Goals not Forgotten

Although I have not reported lately on progress towards my two simple (but seemingly impossible goals), they are not forgotten. I have been walking almost every day, but not running again yet. My fall was 20 days ago and I am 100% healed, but I think I’ll invest in some protective gear before trotting again. I think I was just too anxious to make progress too quickly.

Regarding my solo vocal performance, progress is even slower. Monday I went to speech therapy again. She is encouraging. She says that my vocal strength is greatly improved. The problem continues to be that I involuntarily strain when trying to talk, which stifles the voice.

While there, she has me do a lot of drills. For one series, I hold my larynx down and focus on not straining any muscle in my neck or throat. Then I mimic certain sighs, hums, and short phrases. In one, I’m supposed to get a good hum going, forward in the mouth, and then say some “M” alliteration like “Molly made muffins” in a low monotone voice. I have to close my eyes and really concentrate. Take a deep diaphragmatic breath. Start hum. Voice forward. Don’t strain. Vibration on the lips, out of the throat. Good breath support. Don’t strain. Relax. Chin up. Don’t force it. Then Allison says, “You strained and cut off the words. Try again.”

Then after one she said, “There! That was good.”

I croaked, “Yeah, if I were reciting a dirge, blindfolded.” I thought the comment was clever but she reprimanded me. She said that thought processes like that are counter-productive. She’s right; I am impatient and I can’t seem to help poking fun at the baby steps I am making. (I did swallow my “robot reporting on cooking class” comment.)

That’s the thing: you cannot hurry this. If you try, it actually impedes progress. It just seems so silly to make such an inordinate effort for such paltry results. I have earned a master’s degree, learned a foreign language, and have lived with teenagers since 2004, but saying the nonsense phrase correctly, without straining, is harder than them all. Combined. I am trying to “re-wire” signals that worked fine for 40 years, and I don’t really know how it is done.

I’m having a hard time thinking of an analogy. Maybe it is like trying to stand up without using your leg muscles. No hands either. I only know one way. I’ll just have to trust her and take it one tiny step at a time. I guess that is the only way to reach either of my goals.

The Lullaby Bank

When I was 17, as I drove to work I often listened to the “My Turn of Earth” cassette. I know, geek check. My favorite was Angel Lullaby and I would sing along. I really wanted to improve my singing abilities. I was fair to above average, but seriously, my voice was not memorable, even after a few voice lessons and hundreds of hours practicing. It was serviceable, I could sing on pitch, and I could sing various choir parts. I sang solos and duets at church, wedding receptions, and at a debutante dinner in 1986. (I think that was more for my eligible bachelor status than for my crooning abilities.) At BYU I had a lot of fun singing in a roommate quartet, and we sounded pretty good. I was always better as part of a group than as a soloist.

In 1991 my daughter was born and I became a soloist again with nightly performances and a captive audience. And I could sing Angel Lullaby too! My focus quickly changed from “getting good” to soothing and calming. This practice continued in various forms and for other babies for the next 15 years. It was awesome. I used the bedtime songs to teach patriotism, Spanish, reverence, and tradition with an underpinning of love for music and song.

When the oldest two were 7 and 5, I tried to teach them to harmonize. This was difficult. I explained the concept, had them sing a familiar melody, and I would softly sing a harmony. It didn’t work. They always would immediately follow me. One night, after dozens of failed attempts, they got it. I told them to really focus on each other and they stayed on melody while I sang the tenor line to Silent Night. It was so awesome. We all were thrilled. Amanda even suggested we form a group. We could be the Dad, Ryan, and Amanda Group, or DRAG for short! Maybe not.

As they matured, the older ones opted out of bedtime songs BUT the love of song remained. The eldest loved to sing, and she was OK, but, like her music mentor, her talent was pedestrian during her “tween” years. The boy showed real talent at a young age, which was gratifying, but never the goal. 3^rd born sang on key, but was somewhat reserved, especially compared to her “stage presence” brother. I could tell at a young age that the baby had a good ear too, and she loved to hear herself sing. I did too, but I was unsure if she sounded as good to people that weren’t her doting father.

In 2006 as my voice failed I mourned the lost ability to sing to my young girls. As I’ve mentioned on this blog, we have found alternatives, such as humming or them singing to me. It is nice, but not the same. I really miss it.

