An Old Flame

I pull on my floor-length black robe and fasten a dozen buttons up to my neck. I throw the worn, white stole over my head as gracefully as possible. I tell myself I’m going to take the robe home and wash it this week. I will probably forget. I hastily grab my hymnal and get in line for the procession. My mouth tastes like stale coffee. That’s right, this isn’t a story about a former romantic partner– it’s about my church gig. 

Many classical musicians hold a church position which can be a little bizarre and off-putting to explain to the general population. People seem uncomfortable with the idea that we receive money to attend church, but so do your worship leaders and other clergy members. Some religious institutions hire musicians only for special occasions like Christmas or Easter; others have paid choir directors, organists, and section leaders in the choir. For many musicians, a steady church position is our most stable income from singing. We rehearse with the choir on Wednesday nights, wake up early on Sundays for the service, and sing as soloists at concerts and special events. Our voices are meant to enhance the choir’s sound and accelerate the process of learning music correctly.

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I exaggerated a little last week. My laryngologist and speech-language pathologist (now known as SLP; I’m tired of typing the whole thing out) told me to keep singing at my church job but not above a specific note where my polyp starts to interfere. I am still singing; my use is just severely limited. 

Allow me to give you a little vocal anatomy lesson. The vocal folds are super cool. Both vocal folds come together and vibrate to produce sound.

Normal vocal folds in action. Again, these are VOCAL FOLDS!!

 We generally speak in a lower register (except when you yell or scream), and the vocal folds don’t stretch much to produce this sound. In contrast, when we sing in what is more commonly known as our “head voice,” the folds begin to stretch.

Here, you can see a difference in vocal fold length as the singer ascends in pitch. The lower pitch is around a B3 (just below middle C), and the upper pitch is circa C#5, which is still within my safe singing range.

While my polyp can remain relatively uninvolved with light singing and speaking, it runs up against my other fold pretty aggressively when I get above a particular note. My inability to fully adduct is why the top part of my register has become unreliable. The damaged folds cannot vibrate appropriately because the pesky polyp and the resulting inflammation on the other fold get in the way. It’s also why I have no choice but to sing super aggressively when I’m singing high– I have to slam the folds together to get any phonation. This action is unsuitable for healthy folds and is not advice I would give to any of my students, so I’m not sure why I kept trying to barrel through edema. Proper adduction is key to vocal production, but this was not it. I could not get cord closure because of my inflammation, and attempting to sing through the developing injury made me much worse.

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My polyp chills out if I sing with light adduction and stop at an E5. Singers know this note is not particularly high, especially for sopranos. Still, it is consistently where my normal operatic adduction begins to fall apart. 

I take my church job for granted. It’s not opera, it’s a choir, but it’s a steady paycheck. I would notice myself feeling this way and dismiss the emotion as usual for church musicians. Not anymore. Now the only time I sing the whole week is at church. I didn’t dread church choir or anything, I’m proud of my position with the choir, but now I genuinely and wholeheartedly look forward to it. My denial got the best of me again last week; I do miss singing, and I miss it profoundly; I feel like a part of me is missing, but I want singing to feel good again. So I’m ok not singing operatically, for now. I want it to feel easy, satisfying, warm, invigorating, and incredible again. Singing in church right now doesn’t feel like that, but it’s also all I have. “Thanks for doing what you can,” my choir director says carefully after the service. Just the feedback every professional singer wants to hear.

I feel pretty embarrassed because I cannot fully do my job. It’s super kind of my director to allow me to keep my position while I recover slowly and methodically and not all choir directors would have been so accommodating. I may not be allowed to sing an aria, but I’m allowed to sing the hymns at communion, the psalm, and the anthem, save for those higher notes. I understand why singing is so important to people in worship and how it differs from listening to a sermon or reciting a prayer. People get a rush of happy chemicals in their brains when they sing. I’m not a scientist, so I’m not going to even try and explain the logistics behind this reaction, but it’s true– singing releases endorphins. I have an addiction to singing, so reading through a hymn with a congregation usually doesn’t give me the dosage I require. After even a couple of weeks in withdrawal, however, the connectedness of singing in tandem with an entire room full of people is more satisfying than I ever knew it could be. I feel supported and less critical of my sound. That warm, satisfying feeling that rushes over me when I sing fully is still burning deep within me, even though the flame is tiny and barely palpable. 

A blurry note from a kind director who cast me in my first real role in 2014. I doubt he knows how often these encouraging words kept me from quitting singing.

Every time I say I’m going to quit singing for good, I notice the little fire burning inside me has not gone out. I can’t do it; I can’t stop. The bonfire inside me burns bright when I step onstage for a role, perform a concert, or sing a successful audition. I am a great singer! I am doing it!! But a lot of the time, it’s an enormous effort to keep that flame burning. I’m always throwing logs on my inner fire. But even when it rains, and I think that this is it, there are little embers still glowing. As long as I’ve been singing, I’ve never known this old flame to go out. I’ll never take my church position for granted again. It’s currently my little boost of serotonin, my little fan to the fire, without irritating my little polyp. Through it all, my persistent flame burns bright.

