When You Don't Know What To Do . . .
A little backstory to this longer than usual post . . .
About four or five years ago, I blogged here about what it's like to lose your singing voice. The event I'm about to describe took place about 20 years ago:
"In another life I was a professional singer - I defined myself as a singer long before I defined myself as an actor (something else I used to do professionally) - from the time I was about six or seven years old. I was always a singer/musician first and foremost. The meds I have to take to manage my asthma robbed me of my vocal control. I realized this at a Karaoke night that was part of a work conference . . . Imagine if you will, that you are a singer. You know what you sound like - you know what songs are going to be good for you to sing. You have perfect relative pitch. You've pretty much always known these things. You know when you open your mouth for that first number that people are going to want you to sing another. And probably another . . . it's pretty much always been that way for you - your voice is your instrument. It's a nightclub voice - a musical theater voice - even a bluesy voice once in awhile. You know it intimately and you know what it can do.
And then, imagine that on a stage in front of a lot of people - many of whom you know - you open your mouth to sing a number that you've sung a hundred times or more, and what comes out is nothing like what you KNOW you sound like. Imagine that you are missing notes left and right - and even worse, that you are, in the current vernacular, pitchy. Nothing works like it should. You can't place your notes. You can't focus your tone. And forget nuance. There is no story-telling, no spell-weaving with what's coming out of your mouth. You start to sweat because you're only a few bars in and nothing is OK and you have to get through this number but you can't control anything that's coming out of your mouth . . ."
Yeah . . . it wasn't great, and after that I pretty much stopped singing. I could still sing in a choir, but solo work was out, and then, a couple of years ago, things got much worse and an entire register of my voice disappeared. As mentioned in my last post, I made an appointment to see a new voice doc. I'd limped along with what was left of my voice for decades, but losing my head voice entirely was no longer how I wanted to keep going, and if there was a way to get it back I decided I needed to explore it. So, I went to the new voice doc and the vocal therapist in January for a second opinion.
The doc scoped my vocal cords - OK the procedure is actually called a laryngoscopy. In the vernacular, we just say scoped. And scope me he did, but not in the usual up your nose with a rubber hose sort of way. No. He used a rigid scope and went through my mouth. In fact, here's my doc, holding that scope. (Um . . . in case there's any confusion, that's not me in the chair. :-D) He took some photos, and the upshot was similar to the last time I was scoped in 2018. There's nothing physically wrong with my cords. They are just thinning and the left one is sluggish.
After I saw the doc, I saw the vocal therapist. She's very nice. She told me to order a nebulizer and saline that I have to use every night, and to start sleeping with a vaporizer again. Then she sent me on my way with a simple vocal exercise to do 3 times a day. Not surprisingly, it involved my diaphragm and the "eee" sound quick and sharp, followed by holding the "eee" sound as long as I could. Very surprisingly, I realized after one set that my diaphragm muscle has no strength any longer. And seriously, for all the ab work I do at the club you'd think it would be pretty strong. Uh . . . not so much.
I went back for a second visit to the vocal therapist on Wednesday and it was a very emotionally difficult and painful appointment. She gave me some more exercises to start doing and we started working with pitch. I tried. I really did. But my voice doesn't work any longer, and hearing what was coming out of me was horrifying.
In a split second I flashed back to high school and Chorus my freshman year. Anyone could take Chorus for credit, there was no audition process. There was a girl in Chorus with a not so great voice who, I'm sure, just wanted to sing. In a group. I doubt she had aspirations of any of the higher-level choral groups, she just wanted to sing. On this particular day, the conductor (who was a jerk, BTW) forced her to sing solo and humiliated her in front of the entire Chorus. He was an absolute asshole to her. If something like that happened in front of me now, I would put a stop to it in no uncertain terms. But I was a kid, and back when I was in school kids didn't confront teachers. It was awful - that I still remember it in such graphic detail 40-odd years later tells you just how awful it was.
