Chapter 29
My palms are clammy, fingers itching at my sides as I stand before Dr. Shapiro’s door, the faint scent of antiseptic mingling with lingering notes of hope. I can’t believe it’s already been five months of voice therapy, and today might very well be my last day.
The thought settles in my chest with a mix of heaviness and lightness. I’m both proud and terrified. I’ve imagined this so many times during late-night practice sessions, mornings when my voice felt unfamiliar, and the days when I feared I’d never sound like myself again.
I push the door open, the hinges creaking like a familiar greeting. The office meets me with its eclectic charm, and my practice log sits prominently on the desk.
They asked me to hand it over when I arrived so the doc could look at it before I came in. It was almost sad to hand over something that has played such a big part in my daily life.
“Raina! I’m so glad to see you!” Dr. Shapiro’s voice wraps around me like a warm embrace, her smile infectious. She beams at me, eyes glimmering with pride as they dart to the clipboard in her hand.
“Hi, Dr. Shapiro,” I respond, trying to shake the slight tightness in my chest. “It’s… good to be here.” We’ve been doing most of my appointments via video calls with occasional in-person office visits. This is the first time I’ve been here in a little while.
“Let’s see how far you’ve come since our first session. Are you ready?” Her enthusiasm sends a flutter through me, and I nod, grounding myself in the moment. This is it. The culmination of hard work, fear, and a bit of defiance.
We start with warm-up exercises: lip trills and straw phonation, the familiarity of them warming my nerves. I position my lips, trying to remember how to find the vibrations that once felt foreign but now flow as easily as water.
There was a time when these sounds felt like small failures, soft reminders of what I had lost. Now they feel like stepping stones. Each vibration brings me a little closer to myself. The first hum spills forth, confident and sure. The vibrations travel through my body, awakening muscle memory.
My ribs expand as I draw air into my lungs, filling myself with sound. The controlled expansion creates a difference; I can feel the subtle engagement of my diaphragm, so distinct yet comforting, pulling me back to the rhythm of the music I used to create.
“That’s it! Keep going,” Dr. Shapiro encourages, her praise ringing in my ears.
With each warm-up, my tension lessens, shoulders relax, hands unclench, and the clamminess of my palms gives way to warmth.
I don’t simply sing. The sound dances through me, electric and alive, lighting a flame that flickers to life in my chest.
“Good work, Raina. Let’s review your practice log,” she suggests, flipping through the pages as I catch my breath. Her eyes skim across my entries, and I can practically see the gears turning in her head. I prepare for her assessment with a mixture of hope and dread.
“You’ve been consistent,” she observes, and pride bubbles in my chest. “Many patients give up after realizing their voice won’t return exactly as it was.
” Her gaze meets mine, and there’s a depth of understanding shared between us, one I’d never felt before.
“But you’ve embraced new possibilities instead. ”
I feel a swell of gratitude toward her. She has helped me transform uncertainty into strength, a journey marked by tiny victories and monumental efforts. “Thank you,” I manage to reply, barely above a whisper.
Dr. Shapiro guides me through the progress assessment, asking me to perform increasingly challenging vocal exercises.
The warm notes build like waves, rising in the familiar sea of my own sound.
I move through the scales and phrases that would have been impossible months ago, breath hitching as I try to listen to the notes slipping free, unencumbered by the weight of doubt.
My voice sounds different now—lower, raspier in places, but with an unexpected power and clarity.
Sometimes I still miss the clear, effortless sound I used to have. This new texture feels raw and honest, though. It feels lived in. I am learning to accept that this version of me might be stronger than the old one.
Nash says I sound like caramel and smoke wrapped up in one sweet package. He said it so casually, like it wasn’t a consolation prize. Like he genuinely heard something beautiful in the places I only saw damage.
Her smile widens with each note, and it encourages me further, pushing me into a sound I’m learning to embrace.
“Yes! That’s it, Raina! You’ve found your voice again,” she says as I reach higher notes, feeling the air constrict and expand against the current of sound leaving me.
I can hear the power in it—there’s a difference, a vibrancy that wasn’t there before, and for a fleeting moment, I glimpse the artist I once was.
Dr. Shapiro presses a button on the digital recorder, capturing my performance for us both to review. I can hear my heartbeat echoing in my ears, matching the rhythm of my breaths as I follow her guidance through each exercise, navigating scales and phrases, twirling through the unknown.
After several vocal exercises, Dr. Shapiro clicks the recording device off and motions me over to the chair. I perch on the edge, adrenaline pulsing through me as she retrieves my earlier recordings—the fragile whispers from days past where I could barely articulate my thoughts.
“Are you ready for this?” she asks, a knowing glimmer in her eyes. My breath hitches at the thought, but there’s also an anticipation building, and I can’t help but nod.
As she plays back the recordings, I hear my former self—the softness, the timidity wrapped in shadows, the sounds I barely recognized.
It feels like listening to a ghost version of myself. The voice in the recordings is soft and unsure, as if she is afraid to take up space. My throat tightens as I realize how far I have climbed to get here.
“This is incredible!” Dr. Shapiro exclaims, her approval filling the room. “The difference is amazing, Raina. Look how far you’ve come!”
Tears brim in my eyes, almost catching me off guard as her words seep in. A blend of emotions wash over me, pride in how far I’ve come and a bittersweet pang for what I’ve lost. I brace myself, hoping that as the note fades, it will carry away the heaviness of what my voice used to be.
“What comes next?” I ask, my heart brimming with possibilities and anticipation as I contemplate the next steps forward.
The question lingers in the air like music, promising to intertwine with my own journey as I step forward into this new beginning, voice discovered and reclaiming every note that’s ever echoed in my heart.
“Well,” she says, folding her hands, “this is the part I love most.” She pauses for a moment, letting me wonder what it could be.
Gotta love dramatic effect… “Raina, you’re cleared.
Fully cleared. You’re healthy, your technique is solid, your stamina is excellent. If you want to go on tour… you can.”
The world tilts, warm and bright. For a heartbeat, I can’t speak.
“Really?” My voice cracks on the word.
“Really,” she says, smiling. “You did the work. You earned this. Just keep up your warm-ups, hydrate, respect your limits, but you’re ready. Your voice is ready.”
As I prepare to leave, Dr. Shapiro extends a small gift toward me. It’s wrapped in a soft navy ribbon. “I thought you might like this, it’s a practice journal,” she says, her voice gentle. “I had Voice Found embossed on the cover to remind you of this journey.”
I run my fingers over the soft surface. A tightness forms in my throat that has nothing to do with healing or scar tissue. This journal represents the future I once thought I had lost. It marks the effort I poured into earning my voice back.
“Thank you. This means the world to me,” I reply, emotions coiling within me like a beautiful melody, embracing the potential of my newfound voice.
I walk out of the office feeling lighter and steadier, as if each step carries the promise of a voice not only reclaimed but reborn.