You don’t realise how much your voice contributes to your personality and the way people see – or rather, hear you – until you lose it.
And losing your voice is not like losing the car keys. You can’t have a hunt around for it and find with some relief that you locked it in the garage or threw it carelessly into the dustbin with a piece of old kitchen roll and the potato peelings.
You can search all you like, but you won’t find it. It will return when its good and ready.
Mine has returned but in a different form. It’s quiet and too weak to sing, too weak to laugh properly, too fragile to do anything other than talk in a carefully modulated way. Any sudden reckless noise provokes paroxysms of coughing.
I all but lost it for a couple of days.
People looked at me funny because they don’t expect me to be quiet and they don’t expect to have to ask me “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.” They don’t usually have to make an effort with me. I project without thinking about it.
Mr Croft, my creepy but terribly complimentary English teacher said, rather too kindly I feel, that my voice was “sonorous.” That’s not quite the same as having “a bell on every bloody tooth” as my dad used to describe some of the boys I played with. Quite frankly, if I was a friend of mine, it’s the kind of voice which would get right on my nerves. I don’t know how they put up with me.
Anyway, this throat bug which has persisted for two weeks plus has taken me through a variety of broken voices from initial breathy whispering – which I have to say sounded particularly good when delivering pathology lab results.
“Yes Mr Robinson,” purred the Joanna Lumley/Fenella Fielding Soundalike “your swabs have all come back clear.”
That didn’t last, sadly. It morphed into the low slightly menacing tones of a 60-a-day Welsh coal-mining lesbian in a bad mood.
“Pay up there’s a good boy – or you’ll never see your budgie again.” That kind of thing.
It changed again into a version of my usual voice with no colour or variation and the volume turned down by 30%. I don’t like it. It’s not really me at all. Still, it’s something. It’s better than complete silence and ineffective whispers.
The kids were still young when I lost my voice completely for four days. I had to work the dog on hand signals only but somehow he responded. It was a combination of looking at him intently and making stupidly emphatic hand gestures; workable at close quarters but a complete waste of time if he took off in the opposite direction while we were out.
My lack of sound or fury was a source of much initial amusement for DT man and the boys who would giggle and roll makeshift ear trumpets out of newspapers as if that would increase their chances of hearing me, then lose interest and loaf about watching TV and spilling biscuit crumbs all over the sofa, knowing I didn’t have the voice to object.
It was a kind of purgatory in which I felt I lost my identity. It felt like I could only express a tiny percentage of my personality. I couldn’t laugh, couldn’t complain, couldn’t assert myself. It was like turning black and white and shrinking.
Losing my voice I lost all my colour. I was mostly ignored, except by the dog, who quite enjoyed doing the sit, down, roll-over, heel, wait, come, commands on hand-signals only as long as there were still foodie rewards.
This time is nothing like as bad but I’ll still be glad when the voice is back properly. I have a feeling I might be able to tempt it back with theraputic doses of single malt. I mean, you have to try everything, haven’t you?
Boadicea's Chariot 
Sorry. What did you say?
🙂
And you have left this a fortnight?
This happened to me after a transatlantic flight, a throat infection which went to the voice box from the filthy air on airplanes these days, bio filters my arse!
It ended up three months later with a private operation in Brum to clean vesicles off my vocal cords and 2 grand lighter!
No laughing matter, get yourself to a doctor and if it doesn’t clear within ten days on antibiotics insist on seeing an ear nose and throat specialist.
And stop talking, you are doing more damage.
Tried to be clever and failed, Jan. My comment was meant to be in small print. I’m trying to learn some HTML codes. I’ll try again. If it doesn’t work I’ll shout a comment at you. I know how to do that.
What did you say?
I give up.
Poor you, Jan.
I remember going through a phase of ‘loosing my voice’ (as in ‘loosing my usual voice’, but not completely) repeatedly when I was a teenager, often after a cold, but for a long time after I was otherwise better, sometimes for weeks at a time.
My then boyfriend (and his father) would encourage me to talk as they loved the huskiness!
I hope you arefeeling well in yourself.
(You made me laugh out loud, imagining you giving out lab results in all your huskiness. )
Speak up, girl. Cat got yout tongue?
Snigger!
OZ
It may seem a joke to the rest of the world, but I suggest you take Christina’s advice. I’ve never lost my voice, but I wouldn’t hang around if it vanished for a week – however much my family appreciated the silence!
In the meantime, try the malt – it might not improve matters, but at least you won’y feel so miserable about it!
Loosing your voice, Nym? Do you keep it on a leash? 🙂
Morning Janh, a small note for JW if I may.
There are various tutorials on the web
Why not have a look here for sizing?
Not to tricky, you can simply C & P their code and
Change their text!
😉
Thanks you for the spelling advice, Janus.
Just desist, JW, at least until you learn to do very small print 🙂 The day I even express the vaguest desire to learn HTML codes will be the day they can shoot me. Other people know HTML in order for me to use my computer without having to – that’s the general plan.
Jeez, Tina, that was a horrible experience! Bloody air travel. Airliners really are full of germs. Bio filters, your arse. Yes! Completely agree.
It must be getting better. Apart from TB ward-style coughing at night, I managed almost a whole afternoon chatting with a friend. I’ve come to the conclusion that my voicebox reacts badly to work.
Welcome back, Pseu!! Glad I made you smile. Surprising how many people, when spoken to quietly, reply really quietly too… 😉
Your experience boosts the argument that chaps rather like a sultry huskiness. Obviously if I could somehow engineer a permanent voice like La Lumley’s, I definitely would. It may be just a question of growing a nodule in the right place…
Thanks so much OZ for your tender sympathies. ;-p
Boadicea, I think I’m on the mend, aided by a small bottle of malt called Sheep Dip which a Scottish friend got me for my birthday. It’s handbag sized. I can imagine it’s a very popular therapy with women in Scotland.
Evening Soutie. I have absolutely no objection to you telling JW how to reduce his sizing. As we all know, size does matter. 😉
I spent three weeks in a voiceless state. I actually fretted about not being able to work, but the worst thing was a complete breakdown in the otherwise well run benevolent dictatorship that was home. Humans just creased up at my feeble squeaks, four legged members of the household were puzzled but did not mock; well not much.
Altogether is was a humbling experience but I gave them all hell once I recovered. 🙂
I lost my voice in Ibiza and the doctor told me to drink warm tea only. I am naturally quiet and softly spoken, so the affliction didn’t worry me too much, but the medical advice ruined my holiday. 😉
Another very funny blog, Jan. Get well soon. 🙂
Hi Araminta – it’s just soo frustrating not to be able to get one’s point across!! Pleased to hear you asserted yourself later!
Warm tea, Bilby? I’ve had gallons of it. Disgusting stuff but if you must, you must. 🙂