That memory flashed through my mind as I attempted and miserably failed the next set of exercises, and I found myself crying because what was coming out of my mouth sounded like her - that poor girl back in high school. The voice - My voice - was gone and in it's place was air, the occasional squawk, and not much else. I wanted to die. And I certainly didn't want to open my mouth to try again. I'm guessing the vocal therapist has experienced this before because she said that singers have a really hard with not having their instrument working properly, but that the exercises would help to rebuild the various muscles that make up the vocal folds. (Finally, something on my body that needs to be fattened up . . . )
She also explained to me that what has happened with my voice is very likely a side effect of menopause - that the voice is affected by the hormones in our bodies and that they are tricky. Even though I'm on hormone replacement therapy it doesn't always fix everything. It's also likely that the asthma meds I've taken for decades have had a hand in this, and I'm sure that my having stopped singing when singing became challenging for me did me no favors. All the way around, it was not a fun appointment and I had a rough rest of the day thinking about whether it was worth it and would I ever be able to sing again, but knowing I was going to try, because how do you make peace with losing a huge piece of your identity?
And then, yesterday, K, a woman I'm acquainted with who is an extremely talented performer, posted the following on Facebook:
"I have a story about my day. It’s hard for me to share. But maybe somebody else has had the same experience and needs to hear my take on it. I took a dance class this morning at my friend’s studio. It specifically teaches combinations for former dancers and people who just want to dance for exercise. It’s supposed to be fun and freeing. I’m a good dancer. It used to be my bread and butter. When I was first a working actress, if I made it through the first round of auditions to the dance call, I was very confident because dance calls were so easy for me. I wasn’t a well trained dancer but I could learn anything. As the years have gone by and I’ve had some injuries and I took time off to have and raise kids, my dance skills have waned. I can’t just dance how I used to and it kills me. This class today started very well and I was LOVING it. And then we got to the combo, that apparently the rest of the class had learned last week, and I was living all of my audition nightmares of the past few years all over again. I can’t remember the order, my body doesn’t respond like it used to, I’m not graceful, I get confused. I was embarrassed and frustrated and doing everything I could not to cry. I was trying to think of a way I could leave the class and not look like I quit. I couldn’t say anything except to mutter “sorry” when I bumped into other students (because I was going the wrong direction) for fear that the tears I was holding back would come rushing out. But I stayed. And I kept dancing. And when class was finally over and I wanted to run to my car and sob, I gathered my things, straightened up, took a deep breath and went to the front desk and asked if there was room in the next class, “Groove Fit”. I knew that class would make me feel better. I knew I could do it. So instead of running and hiding and crying (which is ok too), I stayed and danced. I really don’t know how to handle losing something that has been so much a part of me. A part of me that I love. That feels like has been with me since my consciousness came alive. But for today, I kept dancing."
I was so moved by her description of her experience - it mirrored my own so closely - that I asked her if I could share it here. As crazy as it sounds, I was comforted to know that I wasn't the only person who didn't know how to handle losing something that had been so much a part of my life . . .
Living our lives changes us in ways that no one can predict. We both said that we didn't know how to lose something so precious - something we claimed as a birthright - K, her dancing and me, my voice. But neither of us ran away even though we both wanted to. K kept dancing, and I came home and struggled through vocal exercises with the hope that they just might work.
Maybe that's what we do when we don't know what to do - keep moving forward, one step - or note - at a time. Because really, what is the alternative? It can't be any worse than it is now, and as my bestie often says, you have to be willing to suck at something to eventually be good at it. And, after all, I am reminded that everything in our bodies was made to move in some way - dancing muscles, singing muscles - and if we don't move, stuff doesn't work right. So K will keep dancing, and I will keep trying to sing. We'll keep moving forward, each in her own way.
K, thanks for letting me share your words and your experience - know that I'm with you in solidarity as you dance your way forward. :-)
I'm going to leave you with a song called In the Rain. It's not about singing or dancing, but it was written and is sung by K. It's an important piece of work. I told you upfront that she's massively talented. Her husband shared it on Facebook last year after the school shooting in Highlands Ranch, Colorado. Here is what he said: "Over 20 years ago K wrote and performed an incredible song moved by a tragic shooting of children in Scotland. Sadly these words are still a part of our world today. This is my musical offering for the tragedy today here in Highlands Ranch, Colorado."
