In December, I came down with my Annual Holiday Upper Respiratory Disease--this year, instead of the usual sinus infection, however, it was a cold that knocked me sideways. Moreover, for the first time in my life, I lost it completely--my voice, that is. For a week, I could barely make any more than the most pathetic, mole-like squeaky noises, as the laryngitis had its way with me. Since I didn't have the luxury of downtime, I had to push on through and sing before I was really ready. Thanks to good technique, my faithful Neti pot, and sheer bullheaded stubbornness, I made it. Unfortunately, my voice never quite came back 100%, even after a week's rest. In January, just as I was feeling like I might be on top of it all, the cold (or another one--who can tell?) came back and bit me in the butt again, if only temporarily. After, my voice remained somewhat less than optimal; the cords themselves felt thick, and there were times when I would feel them come together--and nothing would come out, especially in the high part of the range, or on pianissimo vowel entrances. Too, I would get vocally tired far too easily; I would be trashed after a three-hour rehearsal, even when I was marking half the time.
For someone who has had cast iron vocal cords all my professional life and could, no matter what, still make a good noise--I sang a Christmas concert last year that sounded just fine, although my speaking voice resembled that of an 80-year-old chain-smoking drag queen--losing control of my voice in this way (and not knowing WHY it wasn't getting better) scared me spitless. For the first time in my life, I had to contemplate the possibility that I had permanent damage, or nodes, and might have to stop singing altogether. Think of it this way: a singer's instrument is inextricably linked to their physical body. To be told I could no longer sing would be akin to an athlete being told s/he could no longer use their legs, or their arms, and would have to figure out another way to earn a living, to boot. This went on for a good two months, with me limping along on my bum cords trying to pretend they would get better, until I finally realized that it wasn't going to 'just get better', and so I trundled over to my friendly neighborhood ENT to find out what the hell WAS going on.
The good news--there is no sign of infection, inflammation, nodes, strain, or any other damage.
The bad news--the hard fact is that, as one ages, the cords, like any other muscle tissue, sag a bit, and simply don't bounce back as quickly after an illness. I hadn't given myself enough time to fully recover from the ravages of December, and so, by continuing to sing through it all, had continued to strain my already-compromised cords.
The prescription: one week of TOTAL vocal rest. That doesn't just mean no singing--it means no singing, no talking, no whispering, no noise whatsoever. AT ALL.
Think it's easy? try it sometime. You'd be surprised (as I was) to discover just how often one verbalizes during the course of the day--and how hard it is to keep from mindlessly speaking. To myself, to my neighbors in passing, to the clerk at the supermarket, to my DOGS, fer chrissakes....to everyone. It's extremely difficult to get through without giving in to the little social prompts to say "good morning", "hi", "excuse me"--I've begun to get strange looks from people when I don't respond to THEM, as if I'm being rude, or there's something wrong with me, or maybe I'm a foreigner who doesn't understand English...? I carry a notebook with me but I just can't write fast enough to explain my situation to a stranger who's given me an exasperated look and is already twenty paces away before I can write ten words to excuse myself after I've bumped into him by accident. So, I find myself mainly staying home, so I don't have to come in contact with a lot of people. (Why, yes, I AM getting cabin fever--what makes you ask? Oh--the fact that this entry is longer than ANY OTHER I've EVER done? Nope, don't see a connection at all....)
I'm noticing it's getting slightly easier. I'm learning that if I'm out on my morning walk and mouth "hi!" or "good morning!" as I pass, people see my face and lips move, and their minds seem to register the idea without realizing they haven't actually HEARD me say those words out loud. I'm also not blindly talking to myself nearly as much (playing music while I'm by myself helps). I still talk to the dogs, though (don't tell the doctor!)--whether I like it or not, no amount of scribbling in my notebook would be able to explain all this to THEM....
RM
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