I
thought it was just a momentary hoarseness, the after effects of a particularly
good New Year’s Day gathering. By the third day, though, as the roughness
lingered, I began to worry. The last and only time I lost my voice was shortly
before I resigned from Cosmodemonic Communications, back in the late 2000s. My
body pulled all sort of imploding tricks then. I had rashes under my arms that
responded only to a cream prescribed by a doctor who’d treated victims of
Hiroshima’s atomic aftereffects. I vomited violently one morning, so hard that
my face was purple with burst blood vessels. And, my voice left me, a final sign
that it was time to go.
I
am under no such stress now. There is still promise for 2019, artistically at
least, and the other aspects of life are under the usual illusion of control
and serenity. I stayed home from work, hoping a full day of two of rest would fix
things, but they did not. I began to worry that I’d done some actual damage to
my vocal cords. I held back tears frequently, afraid that sobs would do more
harm. I checked my neck for swellings or lumps, the common American paranoia
that all too often becomes reality. I finally called my doctor, and with forceful
croaks, made an appointment.
She
found nothing wrong, and prescribed vocal rest, and an appointment with an ENT
if there was no improvement. My day job is on the phone, so vocal rest was
difficult. My employers were kind, and found work for me to do, but even so, I
took two more sick days, hoping physical rest would speed my recovery. I finally
called the ENT my Beloved went to a few months ago for a definitive opinion.
Dr.
K’s office was neat and calming, but the diplomas on the wall revealed a career
of over fifty years, older by far than the ‘80s pastels in the waiting room
wallpaper. His receptionist, a pleasant, efficient woman, handed me a form to
fill out that had been created on a typewriter. As I waited, she worked on her
IBM Selectric, the satisfying clicks a comfort in my muteness. The doctor looked
down my throat, and needing to get closer, told me he wanted to send a scope
down. I’d been afraid this was what he’d want. He tried to comfort me, saying, “I
do this with little children all the time.” “They’re not old enough to be
scared,” I replied in my raspy squeak.
Three
sprays of Novocain down my right nostril later, Dr. K gently snaked the camera
down to my larynx. I felt a tiny movement, nothing more. He saw no infection,
damage, or any of my other worst fears. The diagnosis was the same as the
others had guessed, “mild” laryngitis, and again I was told to rest my voice.
During
all this silence, because this is what I do, I made plans to live the rest of
my life without a voice. There was poetry, which could always be read by others,
or just given up altogether. There was looking for another job, because clearly
I couldn’t continue where I was. I wondered how much I would make on Disability,
and how long it would take to get during a long-term government shut-down. I
wondered how I’d manage visiting my parents, who worry about everything, and
how I would hide my own worry to comfort their fears.
I
worked on a little chapbook to take my mind off things. No new poems, but an
old manuscript that had been rejected several times. I did some trimming, and
started laying it out in my primitive way. I spent a week on a collage for the
cover that I’ve since ditched in favor of a totally different concept. My
Beloved and I watched TV, as we always do, flipping through all the YouTube
vids from Disneyland fanatics. We’ll be totally prepared, if we ever bother.
And
of course my voice came back, little by little. I’d test it every morning
before I got out of bed. The high notes are still out of reach, but I can get
by. I’m back on the phones at work. There are a couple poetry readings to get
to next week. I’m featuring in late February, and hope to have that crazy
chapbook put together by then, under my own wobbly Flying Monkey imprint. And,
as long as the TSA folks stay on the job, the Florida trip is back on.
