Vocal Health
A vocal hemorrhage gave me my career.
In the mid 90s when my career began to percolate, I was settling in for what looked like a nice Broadway run of my first show, “Jekyll and Hyde.” After seeing me go on in the lead role of Lucy—covering for Linda Eder—a concert booker reached out to my agent offering me a series of concerts. Oh yeah, and I was also navigating a relationship with the star of said show. (I know…don’t fish in the company pond…but I was young and dumb and it was all an emotional roller coaster.)
Meanwhile, I continued doing workshops, always looking ahead for new projects. I was also creating my first cabaret show and the musical director that I hired had created a toxic work environment and I didnt know how to handle it. I was naive. I was feeling totally overwhelmed, but I was “acting” like I had everything under control. But in reality, I was a mess.
On my next day off, I went home to see my mom in Philadelphia. I was a little hoarse, so I laid low for the next 36 hours. I started warming up my voice for the following night’s show, and…it wasn’t moving. Uh-oh… I headed straight to Dr. Libin on the Upper West Side, expecting the usual paper bag of “singers goodies”—some mucinex, a decongestant or maybe if it’s really bad, a low dose medrol pack—just get me back in shape and get me back on stage.! But not this time. With a serious look he told me that I had hemorrhaged a vocal cord. Did that mean vocal rest? He said, “It means vocal silence for the next 6 weeks!” Everything I had been working so hard for came to a screeching halt. Would I ever sing again?
Vocal rest is hard. Vocal silence is stunningly hard. In the ‘90s there was no text messaging. I literally had to resort to writing. I was writing on pieces of paper to the cab driver, the grocery clerk, dry cleaner, waiters. I was able to email, but I only had a couple of people on my contact list, and for some reason that did not include my boyfriend. He wasn’t interested in emailing. It was an emotionally traumatic time.
However, sometimes things just happen. You hope you can find your way to understanding that everything “happens for a reason,” but even if you can't get there you still can’t challenge it. The fact was: my vocal cords were traumatized and if I wanted to save my career, I must lose the ability to speak. That’s when I learned to meditate.
That’s also when I started to really develop a relationship with myself. Listening to my inner voice. It was ironic that losing my ability to speak gave me the ability to hear my voice better. Sure, I was forced to surrender. And I did. My boyfriend was too busy for me. So I rebuilt myself. I had all kinds of therapy: vocal therapy, physical therapy, mental therapy, and my kitty cat, Dash. Like I said, I learned so much.
How to read signs when you're overworked and underloved.
What “self care” really means. That loving yourself has the power to heal.
I also learned that I didn't have to beat myself up to feel like I had a great workout. A gentle stroll or simply sitting on my yoga mat with a cup of tea, listening to music can do wonders. Don't get me wrong—a Hot Yoga class is the bomb; an intense dance class breathtaking—but being kind to my body was something I had never learned. Including the understanding that I don't need to carry people in my heart whose hearts don't light up when I walk in the door.
I also learned that healing is always ongoing. Even though I had healed my broken vocal chord, the true healing had only just begun. It is a journey that continues for me to this day.
Vocal health. Start there. Find balance and let the healing begin. If you want to work on your art, work on your life first.