03/02/2023
This is me and my dad, Brian. He’s my hero. He was raised on a farm in Illinois in the late fifties. His dad, my grandpa Cooper, was born blind. Because he was blind, he had to be creative and cunning to get by. He ran an illegal tavern, bought and sold cars, and anything else he could make a buck on. My dad learned business acumen from my grandpa, but also the importance of our senses, and how to care for someone who needed assistive devices but often couldn’t afford them. There isn’t a subject in the world that will make my dad tear-up faster than his dad. The love runs so deep, it flows out of him any time he sees someone in need. There are few things you can count on in life anymore, but the generosity of my dad is one of them. He started working in a factory while he was still in high school to help put food on the table. He worked at a break-neck speed to get the job done in time to get home and help work the farm. By the time my dad had kids of his own, my grandpa had passed, but the lessons he imbued in my dad’s heart have only grown. He taught me how to love people, and see past their hurt. He taught me the value of working hard, and sacrificing your comfort for the good of your family. And when it came time for him to start thinking about (semi) retiring, he’s started passing the hearing aid center, his pride and joy, down to me. He’s trusted me to care for his patients—his friends, and I couldn’t be more honored. It’s out of the utmost respect that I assess hearing loss, recommend assistive devices, and clean and maintain hearing aids and ears. It’s for my dad, and his dad, that I care deeply for you and your dad. We’re all connected, from our ears and brains to our hearts and minds. We believe hearing care is health care, and it should be done with compassion.
