fine. When I was not able to fill out the police report, I just assumed it was a result of the shock from the accident. However, as time went on, I realized I had difficulty remembering things. I was scheduled to interpret a very simple assignment at a television station and found I could not get the ideas from my head to my hands. I could not find the signs.
The doctor said my brain had been bruised in the accident. This could be temporary, but may be permanent. Only time would tell. I stopped interpreting and waited for time to give me the answer.
I was a person who was defined by what I did. My work was my reason for being. I was faced with the question - If you take away what I do... who am I? It was a long and trying time searching for the answer, looking for a sign.
Every day, I would secretly attempt to interpret to see if the spell was broken. I’d listen to the radio, or watch a few minutes of television and try to find my hard-earned skills - the meaning of my existence. Each time, I was unable to retrieve the ideas from my brain, to express through the signs that now seemed forever lost to me.
I was also struggling with simple life tasks. I would begin to express an idea only to come to mid-sentence and lose the end of the thought. I would enter a room and not remember why I was there.
While it was one of the most difficult times in my life, it was the impetus for me to discover I am much more than what I do. I began attending a church for spiritual support. I went to a church that provided an interpreter. There were several deaf friends who attended so I enjoyed the social contact as well as the spiritual inspiration.
One Sunday, there were about eight deaf people in attendance. The church service began with an upbeat song. However, the chair where the interpreter usually sat on stage was empty. My legs kept urging me to run up there and fill the space. My heart argued with my “bruised brain.” Would I be able to do it? As I saw the deaf people’s disappointment, I knew I had to try. I walked up the stairs to the stage following the rhythm, not of the music, but of my rapidly beating of my heart.
On stage, the music flooded into my ears. The words came at me like a challenge. I looked out into the large congregation and drew a terrifying and now familiar blank. I was beginning to panic. But as I looked into the receptive eyes of the deaf congregants, I raised my arms and, to my amazement, my hands took flight. It was as if they had a life, or perhaps a voice of their own.
As the sermon began, the words and their beautiful meaning came to and through me. Articulately expressed with the voice in my hands, it all landed lovingly in the hearts and minds of my deaf friends through expectant eyes. In the service of others, I had found and reclaimed my self.
After church, a large burly man approached me. “I’m not overly religious,” he said shyly, “but I need to tell you... I saw something around you when you were signing. Others saw it too. We don’t know what it was, but it was something to behold.”
I don’t know if a miracle happened that day. I only know that it is through reaching out in service to others that we most often discover the path to our own healing.
Jenna Cassell