“After this surgery, your voice will be permanently different,” my doctor said.
“How so?” I asked.
“It will sound significantly lower. Most people won’t hear the change in your speaking voice, but your singing voice will be noticeably different. You’re going to lose your entire upper register.”
“That’s ok…” I hesitated, “It’s not like I’m Adele or anything…”
The thing about having a rare medical condition is that it forces you to make hard choices. Sacrifices. Oftentimes you’re choosing between something you love and something you physically need to do to survive.
That conversation with my ENT occurred in November 2016. He spent most of the appointment outlining the realities and risks of getting the intensive throat surgery that I needed to breathe. The realities included a giant throat scar, a week or more in the ICU and a permanently altered voice. The risks included loss of voice completely, the possible need for a trach, stroke or death. Among other unpleasant scenarios…
While I wasn’t excited about the surgery itself, I was relieved that a procedure even existed to help cure my strained, erratic breathing. In early 2016 I was diagnosed with Idiopathic Subglottic Stenosis (ISS), a rare medical condition in which scar tissue randomly forms right below your vocal cords and heavily restricts your breathing. While the surgery would be risky, it also boasted a high success rate. My doctor gave me a 95% chance of this surgery permanently curing my ISS. Or as Outkast would say: Forever. Forever ever. Forever ever?
I did the mental math: if there was a 95% chance of this fixing my breathing forever, that clearly outweighed the potential complications. The biggest downside I could see? Losing my singing voice. Also forever ever…
Growing up, singing was my family’s love language. As a result, it’s a fundamental part of my personal, social and religious identity. I’ve always been singing. Into a hairbrush in front of my full-length mirror. At summer camp. In synagogue. On road trips. With my sister in our living room (we sang a mean A Whole New World). In awkward show choir performances. In my high school best friend’s convertible. At countless karaoke bars.
But while I always loved singing, I knew I wasn’t Adele; if anything, I was closer to Rebecca Black. I had a narrow range, was pitchy and lacked any technical knowledge or skill (I’m still not sure what or where my ‘diaphragm’ is).
None of this stopped me. Who cared if I wasn’t great? I sang for fun and faith. For connection and self-expression. I sang to process messy feelings and unearth emotions I didn’t even know I had. Just the idea of losing my singing voice was breaking my heart.
After that doctor’s appointment, I started thinking of ways to send off my singing voice in style. I divided this self-prescribed therapy into three different parts:
- “Singing Before Surgery.” My first instinct was to turn this into a project. Projects help anchor me and give me focus, especially when I’m feeling overwhelmed and out of control. So I started a private video series called “Singing Before Surgery” in which I recorded myself singing some of my favorite songs pre-surgery, from Natalie Imbruglia to Mama Cass. This way, I could remember what I once sounded like.
- Last Chance Karaoke. The weekend before the surgery, my friends took me out for “Elyse’s Last Chance Karaoke.” We went to a low-pressure sports bar where karaoke is treated more like an afterthought and less like an American Idol audition. It was the perfect opportunity for my karaoke swan song; You Oughta Know by Alanis Morisette, with a Downtown by Petula Clark encore.
- A Singing Solo Drive. The evening before my surgery, I took a long, rambling drive alone. I belted out my favorite guilty pleasures: from Total Eclipse of the Heart to anything by Paramore. It was an out-of-body experience, practically meditative, as I looped around the Minneapolis lakes.
These three different elements helped me say goodbye to my voice. I could finally undergo the surgery I needed with peace.
Today, I’m 8 weeks post-surgery. The procedure itself went perfectly and my breathing has dramatically improved. It’s looking like I’ll be part of that 95% success rate.
Unfortunately, my doctor was right on that second count too; my voice is irrevocably different…lower and more monotone. Less dynamic. Less Elyse.
But like all things, I’m adjusting.
I definitely don’t sound like Adele…but of course, I never did (literally only one person does).
All I can do is try to be patient with my body and accept this new version of my voice and myself. It’s not easy. It’s not fast. It’s not over. But I look forward to feeling better and better with each day and slowly getting to know and love this new voice, too.
