“Time heals all wounds. And if it doesn't, you name them something other than wounds and agree to let them stay.”
—Emma Forrest, Your Voice in My Head
This past May, I lost my voice.
Although I noticed a few warning signs in the preceding year that told me this might be coming, I didn’t expect it so suddenly. Slight hoarseness here, a little bit of nasality there. Difficulty pronouncing a few consonants. Then—bam.
It feels (and sounds) like an old, quiet frog has taken up permanent residence in my throat and is now my spokesamphibian. Enjoy the rent-free abode, frog.
In fact, this loss is not the worst thing I’ve personally experienced. In the back of my mind, I was preparing for this eventuality, so the actual loss of my voice hasn’t really bothered me; I’ve already started using some speech replacement apps that I found along the way. In recent years, I’ve acclimated to using technology and equipment to overcome some significant and progressive physical disabilities.
So, damn you, frog.
What devastated me most was the understanding that when I shared the news with my family and friends, they would be witnessing the further deterioration of someone they loved. That was difficult to bear. I’ve worked through some of those emotions through cognitive behavioral therapy, meditation, and some writing. But it’s still difficult.
I think I’m ready to write this: with this consistent, slow, and progressive pattern of deterioration, I’ve come to accept that this is happening. What it is, I still don’t know, and I don’t have any evidence yet that it’s permanent. I’m still alive. The way I’m approaching all of this is to maintain a sense of curiosity and wonder about these changes in my body. If I look at it as if I’m the subject of a study, I can say, “Okay, this is happening. Interesting. What did I feel? What are the effects of this change, and how does it differ from how it used to be?” Once a scientist, always a scientist.
“But isn’t that so impersonal, cold, and detached?” some might wonder. Maybe. I’m still feeling strong emotions—it would be worse if I denied and repressed them. Along the way, I’ve learned techniques to deal with these heavy feelings, to acknowledge them, name them, and place them on a mentally available shelf where they belong. I believe that’s the real meaning of compartmentalization.
If you know me and you come to visit someday, get ready to meet my old, quiet amphibian friend.