Well. Having no voice is turning out to be a interestingly frustrating experience. I lost my voice walking around Highland last Monday, but it didn’t come back while I walked around Highland today.
Two half days last week; an early incorporation of videos that I usually don’t teach with until much later; a guest speaker; no singing at all—even at choir practice or during Sunday morning worship; no extracurricular activities that would tempt me to use my voice; an entire day in bed reading on Saturday—with my eyes!; a vaporizer, essential oils, pain medication, anti-inflammatory medicine, cold medication, nasal spray, hot tea, cold tea, lemon, honey, cloves, and water later…I still don’t have a voice.
And I don’t mean that my voice sounds weak. I truly don’t have a voice unless I force out sound by pushing my diaphragm as hard as I can—and I know that this is not good for me.
This started as my normal cold two Friday nights ago—sore throat, runny nose, hopes for one clear nostril to sleep, eventually into a little cough. But it settled on my vocal chords last Monday and decided not to move. I haven’t been to the doctor. Laryngitis can normally last one to two weeks. But I fear that a trip to the doctor is in store if things don’t clear up soon.
If I’m honest, then I must admit losing my voice is one of my biggest fears. Truly losing it. Have a vocal cord rupture or paralyze. Having nodes or nodules. Having to have a scope inserted down my throat so that doctors can see what’s going on. I gag just thinking about it.
One of my music teacher colleagues showed us the procedure where doctors looked at her vocal cords. While it was sort of neat to see the vocal cord vibrate—and only one vibrated because the other was so enlarged—it made me a little sick watching the scope get to where the camera could see. My colleague had to go on vocal rest for an entire month. Not just teaching vocal rest. Everything vocal rest. Home. Church. Grocery store. The North Carolina Symphony. Everywhere. I remember it vividly. She wore a button that something like, “Please excuse me for not speaking. The doctors have me on vocal rest.” Vocal rest, folks, means any type of sound from the mouth—whispering included. Having to be wise about my words this week, I’ve imagined what it must have been like for my colleague…and what I’ve imagined has been awful.
So I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t concerned that the same was going to happen with me. I hope it won’t. I hope that this is just a bought of laryngitis and that it will clear up in due time. I hope that this is a wake-up call that one of my biggest fears could come true if I don’t take better care of my voice. How many teachers actually do take care of their voices, though? I can’t think of many. My colleague does. She must. She knows the consequence.
I was supposed to sing at a revival last night. I played piano and horn instead. I am thankful for a mom who could go with me and save my musical butt. I’m supposed to lead my graduate school class in a song for our group presentation next week. What happens if I still can’t sing? I’m thankful that I found a singer in my group at revival last night; she was leading the praise songs. But still. That’s my job. My duty. I don’t want to let the group down. I don’t want to let my students down either. I have too much that I want to teach. Not long lectures. But questions. Guidelines. Suggestions. Encouragement. I had a kid tell me last week that students in her class were laughing at me when I made the morning announcements because I sound so ridiculous. I don’t want to sound ridiculous. I don’t want kids to laugh at me. But I can’t even use my voice to explain that laughing at people whose voice is different doesn’t show kindness or respect. I feel like I’d be wasting my words. And when you’re afraid that your vocal cords are dying, every word counts.
I am a teacher. I teach music. I am a music minister and worship leader. I lead music. I am a minister. I share words. I am an extravert. I thrive off of conversation. Yet all of that is stunted with no voice. And when I’m teaching my students about the four different ways they can use their voices, I can only actually properly demonstrate one.
Though it may not seem as such, I don’t write this to sound pitiful. I know that having no voice is such a minor thing compared to so many others. I know that woe-is-not-me. But I needed to confess a fear that I’ve been afraid to admit. I needed to cry these tears and pray this prayer that only confession and admission of fear can pray.
God, in this forced quiet, help me to listen more, to be more creative, to learn anew the power of words, and to find the voice that exists beyond inflamed vocal cords. I love you. And I’m really trying to not let fear and frustration spin out of control. Amen.
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