Yesterday my kids sang together at church and I was forcefully reminded that although I am presently unable to “make deposits into the lullaby bank,” the years of deposits made are not gone. In fact, they are paying rich dividends beyond what I could have imagined. My deposits were joined by contributions from their mother, various music teachers, and choir leaders. Over the past few years, Amanda’s voice took on a beautiful, rich tone and her abilities have kept pace. Ryan’s skills have survived the adolescent voice change and showmanship tempering. Erika took voice lessons for a while, and her voice is amazing, but she still holds back. Recently I enjoyed an Erika concert when she thought she was alone at home. Natalie? She’s been surrounded by music her entire life and she is a natural.

Sunday they sang an inspiring arrangement of I Need Thee Every Hour at church. I can’t rightly take credit but my heart swelled with gratitude and pride. To borrow a line from Dad (that he spoke of my brother) If fatherly pride is a sin, then I stand in need of repentance.

Limit Learning

Today I helped fill our ward’s Bishop’s Storehouse assignment. I wasn’t sure what we’d be doing, and whether or not it would be something I could do, but I knew I was available. Besides, what would be the harm if I got there and they needed us to read fine print while doing jumping jacks and singing? I could just excuse myself, right?

Fortunately, we just filled orders and re-stocked shelves. The Church welfare program is so awesome in the storehouse endeavor. Reading the order form took some effort but it wasn’t too bad. My first order was a whopper and it took me about 30 minutes, partly just finding the right product. Everyone else was working more quickly, but I reminded myself that it wasn’t a race.

When I began filling my second order, I noticed my familiar foe of fatigue setting in. I wasn’t sleepy, but my coordination and balance started eroding. This was not taxing work, but I guess it raised my body temperature enough that my feet stopped responding correctly. Great. I was in no particular hurry, but I did not want to create a spectacle. I found a chair at the front of the store and started taking little breaks, pretending to be studying the order form. Well, part of it wasn’t pretend because my eyesight worsened too.

This order was even bigger than the first one so the cart started getting really heavy. This was a blessing in that it provided a more sturdy support for leaning! When I get “exertion fatigue” I have a hard time even standing upright. I start slowly falling forward. It is so weird.

OK, I knew this wasn’t a race but I was taking really long time. But I needed a little break. I sat down for a few minutes but it is hard to loaf in such a productive environment. My cart only lacked toothpaste, raisins, strawberry jam and 18 rolls of TP. C’mon dude! Stand up and just grab the jam and the raisins, then come back and sit for a minute. I know, chronic illness, blah, blah, blah. But it is 25 feet away and you are 43, not 93 for crying out loud. Well, I did it, jam and raisins were safely in the cart but I barely made it back to my gerontology chair.

OK, the non-food items are on the last aisle, I encouraged myself. I could do this! Just don’t make a scene; it isn’t fair to everyone else.

I rested but I was berating myself pretty good. I realized that I didn’t need to be a hero; I could just ask someone else to finish my list, oh but wait, I can’t talk. Well, barely. Just do it, you wimp! It is toothpaste and toilet paper, not the gosh dang Crusades. Get up and finish the order! I used my laden cart as a walker and got the toothpaste but while loading the TP my legs staged a little coup d’etat. (They don’t care if I’m almost done; they were.) I slumped over my cart heavily and then somehow found the strength to grab the last two rolls. I set them on top of the burgeoning pile. Then one roll fell off. Big problem. Gravity was only one-way for me at the moment. Fortunately my friend Michelle was standing nearby and noticed the errant roll and picked it up for me. I think she also noticed that I was laboring to stay upright and she accompanied me the few steps to the cart drop-off place.

Now I just had to return the clipboard up front, but without my “walker.” If I could only get back I could sit down and cool off. 20 minutes and I would be fine. It was at this point that I did the most difficult thing I had to do all day. Michelle asked if I needed her to help me walk back. Everything inside my head screamed “No!” but better sense prevailed and I sheepishly said “Yeah, I think I do.” She held me up as we began our 80 foot sojourn. I can get so pathetic! Half way there my friend Tim jumped in to help. So much for not creating a scene.

It’s not wounded pride; it’s just that if I had been a bit more careful I could have done it. When will I learn?

The senior missionaries offered to get me water or a banana. It was not a matter of blood sugar or hydration. I was not faint. I just had to rest for a spell. I did, and after lunch I had relatively little trouble with the meat orders or re-stocking shelves. But I know everyone kept an eye on me.

I enjoyed myself, and am glad I went, but I am acutely aware that my scant production did not outweigh the burden of concern that I levied on the party, and for that I am sorry.

