The Voice That Isn’t Mine

I go in for surgery tomorrow.  I’m having my vocal cords shaved.  I’m a ball of nerves tonight.  I’m not nervous about the surgery or the anesthesia.  That should be a piece of cake.  I’ve been counting down the days, even before I knew surgery was an option.  I’ve been counting down the days until I could sound like… me.  The surgery has been the moment.  It’s been the answer.  And now, the night before, I’m not so sure it will live up to my expectations.  

It hadn’t really hit me until today.  The doctor was clear with me from the start.  He said it might not work, or if it did work, it could be temporary.  He said it could repair the problem for 6 days or 6 weeks or 6 years.  He couldn’t predict.  But I don’t think I was listening.  All I could hear was that surgery was the answer.  Because it has to be the answer.  

I’ve been patient, and cooperative, and even positive for the most part.  This has to work.  I have lived with this for 9 months, and I am unprepared to live with this stranger’s voice for one more day.  I want to sing to George and talk sweetly to babies.  I want to cheer at sporting events and holler at concerts.  I want to squeal with my friends when they announce their engagements, their pregnancies, their promotions.  I am sick of this.  

Tomorrow has to work.  It has to.

A stranger lives inside me.

with a voice that is not my own.

The voice is unpredictable.

The emotions are not shown.

I cannot be expressive.

The way I’d like to be.

I’ve lived muted by this stranger.

That lives inside of me.

The sounds I make surprise me

and catch me unaware.

and sometimes when I try to speak,

my voice just isn’t there.

The voice is without color.

The voice is without soul.

It’s stolen away my confidence.

and robbed me of control.

I’d like to tell you I love you,

and whisper in your ear.

But I’ve been left without the sound,

and have become consumed by all this fear.

I want so much to sing to you,

to squeal when you succeed.

I’d like to coo and call your name,

and tell you what I need.

I’m ready to be normal.

to talk without these bars.

I’m sick of being winded.

I hate these vocal scars.

I don’t know why this stranger

chose to live inside my throat.

Why he’s held me hostage,

and filled my vocal cords with bloat.

I want to go back to normal.

I want my cords to be just fine.

I want to stop living,