About four or five years ago, I blogged here about what it's like to lose your singing voice. The event I'm about to describe took place about 20 years ago:
"In another life I was a professional singer - I defined myself as a singer long before I defined myself as an actor (something else I used to do professionally) - from the time I was about six or seven years old. I was always a singer/musician first and foremost. The meds I have to take to manage my asthma robbed me of my vocal control. I realized this at a Karaoke night that was part of a work conference . . . Imagine if you will, that you are a singer. You know what you sound like - you know what songs are going to be good for you to sing. You have perfect relative pitch. You've pretty much always known these things. You know when you open your mouth for that first number that people are going to want you to sing another. And probably another . . . it's pretty much always been that way for you - your voice is your instrument. It's a nightclub voice - a musical theater voice - even a bluesy voice once in awhile. You know it intimately and you know what it can do.
And then, imagine that on a stage in front of a lot of people - many of whom you know - you open your mouth to sing a number that you've sung a hundred times or more, and what comes out is nothing like what you KNOW you sound like. Imagine that you are missing notes left and right - and even worse, that you are, in the current vernacular, pitchy. Nothing works like it should. You can't place your notes. You can't focus your tone. And forget nuance. There is no story-telling, no spell-weaving with what's coming out of your mouth. You start to sweat because you're only a few bars in and nothing is OK and you have to get through this number but you can't control anything that's coming out of your mouth . . ."
Yeah . . . it wasn't great, and after that I pretty much stopped singing. I could still sing in a choir, but solo work was out, and then, a couple of years ago, things got much worse and an entire register of my voice disappeared. As mentioned in my last post, I made an appointment to see a new voice doc. I'd limped along with what was left of my voice for decades, but losing my head voice entirely was no longer how I wanted to keep going, and if there was a way to get it back I decided I needed to explore it. So, I went to the new voice doc and the vocal therapist in January for a second opinion.
The doc scoped my vocal cords - OK the procedure is actually called a laryngoscopy. In the vernacular, we just say scoped. And scope me he did, but not in the usual up your nose with a rubber hose sort of way. No. He used a rigid scope and went through my mouth. In fact, here's my doc, holding that scope. (Um . . . in case there's any confusion, that's not me in the chair. :-D) He took some photos, and the upshot was similar to the last time I was scoped in 2018. There's nothing physically wrong with my cords. They are just thinning and the left one is sluggish.
After I saw the doc, I saw the vocal therapist. She's very nice. She told me to order a nebulizer and saline that I have to use every night, and to start sleeping with a vaporizer again. Then she sent me on my way with a simple vocal exercise to do 3 times a day. Not surprisingly, it involved my diaphragm and the "eee" sound quick and sharp, followed by holding the "eee" sound as long as I could. Very surprisingly, I realized after one set that my diaphragm muscle has no strength any longer. And seriously, for all the ab work I do at the club you'd think it would be pretty strong. Uh . . . not so much.
I went back for a second visit to the vocal therapist on Wednesday and it was a very emotionally difficult and painful appointment. She gave me some more exercises to start doing and we started working with pitch. I tried. I really did. But my voice doesn't work any longer, and hearing what was coming out of me was horrifying.
In a split second I flashed back to high school and Chorus my freshman year. Anyone could take Chorus for credit, there was no audition process. There was a girl in Chorus with a not so great voice who, I'm sure, just wanted to sing. In a group. I doubt she had aspirations of any of the higher-level choral groups, she just wanted to sing. On this particular day, the conductor (who was a jerk, BTW) forced her to sing solo and humiliated her in front of the entire Chorus. He was an absolute asshole to her. If something like that happened in front of me now, I would put a stop to it in no uncertain terms. But I was a kid, and back when I was in school kids didn't confront teachers. It was awful - that I still remember it in such graphic detail 40-odd years later tells you just how awful it was.
