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An illness steals a lot. What was reality yesterday is no longer. You change. And learning to deal with those losses and changes is a big part of moving on. "I can't do that anymore? OK, let me find something else to fill that niche in my identity." You learn not to look back, or at least not very often or for very long. You learn to see old aspects of yourself as trappings that have had their day. You remain thankful for those experiences, but you move on - finding new paths to joy and harmony. It is not terribly different from simply growing older. Watch a baby crawl around, casually sucking on its toes, bending its body into knots that would make a yoga instructor blanch. When was the last time anyone over 3 or 4 months old could do that? A teenager collapses on the floor to check her phone, unconsciously executing a full lotus with a half-twist, and then pops up again to check the fridge for Greek yogurt. Ouch. Can we party til the wee hours and hop up and go to work at 7 AM? Would we even want to? Those moments pass us by. We grow older and life changes.
But the plundering that illness brings is different. It often steals precious things with which we are not ready to part. This is not the normal transition of youth into maturity, the gentle pace of lush summer into russet autumn. It is often harsh, and always feels unfair. But it is what it is; so you seek that new path to harmony, putting the past aside. Which is why it is all the more disorienting when one of those dear old former friends unexpectedly shows up at your door. When a loss, to which you have adjusted, seems to return, you have a hard time trusting that reunion - it's like the lyrics of an old "hurtin' country love song,"
"Hey there, darlin', If I let you in the door,
Will you turn around, and walk back out,
And break my heart once more?"
You see, my illness stole my voice. Oh, no, I could still talk just fine. Maybe my voice would be a bit tired after a long lecture. But it was still my voice, I still sounded like me. But I couldn't sing anymore. I used to sing all the time. Well, usually not where others could hear me. But in the house, in the shower, in the car. All through high school and as an undergraduate I was going to be god's gift to the American musical theater - and I was pretty good, just not that good. Still, the people to whom, and for whom, I sang seemed to enjoy it. Or they faked it well.
Point is, I loved it. There is something truly magical about hearing a note in your head, and when you open your mouth, out it comes. You can actually taste the sound, it rolls around in your mouth like honey. So, long after I disappointed Broadway with my career choice, I kept singing. All the time, and in all those places. And then I got sick, and it stopped. I say "it stopped" because even though the voice stopped, for a while, I didn't. I would hear a note in my head and open my mouth, but what came out bore little resemblance to the note in my head. It rolled around in my mouth like vinegar. Harsh and disappointing. So eventually I stopped trying to bring back the voice. I have been without that part of my voice for years now. I moved on and became a more attentive listener to the voices of others. I listen to all kinds of voices. Professional voices. Lovely and enchanting voices. And that has been OK. Sort of.
Then a few weeks ago an envelope arrived in the office mail; a big one, 8 X 12. The return address was a media production company, and I was about to toss it when I noticed that the address was handwritten. So I opened it. Inside was a letter from a former student and a CD. It was a demo for a radio show. More than a demo really. It was a whole program - about ten and a half hours of "the 150 best selling country music singles of all time." The student, who had taken the nom de radio of Winston Hall - the campus building in which our department is located - has really done a delightful job. The various songs are separated by fascinating bits of history about the country music industry, the genre, and the performers. There are slight pauses where the commercials would go, but, delightfully for me, those elements had been omitted from my copy. It was wall-to-wall music and commentary. I popped the disk into the CD player in my car, and the tunes have been following me around ever since. I am amazed at how many of them I know; lyrics, tunes, the whole Megillah.
And then, one day somewhere in the midst of the "countdown" the strangest thing happened. I don't even remember what the song was, but suddenly a solo became a duet. I knew the second voice, but it took me a moment to place it - it was mine, filling the car, rolling around again, honey in my mouth. I tried not to think about it and just let it glide along, terrified that if I thought about it, it would "turn around, and walk back out, and break my heart once more." I pulled into the driveway. And just sat there quietly for a bit, more than a little shaky. I am not used to the illness giving anything back.
I'm still testing it, but the voice seems to be sticking around, at least for the time being. I don't let it out of the car yet, let alone try trotting it out in public. Strangely, it seems shaded more towards tenor than my former baritone, and flows more smoothly on the drive home, when I am tired. But all those little details can wait. Right now I'm just cautiously welcoming it back; shyly exploring where it might lead. It's sort of like a first date. We'll see what develops.
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