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A State of Exhale

After completing our final concert, the stress of performing on swollen vocal folds washed away.
Antananarivo, Madagascar, June 2022.

My polyp and I went to a Yin Yoga class last Friday. Yin Yoga is a slow, tension-reducing yoga practice that I dismissed until this week. No, this is not the story of a white lady discovering herself through yoga. I have a little bit more self-awareness than that. However, lying on a yoga mat surrounded by strangers does have a way of conjuring up some deep-seated memories.

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In elementary school, my friend hosted a spa party for her birthday. Her mom turned the downstairs bedroom into a relaxing oasis with candles, soothing music, and all the nail painting, foot massaging, and pampering three ten-year-old girls could desire. At one point, we were lying on bean bag chairs in our swimsuits and eye masks, soaking in the music. 

I wouldn’t stop talking. I wouldn’t stop wiggling. One of my friends laughed and said, “you are so bad at relaxing, Victoria!”

Shame and pride washed over me in confusingly equal amounts. I was too loud and too busy to relax. No one was going to call me lazy. I took on this character trait that would follow me into adulthood with only a twinge of discomfort. Someone still told me I was bad at something, after all. I hated being bad at things.

The guilt I feel when I am not doing something is immense. I see plenty of social media posts about internalized capitalism, encouraging viewers to examine their need to produce, do, and achieve. But that’s for other people. They’re talking to people working nine-to-five jobs with careers in corporate America who can afford to slow down. Those posts aren’t for me– I haven’t reached my goals, I don’t work hard enough, and I am not a success by any stretch of the American imagination. Besides, if I don’t keep striving for what I want, what will I have to show for myself in the end?

Up Yoga in Minneapolis. https://www.upyogamn.com/

Back to my forced relaxation session.

I contort my figure into a banana shape and inhale against a bolster. Breath is vital to singing, but this is easier because I don’t have to support any sound. My ribs expand, pushing into the pillow, and I relax again. I spent years thinking more deeply about the breath than any human should have to do. The breath is natural. It’s a reflex. We’re going to breathe, or we’re going to die. Sure, we have to manipulate it a bit for singing, but it’s not rocket science.

I feel a grip in my lower back and exhale the tension—the sounds of the crystal bowls and drum echo in my body. Breathe in, breathe out. Just being here is enough. This active rest is valuable. My polyp is not bothering me right now. I am quiet. I can be quiet sometimes. Extroversion is not the entirety of the personality I have curated for myself.

Inhale, exhale. I’m genuinely enjoying something that does not involve my vocal cords. What a pleasant sensation.

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Inhale. The act of operatic singing is purposefully suspending the inhale. In the bel canto school of singing, students learn the concept of appoggio to sustain the long, impressive phrases characteristic of classical singing. Appoggiare means “to lean” in Italian. I lean on the inhale when I sing, slowing the diaphragm’s rise. Running out of air too quickly probably means my vocal cords aren’t fully adducting (coming together), or I am not adequately leaning on the breath. 

Exhale. A collaborative pianist who would provide the impetus for my pursuit of a classical music career has a ratty, torn-up card that he brings with him everywhere that simply reads “Exhale.” He places it in the corner of the piano for recitals and auditions, has a copy on his studio door, and always blows out a puff of air before he plays. I have the word tattooed on my ribcage because of him. An old teacher of mine laughed and said I should have gotten the word “inhale” tattooed since my breathing technique was so wrong at the time. The truth hurts.

A copy of the “Exhale” card.

I think he missed the point, and I forgot it, too, for a while. I was reminded of it recently when I sang an audition with my favorite pianist at the keys. The “Exhale” card is looking extra frayed these days. I lean on the breath when I sing, yes. Appoggio is vital for operatic vocal production. But maybe I didn’t realize that I’ve constantly been inhaling in life, taking in more, stacking, pushing, relentlessly and blindly pursuing, and not always in the smartest ways. Exhale is release. It is the act of letting go. That’s what my pianist and mentor was getting at. “Go beyond the fuck it,” he always says, as he practically boils his hands under hot water in preparation to play the piano. Exhale. Release. Let go.

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The discovery that I’ve been singing on my polyp for at least a couple of months is wild. I didn’t know someone could just plow through a vocal injury like that. I’ve done auditions, made recordings, performed gigs, led the soprano section at my church job, taught and received voice lessons, and worked through coaching sessions— let me tell you, every day is a mystery! It is an enjoyable, anxiety-inducing game! I have become that horrifying singer that is always “testing” my voice, letting out little sighs and noises to see if my vocal folds feel anything near usable on any given day. How will my voice feel today? Do a little lip trill, uh oh, it broke at the top– let’s try humming– yikes, that’s even worse! Just warm up through it. My speech-language pathologist reminds me that I am never warming up out of the inflammation; I am simply getting better at slamming my cords together. Hooray! What a thrill!

