And suddenly I cried. I remember it like it was yesterday: one day in October 2017, I arrived in the countryside, a house lost in the woods. I turn off the engine, get out of the car… and stop, stunned. All around me, an incredible cacophony: the stream bubbling below, the wind in the trees, the rustling of dead leaves underfoot – an orgy of sensations, noises, emotions. A world that had disappeared from my life a long, long time ago, and that I suddenly rediscovered, thanks to two little nothings at all straddling my ears: hearing aids.
I do not hear well. Congenital bad luck and a failed somersault into a swimming pool at the age of 15, which ended in a perforated eardrum… I don’t hear well, and I’m a journalist. For a long time it worked. I cheated (a little) and concentrated more than others to understand what people were saying. At the time, it was perfectly playable, even if I remember my jealousy towards a colleague of “Libé”, Françoise Berger, who had no equal to make honey of the little sentences whispered in the corridors of power. . Some confreres gently teased me on occasion. It was a curiosity. Not a disability. And then, little by little, things got worse. The embarrassment set in.
In the early 1990s, I decided to try hearing aids: a sound plug stashed inside each ear, supposed to improve hearing t
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