telescopes down the throat
By late Friday night last week I’d started to get some squeaking ability back, and on Saturday morning I could talk quietly, and even sort of sing. Still, a proper medical inspection was in order, especially if I was thinking about trying to perform again. Amy tracked down an ear, nose & throat specialist at a clinic in Cleveland, and at 9 a.m. I went to have my bedraggled vocal cords examined by one Dr. Tom Abelson. “I downloaded some mp3s off your website last night,” he remarked as he hunted around for tongue depressors. “Very nice stuff.”
The former premed in me always gets excited to go to the doctor, especially one who explains what’s going on. Dr. Abelson talked me through his inspection as he sprayed anesthetic down my right nostril, then threaded a digital video-capture microscope past my epiglottis and into my trachea. A series of foot switches beneath the chair started and stopped video recording, and a computer screen nearby displayed it all for him, dramatically magnified. “Sing ‘heeeee’ for me, somewhere in the middle of your range,” he said. “Now higher. Good. Now lower.”
He pulled the telescope out and invited me to come look at the footage. “There’s your vocalis: the muscles that control the tension of your cords, which are actually ligaments.” I stared in wonder. These funny-looking structures of flesh and cartilage were my voice, their shapes and behaviors determining the way I sound—the way I am, in musical communication. The tiniest change in mucus flow and muscle movement had rendered it useless for several days. It was sobering, to think that my livelihood hinged on these fragile, glistening things.
He clicked Print Report. “Good news,” he said. “No nodules, so it’s not from strain…doesn’t look like there’s any damage, just some inflammation that’s receding slowly. All signs point to a virus that you probably got on the road somewhere. It looks like you’re fighting it off successfully already; you’re able to talk better than you did yesterday, from the sounds of it.”
Another surprise: I didn’t have to “save” my voice anymore. Resting it all week (by necessity) had definitely helped, and whispering or shouting was still a bad idea. Drinking lots of fluids was still essential. But other than that, I was going to get better even if I did a little talking—and singing. “If you want, I can give you a one-dose prescription for some steroids,” Dr. Abelson said. “Some singers like to have that extra confidence boost when they’re feeling under the weather, and I know you’ve got a show in Rochester tonight.” Noticing my hesitation, he added, “I’ll just write it out to take with you. You don’t have to use it.” I folded it and put it in my pocket, along with the printout of video stills. Later I threw it away. It wasn’t exactly a rational decision—there are no significant side effects with one-time use, and my voice was definitely still dicey—but it didn’t feel right. I would deal with the frog on my own.
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| Dr. Tom Abelson at the Cleveland Clinic | recovering from laryngitis, the old-fashioned way (backstage at Montage Grille) |