My laryngologist had to be the one to tell me not to sing. My permission was not enough for me, so now, I get to rest my little voice on doctor’s orders. My polyp is allowed to take naps much more often. She does not like getting pushed around. Honestly, I feel great. No, for real. I’m as shocked as you are. My polyp and I have not missed singing this week because, frankly, the stress of vocal production has taken away all of the spontaneity, joy, and art of music-making. Acknowledging the injury is hard. Accepting that, save for complete rest, I probably could not have prevented this outcome is freaking hard. But living in a state of exhale for a while is getting a little easier.

Exhale. Release. Let go. My old pianist would approve.

My Little Polyp

The face of a lady who is in complete denial of her vocal injury.

Denial is a powerful drug.

This is a story about denial and shame. It’s also about shifting perspective, but we’ll get there.

It’s a story about my ego, being told in a way that strokes my ego, as long as you all keep reading. Funny.

It’s a story of not knowing who I am if not a singer. It’s about the fear of realizing I’m not special, that I’m just a mediocre white lady who lives in the Midwestern suburbs. 

Mostly, it’s a story about my cute, little vocal polyp.

Here’s my polyp! And those are my vocal cords, get your mind out of the gutter.

She’s only two millimeters long, but boy, she is mighty! Two millimeters of hemorrhaged vascularity in one pretty little bump is sending me on a detour that will make me very late for my destination, indeed. In the directions I mapped for myself, I was going to have an agent and be on my way to a mainstage operatic career by my next birthday. It was far-fetched even if I was in prime vocal health, but after two years of pandemic, I was desperate for a destination. Denial is a powerful drug.

My vocal polyp really tries to get my attention. She interferes with my vocal folds coming fully together, or adducting, but I assume it’s a technical issue. It’s always a technical issue. I have never, ever been good enough at singing. My adduction is all wrong. I work on my onsets, and the voice in my head takes over. 

No, again. The “ah” vowel is wrong. Try again. No, again. Again. Do your exercises from the speech language pathologist. Cancel your social plans, you obviously don’t care enough about your voice. Pop an ibuprofen. Again. Why can’t you phonate in the middle voice, you idiot? Do it again. Only bad singers have vocal issues. Just adduct. Adduct. Come on, you can do it on an “ee” vowel, why can’t you do it on “oh”? Oh, another rejection email. Yell. Force the cords together. This is why you don’t have a career. Scream. Again. Yell, adduct. Pop open a bottle of wine, pop another ibuprofen. You shouldn’t drink if your voice feels bad, Victoria. You’re an irresponsible singer. Why can’t you get that passage right? Do it again. Again. Again, damn it. The prednisone will get you through this gig, Victoria. You can’t diminuendo anymore. It’s a technical issue. Why can’t you sing piano? Just vocally rest for a day, tell yourself you feel better, get dinner with your friend, pop an ibuprofen, vocal rest, go to a party, regret, shame, you haven’t practiced yet today, the humidifier will help, pop a couple ibuprofen, cancel voice lessons, practice less, cancel a gig. You’re getting better though, right? Your voice hurts less, sometimes? Take the day off. Why can’t you sing a high C anymore? Hell, why can’t you sing a B flat? You’re in denial. You will never have the career you dream of.

“How’s your voice doing, Victoria?”

“Getting better every day, thanks for asking!”

Poor polyp. She must have been pretty offended. She was right there!

When I saw my little polyp for the first time, I was shocked. Denial is a powerful drug. I asked the laryngologist what I did wrong, why this happened to me. I followed his instructions from when my polyp was just pre-nodular edema. I knew it would take a while for my voice to heal. It’s not like I was singing at the Met every night, for God’s sake. It had to be my crappy technique. He shrugged, and said, “why do some football players get injured and others don’t?” All I hear is that I am not built to be a singer. My cords are too fragile. I push too hard.

My polyp is finally getting the attention she deserves. She is forcing me to not sing for a month, and then hopefully she will fade away, and I won’t need to get her surgically removed.

But who the hell am I if not a singer? What am I supposed to do? Is this the sign from the universe to quit singing once and for all? Singing isn’t just my livelihood, it’s what motivates me, makes me fascinating. Victoria is boring! I am constantly bored by who I am outside of singing.

Singers love to tell other people they’re quitting singing until they finally just leave the industry. This time, it feels more like singing is quitting me. 

The voice in my head is so damn loud. 

“You did this, Victoria. It’s time to quit. You have failed.”

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Yesterday, my polyp and I made two final recordings for an important project. I told my pianist after our final take of Gretchen am Spinnrade in my cheerful, self-deprecating way that it may have been the last song I ever recorded, since it is clear my voice is just not built for singing. He looked at me thoughtfully, and said, “of the hundreds of singers I’ve worked with, few have the profound need to express through music like you do, and it would be a real shame if you left.”

A profound need to express. 

So, I can’t express myself through singing this month. I can’t express my abilities, skills, talents, the hard work I’ve spent the entirety of my twenties honing. 

This month, I’m shifting my identity from singer to person. I’m just a human who has the profound need to express. I’m shifting my attitude, priorities, and self-esteem. I’m not in denial anymore– the perception I have of myself is begging for a change. My polyp and I are going to have a grand time shifting our expectations together, I think. We’re shifty gals. Thanks for joining us.