We are driving to Hot Springs, AR for some shows and I have been trying to recover from a rough morning. I suppose I should back track and say that the day before was no good either. I went to my voice doctor because my throat has been hurting a bit lately after concerts, and since we have seven shows this week, I thought it might be smart to go get it looked at. I have a special doctor. Calling him names is probably not wise, but if I were to call him a name, drama queen would be an understatement. While I appreciate him, it’s hard to really love someone whose first words are, “well good news, we’re not talking throat cancer here, but I give you about three, four more weeks of talking before you lose your voice for the rest of your life.”
In my opinion, that is not exactly comforting, not really good bedside manners either. Can’t you butter me up first? Break the news to me lightly? Not so much. Just point blank with him, keep talking and I will be stricken mute.
No talking for the rest of my life? I am only 27 (I am actually 26, but I start getting excited about my birthday in July. And then as I said in my very first blog, I get excited about Christmas no later than August of each year…so by about September I am already way over my birthday and have already considered my self as being the next age. So I am 27).
Sometimes doctors are like that, drama queen and all, and I must say I prefer that. Being a hypochondriac I would much rather have a doctor indulge me than a doctor who does not believe me, and writes of my illness as a basic cold. No one wants a basic cold and the classic, “you just have to fight this one off with old fashioned rest and orange juice.” My voice doctor does a good job indulging me. Too good.
By the time I left his office I was on more steroids than any person my size should possibly be taking, I was convinced that I could not utter a word until after Christmas, and I had already begun to wonder about where I would enroll in sign language school at. I guess I could sing to deaf people.
Side note: The first time I truly learned to sing was in my head. It was first grade in church choir. My mom picked me up and I had a glow on my face that I actually remember lighting up my whole body. I had never been so excited about anything. “MOM you are not going to believe what I learned to do!!!!!” I could literally, hardly contain myself, I was busting with joy and pride. She said, “What baby?” And with as much pride, confidence, and talent as I could conjure up in my little six year old body, I sang Jesus loves me at the top of my lungs… in my head.
The car was completely silent. My mom said, “I didn’t hear it, do it again.” And I said, “Gosh mom, listen this time.” I sang it again. Still, she heard nothing. I was baffled. How can this woman not hear me? I am singing in my head voice, aren’t I, is she deaf? I was convinced she was. When she finally realized what was going on she could not stop laughing.
Anyways. In present day I was leaving the doctor yesterday, at first slightly excited that I actually had something to show for my life-long hypochondriac assumptions, amusing myself at the possibility of singing for the deaf community in my head voice, and wondering how to break the news to Ryan that I could not talk for two months, I knew he would be way too excited. As these thoughts flooded my mind, a single tear started coming down my cheek. Which lead to another, then another. By the end of the five minute drive home I was no longer happy that I had an overly dramatic doctor, that I finally had a sickness to prove that I wasn’t just a silly paranoid girl, or that I had a wonderful singing head voice.
I was devastated.
I forced myself to go out to dinner with friends and not give up on my pre-scheduled plans. Ryan spoke on my behalf and said I could not talk. At which point I started to cry again. And everyone felt sorry for me, which is even worse, I hate it when people feel sorry for me. Then we went home, and in a state of defeat and tears, Ryan fed me a hot fudge sundae with strawberry ice cream and extra whip cream, tucked me into bed, and told me just to sleep. It was 8:30.
I woke up this morning in a steroid stupor, which has now turned into a steroid binging contest; I could possibly gain a hundred pounds on this stuff. I dragged myself out of bed and realized I had not packed for my 6-day trip, there were dirty dishes to be put away, and that I still could not talk. I forgot my make-up bag and my Bible…so not only will my face be struggling; I am officially not a Christian for the week.
Lucky for me, I like to read. And I have plenty of time to kill now, so I can write lots of blogs. Get ready to know all about my life, my childhood, pet peeves, former pets, sleeping patterns, and opinions on the world at large. I have a wonderful friend Lauren who is going to over night my make-up bag to my hotel, a dad who is texting me and reminding me not to talk because he will be my mouth and talk for me (which is not always a safe thing), and I am currently in a church…so I can steal a Bible.
Maybe my day will get better. After all, we are only 50 days away from Christmas, the weather is still in the mid 70’s so I can pretend I am in Hawaii, and I am only three weeks away from actually being 27. Life can’t be that bad. Even without a voice!