In December if 2015, I became very ill with respiratory failure, brought on by staph pneumonia and sepsis. I was intubated for 16 days (normally it is no longer than 7 days because of the damage it causes) and the result was bilateral paralysis of my vocal cords. I saw a specialist ENT today who works with people suffering from vocal cord problems that are bigger than your average issue. Our vocal cords need to open in order for us to breathe. That space, when you take a breath, is normally 15 centimeters wide. Mine open no more than 2 centimeters. Consequently, my voice is a bit weaker than it once was and I do not breathe well. I sound like I am breathing through a tube because, well, I am. But he told me I am doing much better than he anticipated, that I am strong, that my voice is much stronger than he expected. He told me I should continue to exercise, let go of the embarrassment I carry because while everyone else gets up a flight of stairs, I huff and puff at the top like I'm too fat to manage it. I just can't suck in the air I need.
The doctor gave me time to process this information - ie: cry. Then reiterated how well I'm doing as opposed to expectations. I see that as a tender mercy from my Heavenly Father. He said we could operate to see if the two bones above the vocal cords are frozen or arthritic, but it would require a tracheotomy and if we did surgery of any kind, we might have no choice but to leave the tracheotomy in place and/or cut the vocal cords. The results would be unknown. I left, drove a couple of blocks to a deserted street - as deserted as one gets in downtown Denver - and had a very, very long, hard cry. I chose not to return to work because when I calmed down enough to call my husband, I cried for a very long time again. When I finally got myself together enough an hour or so later, I headed toward home. I ended up deciding to do a little retail therapy - which for the record was not enough because I don't have enough money to shop away the loss of something so important - and then came home.
I have to order a bracelet that states I have bilateral vocal cord paralysis and require fiber optic intubation in an emergency. This means I am not an optimal candidate for any kind of surgery. Guess I'm stuck with this nose of mine forever - Ha!
What's so hard about this is that I've always had a nice voice. I've always had a great phone voice, a great speaking voice, and had a lovely singing voice. The later will never return. That's hard for my daughter and husband, and it's harder for me. Music - singing - is something I've done all my life. Every get-together my family had, every holiday, every special occasion, we sang. My mom played the piano, my oldest sister the guitar. And I'll never be able to sing like that again. And, Lord, I miss it so much. It's not something you can explain to someone else. Someone who has, say, lost a child thinks, "big deal", and they are right. But the inability to sing takes away a stress reliever for me. It takes away an avenue to spirituality; it takes away the closeness my daughter and I shared when I sang to her; it took away one of the things my husband loves about me.
I know, unless you've walked down this road - almost losing your life, almost losing your career, almost losing things that have been so important to you - unless you've endured it, you can't begin to imagine what it does to your heart, your soul, your inner peace. So much in life is not worth the worry. So much is not worth the effort. But despite my knowledge in all this, I'm still mourning this loss.
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