My Worst Hearing Loss Experience Ever

“The only disability in life is a bad attitude.” Scott Hamilton, American figure skater.

Renewing a driver’s licence with hearing loss should be simple—but in reality, it often exposes the cracks in how public services handle accessibility.

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Last night, just before I drifted off to sleep, I had a sudden thought: Isn’t it nearly time to renew my driver’s licence? I last did it during COVID in 2020.

Oh no.

My stomach tightened at the memory because I can still remember exactly how it went the last time.

In South Africa, we renew our driver’s licences every five years. It sounds simple enough: fill out a form, do an eye test, pay the fee, and wait six weeks to collect. Yet every South African dreads it.

Why?

Because the licensing departments are notoriously unpleasant. Staff are often dismissive, rude, and anything but service-oriented.

And during the COVID-19 pandemic, things were even worse.

I thought renewing my driver’s licence with hearing loss would just be uncomfortable. I didn’t expect it to become traumatic.

A Routine Task That Turned Into Trauma

I had to book an appointment due to the limited number of people allowed per area. The only available slot was in Vereeniging—almost an hour from Alberton.

My husband came with me, mainly for safety. These offices are often in isolated industrial areas, and walking in alone didn’t feel safe. But I never imagined that day would become my most traumatic hearing loss experience ever—and that my husband would become my lifeline.

When we arrived, they initially refused to let him in.

Luckily, after we explained that I have hearing loss and need his help to communicate, they allowed it.

We joined the line outside, queuing in the full South African summer sun—it was December, and the heat was brutal. My husband offered to stand in line while I waited in the shade. Not just to prevent sunburn, but because we’d learned during the COVID vaccine queue that standing too long makes my blood pressure drop.

Eventually, we made it inside. But the building was hot, crowded, and loud. There were no signs. No visual guidance. No clue what to do next.

When I finally reached the front, I handed over my completed form—hoping that would speed things up. But I couldn’t hear a word. The staff were masked, the speech was muffled, and the background noise was overwhelming.

Even my husband struggled to understand.

We asked them to repeat what they said, but that was met with eye rolls and irritation. Eventually, we worked out that we had to leave the building again and wait at another door.

We were being shuffled around like cattle.

No guidance. No communication. No care.

For anyone renewing a driver’s licence with hearing loss, clear communication is essential—but often completely missing.

I somehow managed to complete the eye test and hand over my documentation, but then I panicked. I didn’t know what was happening. I didn’t know where to go. And my documents were no longer with me. I was terrified that I’d have to come back and go through it all again.

Eventually, they called my name and told me to go and pay.

It had taken three hours.

Whether you live with hearing loss or another disability, renewing your driver’s licence can be a painful reminder that inclusion is still optional.

By then, we were exhausted. My husband stopped at a nearby garage just so we could use a bathroom, because the facilities at the licensing office were filthy. I honestly can’t imagine the last time they’d been cleaned.

And the worst part? I still had to go back six weeks later to collect the card.

The Real Disability Isn’t Always Visible

I grew up with hearing loss in a hearing world. I attended mainstream schools and colleges. I worked in construction for 17 years, without special accommodations. I’ve learned to cope.

But that day, I felt degraded. Helpless. Totally out of control.

If my husband hadn’t been there, I would’ve walked out without finishing the process. Because there were no accommodations for hearing loss. None.

Who, then, had the disability that day?
Me—doing my best to cope and communicate in a chaotic, unwelcoming space?
Or the staff, whose bad attitudes made human connection impossible?

Unfortunately, this is normal at licensing departments in South Africa. It’s why so many of us dread having to renew anything. You’re made to feel like a problem just for needing clarity.

Maybe, just maybe, the real disability that day wasn’t mine at all.

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This morning, the first thing I did was check my licence expiry date—and sighed with relief.

I had forgotten that I only renewed it in 2021.

So, I still have a year’s grace.

But I’m already dreading the next round.

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Do you have a traumatic hearing loss experience to share?
Or a moment where you were left completely alone in a system that didn’t even try to see you?

I’d love to hear it.

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