By Sunday night, my voice was completely gone.
At just about the time that the Dallas Mavericks were putting away the Miami Heat to win the NBA championship, my speaking voice had dwindled to a whisper — and even that effort hurt. I could no longer speak, reduced to exchanging one-way messages on my phone’s Notes app.
As I write this on Wednesday evening, it’s good news-bad news. The good: Nothing horrible or contagious has caused this; apparently it’s just the world’s worst sore throat. The bad: it’ll be another 48 hours until I can talk again.
Harvey Pekar wrote about the frustrations of dealing with a similar situation, although if I recall, his affliction lasted months and months (and I can’t find the reference at the moment). It is frustrating, no doubt, though I realize it could be way worse.
The joke going around is that I’m not all that talkative a person anyhow. I don’t disagree, but just a little imposed silence is disorienting. (It helps that my colleagues have been good-natured in dealing with my note-writing and pantomiming to help us through.)
We (I, at least) keep little conversation-sized updates and anecdotes in our heads, those kinds of things that are much better related in person or over the phone than by email or text — the funny and the personal. I miss that.
Not being able to talk the way we want to can be a bit unnerving.
I’ve appreciated the patience and goodwill extended by those close to me, and you (you know who you are) have my eternal gratitude as a result. Talk at ya in a couple of days.
