Hello Friends!
Within the hour, I’ll be heading out the door to an appointment for a videostroboscopy, which is a procedure consisting of a tiny digital camera and strobe light, inserted via nostril, down the back of my throat to reveal the state of my vocal folds. It’s the gold standard diagnostic tool that I’ve been hoping for.
I couldn’t sleep last night till way past 2:00, working through my feelings about today, and what the anticipation of it was stirring in me.
This procedure is a big step for me, and I’m more than a bit anxious about it. If you can send some good vibes my way, that will be great. Thank you!
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Thank you to every person here—guests, friends, fellow travelers, and patrons—for making my heart sing!
Part I: 6 Months Ago—end of September 2023
I want to sing again. I want music in my life and on my voice.
I want the experience of it, that sense of wonder, the delight of voice for its own sake, that buzzing of energy, of transformation, where you know you are changed, but not sure exactly how or what it means, yet.
I want a relationship with the magical in me, before it was lassoed, and square pegged into a bottomless hole of someone else’s needs.
I want to follow the part of me that recognizes the widening fields of my heart, the part of me that longs to fly over wildflowers and rush against open skies. The part of me that dreams of sweeping its wings against the expansive blue, to cast dancing shadows upon red, and yellow, and violet-blue petals below, slivers of rainbows, all bound by love to green, and stem, and leaf, and everything you see and feel turns to music.
This part of me that rises from the deep of me, sending waves of vibration through thin bands of muscle, coming together like hands in lightning speed prayers. This part of me longing to music, and symphony, and chorus with others, longing to be free to belong.
Is it too late for me?
Will my desire to sing again be enough for my older physical voice to rejuvenate and revitalize itself?
Have I gone too far, pushed Song away from me?
Does she not, also, create the singer, the living to incite the cacophony of a day, the hyena to cackle her whoops and yells, the ocean to thunder its roar, the chickadee to deliver its scolding for a feeder filled late?
Doesn’t the heralded cry of new life need the newborn baby?
Will no more songs seek my voice to sing them into this world?
Part II: 6 months later—end of February 2024
What will this test tell me?
In a couple hours I will know.
The speech pathologist will speak of the condition of my vocal folds. She will tell me whether they are fatigued and how much, whether they are inflamed or scarred, whether she can see nodes, or polyps, or worse.
She will be able to tell which part of the folds are not vibrating in sync with the rest, as if they’ve had enough of my crap, as if they are now standing, refusing to budge, arms crossed, like cranky old people or stubborn toddlers. Not that I blame them.
She will be straightforward and succinct. She may speak of bad habits, and overall stress, how that can affect your voice, how that can directly impact the physical condition of your vocal folds.
She may tell me I’m lucky, that there are things I can do, non-invasively, to heal, or inform me of what I should, or worst-case scenario, must do, medically.
But I will know the stories behind her general diagnoses.
I will remember the emotions dammed up by trauma, and then set loose to crash through my voice like destructive flood waters.
The ridiculous amount of aspirin I popped into my mouth to relax the muscles in my neck, so I could push through utter exhaustion, through strep throat, through harassment, to perform another night in another smoke-filled bar, with a band, doing covers.
I will catch a flash of a younger me in the basement crying into my father’s hanging suits, into a pillow, forcing the sobs back down my throat, and letting the words, “What’s wrong with me?” catch in my throat, like acid belched up from my hollowed-out self.
Screaming by myself in my car, feeling the stabbing pain in the bottom of my throat and not being able to stop, unraveling at another betrayal, stiff neck, taut jaw, teeth against teeth, PTSD like mines in an enemy field, refusing to let myself speak the truth.
Ignoring advice to slow down, to take care of myself, caregiving after caregiving, and so much running, until my body said, enough, and quit… no, it didn’t quit. It kept going until it broke.
Behind her diagnosis, I will know the stories.
She may break my heart. Or she may offer me therapy and inspire me to roll up my sleeves. Or she may hand me a miracle and inspire me to spread my wings.
If I find I can’t physically sing or that I won’t improve beyond what I can do now, I will cry. Not going to “positive affirmation” myself out of it. It’s a possibility.
But if my voice can’t sing—it’s already done more than anyone could ask of it—then I will become the song, because every part of singing deserves all of me to show up, even if my vocal folds take a back seat.
And if my voice can sing, then I will still become the song. Because when I say I want to sing again, I mean I want to be whole.
Compartmentalization saved my life, made it possible to survive the crazy and terrifying of my childhood, but it’s also what made me a stranger to my own voice, made me see it as just another part of my body that would let me down.
My voice and I have been splintered off from each other, for decades. What needs to heal isn’t just my vocal folds. It’s my relationship to them, to my body, to my entire being.
Song is in my heart. It’s in my head. Melodies come to me. Lyrics hang around waiting to meet them. If I can’t sing with my voice, I can create music and songs for other voices.
I can sing with my life…
My youngest grandchild rejected his pacifier this past Sunday, nestled into me, grabbed my finger and fell asleep listening to his Nana hum a melody she made just for him. My voice skipped in places. He didn’t mind. He felt the love, heard the caring, and the cherishing in my voice, just as it is. He let it carry him to his dreams.
I can sing to him. 💞
From my heart to yours,
Demian Elaine’ Yumei ~ Silent No More
Another post that you may be interested in concerning the desire to sing again or to embrace a forgotten or set-aside dream.
No Turning Back
sending loving thoughts your way today.
Grandbabies are the best. They are the ones that bring me the greatest joy now. Looks like yours is feeling safe and peaceful in your arms. What a gift.
Sending you so much love and hoping for the absolute best. ❤️❤️❤️