I Scream, You Scream, We all Scream for Ice Cream

 Every Tuesday my mother and I would hop in the car and drive out to Northwestern University (Evanston, IL) to attend auditory verbal therapy sessions. Instead of focusing on speech like old-school speech therapy, this focused on utilizing my cochlear implant and learn how to listen through hearing – and to really listen.


We were careful about choosing our therapist, especially after experiencing a memorable event that occurred soon after my first cochlear implant surgery at age five. With surgery behind us, we had sought out the “best” auditory-verbal therapist in the area as referred to us by the doctors and audiologists. 

What turned out to be the “best” was a woman who believed in forcing children to sit on their hands (to “avoid using sign language as a crutch”).

In addition, she would sit behind the child and talk at their head, making the child face forward (“to avoid cheating by lipreading”). I had no idea of what she expected – or wanted of me. Seeing my dilemma, Mom had wanted to at least interpret the instructions then back off.  

We were used to the sandwich method utilized with my in-school speech pathologist - say it, sign it, then say it again. 

But the therapist disagreed – “Kaitlyn will get it. She will get it!” Unfortunately, I did not “get it” and through this experience, speech and listening therapy earned a bad rap as is common with deaf and hard of hearing children and teenagers.

But the folks at Northwestern were different – they were fine with using the sandwich method. Most importantly, they would sign the instructions before starting an activity so I knew what was expected of me. I saw it as a collaborative agreement – I teach them a handful of signs to support their spoken instructions with in exchange for them teaching me to listen and speak. 

Instead of feeding word-cracker to the parrot (me), they incorporated activities – oftentimes games or small crafts. A favorite was “Twenty Questions,” a game that I still beg to play to this day much to the dismay of those around me. My friends would complain that I had a tendency to pick obscure subjects that were too difficult to guess. Not my fault that not everyone had the names of Donald Duck’s nephews memorized.

 (For the record, they were Huey, Dewey and Louie).

One week, the therapist announced a surprise trip to the ice cream counter on the other side of the quad. 

Ice cream? During therapy? 

Suspicious, I cocked my head in disbelief.

“Yes, ice cream. We,” the therapist pointed to me and herself as well as including my mother and the student intern, “will practice listening to the names of different ice cream flavors and saying the names too.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Ice cream names?”

“Yes – flavors such as chocolate, vanilla, strawberry…” She trailed off, lost in thought. “Then we will walk over to the ice cream counter and order ice cream.”

“We get to eat ice cream?” My interested perked up in hope of devouring a frosty treat on this balmy day. “For real?”

Smiling, she nodded and pointed a finger at me. “Yes, you will order for all of us.”

Order? Me? “Er-“

“Don’t worry, we will practice listening and saying the flavors now. “ With that, she pulled out index cards with pictures of different ice cream flavors and their corresponding names printed underneath. I did a quick scan. The usual flavors plus a variety from Baskin-Robbins’s legendary thirty-one flavors. 

While my attention was diverted to organizing the cards in neat rows with ultimate attention to precision, the therapist seized the opportunity to vocalize the name of a flavor. “xxxxxx candy…”

My head snapped up. “Candy?” My index finger screwed into my cheek in the sign for candy with the hope of getting some myself. 

“Listen again.” She repeated the flavor name again. “Caw-ton candy.”

My hands mimicked peeling off a strand of cotton candy followed by the sign for candy.

“Yes, cotton candy. Do you like cotton candy ice cream?”

I shook my head and pointed to my sister, “Emma likes cotton candy.”

“What ice cream do you like?”

I brought my finger to my chin in the classic Shh, I’m thinking pose. After a moment, I attempted to utter a series of C-friendly words. “Choco late sheep coo-key do-ugh.” A pause. “And choco late.”

 (This was disguised as an attempt to improve my pronunciation of the clicking C sound and I was oblivious of the cover-up).

She clarified, “Chocolate chip?” 

I shook my head and pointed to the corresponding picture. “Chocolate chip coo-key do-ugh.”

“You mean dough? Not a donut?” Enunciating clearly, she explained that dough had the same sound as doe. “Like how the song goes, ‘Do, a deer, a female deer…’”

I giggled at the Sound of Music reference, and corrected my pronunciation. “Dough.”

Nearing the end of the session, the therapist decreed that we were ready to head out to our treat. We packed up everything and made our way from the building and across the green to another building on the other side. Pushing through the glass door, a display case of ice cream cartons met my eye. Risking frostbite, I rested my hands and nose on the glass enclosure and inspected the labels and their corresponding cartons. 

How would I choose? Rocky road… chocolate… raspberry sherbet… cookies’n’cream… cherry… bubblegum… butter pecan… peppermint… there were too many choices –

A voice filled my head. I jerked my head around in a 360 degrees scan, trying to pinpoint the source. Then I saw a college-aged employee on the other side of the glass, waving at me. 

Putting two and two together, I guessed he was the one talking. “Hi.”

He grinned and pointed to the ice cream. “Hey. What…you… today?”

On impulsive, I turned around to check confirmation with Mom, the unofficial designated interpreter. She shook her head and gestured that I shouldn't rely on her to interpret every time someone spoke. Nodding in agreement, the therapist indicated that I should try first.

Disgruntled, I turned back to the employee and pointed at the chocolate chip cookie dough.

The guy eyed the therapist and leaned over to play the game. “Sorry – what… you say?”

Oh. I had to work for my food? Then, so be it. Summoning up my courage, I swallowed and knocked out my C’s. “choc-late ship koo-kee…” I stalled on dough – but then the image of Julie Andrews with the guitar on the mountainside surrounded by the von Trapp children materialized in my mind and I smiled. “doe.”

He pointed towards the concoction in the window and I nodded.

On second thought, I added “cone” and pointed to the waffle cone on top of the glass display case.

“You want…. cone?”

I nodded. Glancing over to see the therapist’s reaction, I was pleased to see her smiling with encouragement. She leaned over to Mom and whispered something in her ear. Mom then looked at me and signed “chocolate for me please.”

Sighing, I asked if she wanted it in a cone or a bowl.

She held out the sign for bowl by cupping her hands together and pulling them apart.
I turned back to the guy and pointed towards my mother, “She want chocolate. Bowl.”

He nodded and pointed towards my therapist. “What…. she want?”

I looked at her lips.

“Butt er pea can… bowl.”

Repeating the request, I completed the order with a rocky road cone for the student intern and watched the guy assemble our treats. 

Finally, he handed me my cone and I took a long lick. If this was what therapy would be like, I could handle it. With a blissful smile, I took my cone outside and enjoyed the beautiful day. Cone in one hand, I signed with the other, "We play 2-0 questions now?"

Groans all around. 

But the therapist grinned. "Of course - you may start with the first one."