A Song in My Heart

There’s a song in my heart. Unfortunately, it’s stuck there.

Me and my boyfriend,  pre-BS

One of the most infuriating aftereffects of last October's brainstem stroke (BS for short. And I’m no longer saying “my” stroke, like it was some lovely, autumnal gift) is a wacked-out larynx (voice box). Inflammation behind the larynx, probably from reflux caused by a weakened esophagus, gives me perpetual hoarseness that gets more pronounced as the day goes on and fatigue sets in. 

Within the larynx, my vocal cords—those miraculous paired harp strings that vibrate together to produce music—are not cooperating. For most folks, speech and singing cause the vocal cords to move toward each other, meet in the center, and vibrate. My right cord, however, just doesn’t want to come out and play: It vibrates okay, but it doesn’t feel like moving, thank you very much. The result is a breathy voice without much fine control or even tone. I sound like a tone-deaf chain smoker.

I’ve been singing all my life—20+ years in bar bands—so losing my singing voice is a lot like losing an arm. I’m pretty sure I’ve gone through the five stages of grief over it, although I’ve only accepted it FOR NOW.  Yes, I know my singing voice may never come back (one oddity of stroke is that not even the “experts” can say which aftereffects will be temporary and which will be permanent). But the fat lady is not singing yet. 

My friend from junior high, Cindy Kessinger (http://singinglessonsbycindy.com/), a voice teacher in Colorado, consulted her voice association friends. Then she came up with adduction exercises, recorded them in her own sweet voice, and emailed them to me to help strengthen my right vocal cord. Who’d a thunk when we were singing “Our Day Will Come” together in the 7^th-grade talent contest, she’d be helping me heal up from BS today? Bless her heart.

Grow up...these are vocal cords.

In the mornings, when no one’s around, I do the exercises. Then I play my geetar and sing with wild abandon (good therapy for my clunky left hand, too). Then I crank up my house surround system and Joan Armatrading, my personal vocal therapist, works her magic. While I cook or do laundry & dishes, Joan and her playlist waft through the bacon-scented house (day 5 of a no-carb diet), and we sing our hearts out. Well, Joan sings (she’s the world’s most underappreciated musical genius). I croak out harmonies. And by gum, I think all the therapy is working…

Last night, I dreamed I was hanging out with friends in the storage room of a hospital (as you do). Ray played “Cajun Moon” on a geetar that appeared from nowhere, and I couldn’t help it—I started singing. To everyone’s surprise (including me), it was beautiful. I could still FEEL it when I woke up. So I’m declaring this a prophetic dream that my voice will come back. But I’m a realist, too, so I have a plan B: I’ll backcomb my hair into a giant red bouffant, get some sailor tattoos, put on my bustier, satin stretch pants, and steel-toed boots, and croak away in back-alley sleazy, smoky dives. My heart WILL let loose its songs. You may want to bring your earplugs. And some hand sanitizer.