On Voice and Reverberation

The acoustics of St. Matthew’s Cathedral in Downtown Laramie are reverberant and incandescent. I had the immense fortune of singing in the space earlier this year, relishing the echoed ring of my vocals accompanied by a quintet of internationally acclaimed string players. It is not something I get to do often, sing publicly, which facilitated a deep cherishing of the opportunity—nor is singing something I was physically able to do at the height of my medical misfortunes, making my appreciation for the act one of death and resurrection, a phoenix tale rising from the ashes.

From infancy, I knew how to wail. A mama’s girl to my core, babysitters would complain to my parents that I spent the entirety of their shift shrieking out for my mother’s return. My vocal cords developed from a state of need, but soon grew into a tool for enjoyment. Strapped into one of two carseats in the backseat of my parent’s Mazda, my older sister making space for my younger presence, I would sing along to The Eagles at the top of my lungs as the tape spiraled through the dashboard cassette player.

My parents observed an unbridled joy sparkle in me every time I converted lungfuls of breath into song. Nurturing that glee, they placed me in the local children’s choir once I was old enough and encouraged me to sing in the concerts and talent shows offered at school. It was here where I received a compliment that nurtured the seed of passion into a sapling of identity: it’s amazing that such a big voice can come from such a small girl!

Somewhere in that montage of adolescence, I fell headlong into the bright lights of musical theatre and soon thereafter had my sights set on professional acting, a career trajectory nearly dependent on the harnessing of one’s voice. Seeing as I viewed my vocal prowess as a strength, I gave little thought to the prerequisite.

Until, that is, I woke up one cold October morning and lacked the ability to speak.

Now, I would wager that every stage actor knows what it’s like to lose their voice from the common cold or neglectful overuse. That was not the phenomenon I experienced at this time. No, in this case, I could tell my mind to fire the neurological triggers that cause sound, but nothing came to pass. Stubborn as I am, I kept trying, but could only manage to eke out the occasional guttural sound shaped into a gross approximation of vowels.

To lose an element of yourself that is not only necessary for your career, but an essential component of the identity you have composed for yourself is, in a word, terrifying.

Upon receiving my MS diagnosis eight months prior, I had read, wide-eyed with horror, about the potential physical disabilities that could befall me. They sparked a deep fear that I would lose my ability to dance, that I would end up wheelchair bound and fully dependent on others to move around. Thanks to the popularity of shows like Glee! which featured paraplegic characters, I told myself that my career could weather reliance on assisted mobility devices. But I never anticipated that multiple sclerosis could interfere with my oral functioning. In this, I had been blindly naive.

According to the National Multiple Sclerosis Society, “about 2-4 of every 10 people living with MS experience changes to their speech and difficulties in being understood.” This statistic was given to me at the hospital in Fort Collins where I was quickly sent after alerting my neurologist of this vocal development. I was in the throes of a vengeant relapse, taking with it normal nerve sensations, physical coordination, cognitive functioning (all losses that I had borne in previous relapses) and, newly, my ability to orally communicate.

It turns out, the voice can be impacted in myriad ways due to multiple sclerosis. An individual can experience Dysarthria, exhibited by weak muscle tone, slow or slurred speech, and difficulties with coordination of the tongue, lips, soft palate, throat, vocal cords, and diaphragm. One might show signs of scanning speech, where long pauses crop up between words or syllables. Weakness in the diaphragm might make it difficult to speak loud enough for the voice to be heard. They also can show signs of Dysphonia, running out of air while talking due to airflow changes from the lungs. 

Damage from MS is like a wheel-of-misfortune, spinning to randomly stop any of one’s abilities at will. My latest spin had come to a halt on dysarthria and all I could do was hope that treatment was swift and effective, leaving minimal permanent destruction.

As foreign antibodies pulsed into my veins as part of an Intravenous Immunoglobulin infusion (IVIG), my voice skulked back to me in tiny increments. A hospital-supplied speech therapist ran me through exercises for strengthening the vocal muscles. I begrudgingly noted a trace of gratitude for my collegiate theatre training, for the voice and speech classes that allowed the therapist to work at an advanced pace since I already understood the instrument. Still, any light from that gratitude was readily doused by my overpowering rage and resentment.

After five courses of IVIG, I was sent home with a folder full of exercises and a recovering voice. Soon, I was talking at normal volume again and with clear articulation. From the outside, it would seem as if I was back to how I had always been, a little girl with a strong voice, able to belt to the back of the house. My emotional interior told a different story. I was afraid—utterly frightened that I would lose my voice again, potentially permanently. From that fear grew a retreat from the stage. It would be nearly three years before I dared act again, and another year after that before I braved performing in musicals.

The thing about passion is that it reverberates more forcefully than fear.

Thankfully, my passion for singing won out against the fear of multiple sclerosis. There is every possibility that I could lose my voice again, but I have it right now. It would do me no good to keep it stifled in a state of terror. And so I will belt with abandon in my kitchen, or while taking a shower, or when that one song comes on in the car, or, as I am eternally humbled to do, in a spotlight on the stage or under the glorious stained glass of St. Matthew’s cathedral.

And that gratitude that was eclipsed by rage? With time, the fury burnt away and a bountiful garden of gratitude bloomed in its stead. Now isn’t that something to sing about?