That memory flashed through my mind as I attempted and miserably failed the next set of exercises, and I found myself crying because what was coming out of my mouth sounded like her - that poor girl back in high school. The voice - My voice - was gone and in it's place was air, the occasional squawk, and not much else. I wanted to die. And I certainly didn't want to open my mouth to try again. I'm guessing the vocal therapist has experienced this before because she said that singers have a really hard with not having their instrument working properly, but that the exercises would help to rebuild the various muscles that make up the vocal folds. (Finally, something on my body that needs to be fattened up . . . )
She also explained to me that what has happened with my voice is very likely a side effect of menopause - that the voice is affected by the hormones in our bodies and that they are tricky. Even though I'm on hormone replacement therapy it doesn't always fix everything. It's also likely that the asthma meds I've taken for decades have had a hand in this, and I'm sure that my having stopped singing when singing became challenging for me did me no favors. All the way around, it was not a fun appointment and I had a rough rest of the day thinking about whether it was worth it and would I ever be able to sing again, but knowing I was going to try, because how do you make peace with losing a huge piece of your identity?
And then, yesterday, K, a woman I'm acquainted with who is an extremely talented performer, posted the following on Facebook:
"I have a story about my day. It’s hard for me to share. But maybe somebody else has had the same experience and needs to hear my take on it. I took a dance class this morning at my friend’s studio. It specifically teaches combinations for former dancers and people who just want to dance for exercise. It’s supposed to be fun and freeing. I’m a good dancer. It used to be my bread and butter. When I was first a working actress, if I made it through the first round of auditions to the dance call, I was very confident because dance calls were so easy for me. I wasn’t a well trained dancer but I could learn anything. As the years have gone by and I’ve had some injuries and I took time off to have and raise kids, my dance skills have waned. I can’t just dance how I used to and it kills me. This class today started very well and I was LOVING it. And then we got to the combo, that apparently the rest of the class had learned last week, and I was living all of my audition nightmares of the past few years all over again. I can’t remember the order, my body doesn’t respond like it used to, I’m not graceful, I get confused. I was embarrassed and frustrated and doing everything I could not to cry. I was trying to think of a way I could leave the class and not look like I quit. I couldn’t say anything except to mutter “sorry” when I bumped into other students (because I was going the wrong direction) for fear that the tears I was holding back would come rushing out. But I stayed. And I kept dancing. And when class was finally over and I wanted to run to my car and sob, I gathered my things, straightened up, took a deep breath and went to the front desk and asked if there was room in the next class, “Groove Fit”. I knew that class would make me feel better. I knew I could do it. So instead of running and hiding and crying (which is ok too), I stayed and danced. I really don’t know how to handle losing something that has been so much a part of me. A part of me that I love. That feels like has been with me since my consciousness came alive. But for today, I kept dancing."
I was so moved by her description of her experience - it mirrored my own so closely - that I asked her if I could share it here. As crazy as it sounds, I was comforted to know that I wasn't the only person who didn't know how to handle losing something that had been so much a part of my life . . .
Living our lives changes us in ways that no one can predict. We both said that we didn't know how to lose something so precious - something we claimed as a birthright - K, her dancing and me, my voice. But neither of us ran away even though we both wanted to. K kept dancing, and I came home and struggled through vocal exercises with the hope that they just might work.
Maybe that's what we do when we don't know what to do - keep moving forward, one step - or note - at a time. Because really, what is the alternative? It can't be any worse than it is now, and as my bestie often says, you have to be willing to suck at something to eventually be good at it. And, after all, I am reminded that everything in our bodies was made to move in some way - dancing muscles, singing muscles - and if we don't move, stuff doesn't work right. So K will keep dancing, and I will keep trying to sing. We'll keep moving forward, each in her own way.
K, thanks for letting me share your words and your experience - know that I'm with you in solidarity as you dance your way forward. :-)
I'm going to leave you with a song called In the Rain. It's not about singing or dancing, but it was written and is sung by K. It's an important piece of work. I told you upfront that she's massively talented. Her husband shared it on Facebook last year after the school shooting in Highlands Ranch, Colorado. Here is what he said: "Over 20 years ago K wrote and performed an incredible song moved by a tragic shooting of children in Scotland. Sadly these words are still a part of our world today. This is my musical offering for the tragedy today here in Highlands Ranch, Colorado."
Comments
Kim - thank you. K's experience mirrored my own so closely - I was glad she agreed to let me share it here.