“It’s usually a case of overuse. You’re not doing anything wrong. Have you been working a lot lately?”
I could have told him about recording the album and the tour and the concert and…but my throat hurt and I was afraid to talk too much. So I nodded.
He’d told me to rest for a couple of weeks with no talking. No talking! I’d had my phone glued to my hand so I could text everybody, even when they were in the same room as me. It was crazy. Now my throat hurt less, and I was back in Dr. Vukovic’s office. I’d also gone to another doctor to get a second opinion, which had entailed another camera shoved down my throat, and his opinion had been the same. Our Internet research had convinced me that Dr. Vukovic was the best. So here I was.
“Singing is a tough physical profession,” he said. “Your vocal cords are a pair of thin, reed-like strips located inside the larynx, or voice box. When we aren’t talking, the cords stay apart so we can breathe. When we speak or sing, air is pushed up from the lungs and the cords come together, the air making them vibrate, which creates sound.”
I knew this from my voice training.
“The higher the pitch, the greater the vibration,” he continued.
I was a soprano. I had a four-octave-and-one-note vocal range and could sing in the whistle register, which was the highest register of the human voice.
“When you hit those high notes, your cords are smacking together a thousand times a second. All that smacking together can create tiny contusions, and over time polyps or nodules can form on the cords, which is what has happened to you.”
I sucked on my trembling bottom lip, trying to be brave about it all.
“Singing takes a physical toll.” He shook his head. “Like a professional athlete who uses his body. Like a baseball player and his shoulder. A football player and his knee. A tennis player and her elbow.” He grinned.
I didn’t smile. Of course he mentioned pro athletes and I immediately thought of Chase.
I’d thought about Chase a lot off and on, although I’d been pretty preoccupied with my vocal cords. I’d felt so crappy after our date, when he’d said he wanted to see me again and I’d turned him down. I knew I’d done the right thing, but it didn’t feel right. It felt shitty. Because I really, really liked him. I really did want to see him again. But how could I?
I’d let that dilemma run around in my head on my flight to New York, during rehearsals, sound checks, and then the concert, but it had all been blown away by my utter mortification onstage that night and then anxiety about what was happening. Those first couple of days after the concert were a blur. My mom had flown to L.A., Aaron had taken charge, and Malik had been there for me, because I’d been a mess.
“What happens now?” I asked in a hushed tone.
“The surgery is minimally invasive. You’ll only need a local anesthetic. We’ve gotten really good at this.” Dr. Vukovic looked excited at the prospect, practically rubbing his hands together. “We insert a laryngoscope into your mouth, which pulses a laser. It shrinks blood vessels but doesn’t scar the cords.”
“What about Julie Andrews?” Everyone knew about her failed vocal cord surgery and the end of her singing career.
He waved a hand. “Things have improved a great deal since then.”
“It’s microsurgery. That means you have to be very careful. Very accurate.” I fixed him with a stare.
“True. The margin for error in these kinds of surgeries is measured in fractions of a millimeter.”
My eyes popped open wide. That did not make me feel any better.
Mom rubbed my back. “The doctor knows what he’s doing, Jordyn. He’s very experienced.”
I bowed my head. What if something went wrong? This was supposed to fix me, but what if it didn’t work? What if he accidentally damaged my vocal cords even more? What if I could never sing again?
My life would be over.
Okay, even I knew that was melodramatic, but I couldn’t help but think it. I was having a hard time breathing, my chest was so tight. I inhaled long and slow, and let the air out just as slowly. “Okay. When can we do it?”
“My assistant will schedule you. We should be able to do it before Christmas.”
That was good. Sort of. The sooner the better, I guessed, although I definitely wasn’t looking forward to surgery.
“What about the recovery time?” Mom asked.
“After the procedure, no talking for three weeks.”
I rolled my eyes. It was a pain in the ass communicating via text or notes, but I could do it.
“Restricted voice use for three to six months,” he continued.
I sat up straighter. “What? Six months?”
He nodded. “No singing.”
I gazed at him in dismay. I was supposed to start recording my next album in a couple of weeks!
Pressure built behind my eyes but I blinked back tears. I hated it, but it didn’t seem like I had much choice. My throat hurt. I couldn’t sing, and even if I could, even if things improved after resting, I’d be doing more damage to my vocal cords. I had to be smart and patient and hope that my fans wouldn’t forget about me if I had to take six months off and delay my next album. “Okay,” I said, head bowed. “Let’s do it.”
CHICAGO
JANUARY
More snow.
I liked the snow, especially from here inside my condo, with a favorite playlist pouring music from my speakers, thick socks on my feet and a cozy hoodie over my leggings. However, after a week of doing nothing but stare out the window at the snow, I was going stir crazy. I had cabin fever like you wouldn’t believe. I was going to lose my effing mind.
I was really, really trying not to spend every minute agonizing over whether I’d ever truly be able to sing again. There’d been a few times I’d broken down and let the tears flow, to be honest. But I couldn’t let that take over my life. I had to stay positive.
I stood at the living room window on the tenth floor of the North Lake Shore building that held my Chicago home. There was no reason I couldn’t go out. I’d made it through the three week no-talking period, which had been over Christmas.
So Christmas had turned out different than I’d expected this year. Mom and Dad had still come to Los Angeles, except it had been to look after me following my surgery. All those invitations to Christmas parties had to be turned down.
The surgery hadn’t been that bad—I’d been a tad woozy from the local anesthetic and the anti-anxiety medication they’d given me (which I’d definitely needed because I was fuh-reaking out on the way to the clinic, imagining the worst). Someone had to drive me home, so it was good Mom and Dad were there. Painkillers had helped with the sore throat. Then it was just a matter of resting, not talking at all, and letting my throat heal up.
We’d exchanged gifts Christmas morning. Mom had made a small turkey and all the expected side dishes, taking over my huge but rarely used kitchen. She’d had to make a few extra things for me because I could only eat soft food. When I’d gotten bored, I’d donned sunglasses and a hat and we’d gone to a movie.
Mom had suggested coming back to Chicago with them so they could continue to look after me. I didn’t really need looking after, but going home to Chicago appealed, and also it was good to have them close by when I was feeling down and sorry for myself.