I lost my voice last Saturday, through a combination of allergies, too much talking and singing, and plain old idiocy (i.e., I can’t always make water go down the correct way).  I didn’t think much of it at first, because I talk and sing a lot, and my technique is far from perfect.  I don’t do the things that ruin a lot of singers’ voices–I don’t smoke, I’m not a heavy drinker, I don’t sing for hours every night like touring performers do– so I wasn’t too worried.  Then a few days passed with no appreciable improvement, and I decided I should consult the family expert.  Heather was heading out of town, but pulled some strings to get me an appointment with a practice she trusts.

Wonder of wonders, I have a vocal cord hemorrhage and a nodule.  The nodule may well have been there for a decade or more.  But the hemorrhage is from last weekend, without a doubt.  So, I must not talk or whisper at all until the hemorrhage heals, and I probably have some interesting vocal therapy ahead of me.  I’m not in any pain, but it’s frustrating as can be.  I’ve had a couple of silent freak outs, because singing and talking are truly two of my favorite activities.  I won’t be able to perform at Potomac Celtic Festival, which breaks my heart.  My hope is that I will have healed enough by the end of June to at least tell stories at the Pennsylvania Celtic Fling, if not sing.

Cross your fingers for me, friends.  I can cope with being mute for a while, but I can’t fathom how permanent vocal damage would change my life and my ability to communicate.   But if Sinatra can recover from this, so can I.  I, after all, don’t hang out with gangsters in Vegas, smoke, or drink like a fish.

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