If a picture paints 1,000 words, maybe I should take up painting

Yesterday was a quiet, peaceful morning. At 10 a.m. I needed to leave for my speech therapy appointment. I went to say goodbye to Kara and found her taking a well-deserved morning nap. You see, she oversees the kid send-off every day from 5:30-8:30 a.m. and then has been going to the gym all week. Yesterday she took a day off from the gym and I as I kissed her goodbye, I realized that I didn’t want to go. It has been four months of drills, scopes, stretches and exercises and I’m not certain that the “improvement” is not imagined. I’m so tired of the whole thing. I just wanted to crawl into bed too and hide from the whole deal.

However, I cannot afford to give up hope. (Besides, I know she didn't want any company.)  I went because I still hope. Yesterday the motivating factor was that I hope that I will always be able to tell Kara how beautiful she is and that I love  her. (Even this is not a matter of speech; the words do not exist.)

Fall is in the Air

Yesterday I set a new record. I realize that a daily update of my jogging progress is not only unnecessary, it doesn't make for good reading: I went a bit farther today; it was hard.

So I thought today I'd actually show you my block from Google Earth. I start jogging at the upper little yellow box and run clockwise along the sidewalk. (I added the little yellow boxes, they are not really there.) Yesterday I made it all the way to the second box, the first house on the street parallel to mine. Almost half way!

This morning I almost made it to the second walkway. You know, every day I stop when I think I'm about to fall, but I'm never 100% sure that a fall was imminent. I didn't have to worry about that today as my hands actually outdistanced my feet. Yes, I turfed it. You know, I jog on the sidewalk in part so that if I begin to fall, I can try to go either left or right and have a soft grassy landing. But that's just the thing about falling, it often comes with precious little, if any, warning. And so it was today. I mean, I was laboring, and probably should not have been pushing SO hard to reach my goal, but in an instant I was prostrate on the pavement, with a painful 4-pronged searing: both knees and the heels of my hands. Youchie.

I was only down for about ten seconds, and then I was back on my feet. My hands were scraped but not bleeding. I didn't want to look at my knees just yet. It really stung, BUT I didn't cry! (Apparently I cry easily at sadness, not pain.)

I am happy to report that I did not hit my head or face, and that nothing seems to be broken, twisted, fractured, or strained. Just a pair of skinned knees. Kara, who would have laughed aloud if she'd witnessed it, wasn't laughing when she saw my knees. She said, "Maybe you shouldn't run anymore." Maybe she's right, but I'm not ready to let go just yet; I just need to be better about knowing my limits, and today was a good little lesson with a relatively small price paid. (Well, I've made the down payment and I've financed this lesson over 2 or 3 days.) Also, I could start wearing protective grar or jogging on the grass part of our Hike n' Bike trail. Lots of options.

Jogging Buddy

This morning Ryan agreed to accompany me on my daily jog/walk. Before I began I warned him that he might be pleasantly surprised the first minute, but that after a trot and a stroll, my walking gets pretty bad, and I look pretty retarded. He did not appreciate this disclaimer, as if I were implying that he might be embarrassed. He is over that, if he ever had it.

Yesterday I could not make it all the way to the corner, but that is OK, I understand that every day I may not go farther than the last. But this morning I really wanted to reach the corner. This would be the first time I had an audience, and it was my son no less.  I began my mini trek and Ryan jogged alongside, providing encouragement such as "Feet up, you can do it, feet up, c’mon.”

If there were ever a man encouraged and motivated, it was me this morning. Who wouldn’t be? However, in a striking reminder that grit seems to be impotent against my foe, my feet stopped twenty feet short of my goal. I could not have exerted more. Oh well. Maybe Monday.

We continued our walk and, true to my warning, the last few home lengths were a real chore for me. As I cautiously headed up our walkway, and successfully navigated the one step, Ryan started singing the Rocky theme song. How perfect was that?  Maybe I'll take him along more often.

Things are Going South

I have turned the corner in my recent jogging trial. Literally. I made it to the corner (6 ½ home lengths) and kept going another 30 feet. So after a week of exclusively jogging into the morning sun, I have now done a bit of southward ambling.

Do you know what hurts the most when I am finishing the last few feet? You’ll never guess. It is my larynx, the whole underside of my jaw, actually. I guess it makes sense in a way. My otolaryngologist and speech therapists have explained that we carry a lot of anxiety there, and a big part of my therapy is unwinding that stress. When I am jogging, anxiety temporarily spikes as I fear that at any step I may crash headlong into the pavement. I’m sure this anxiety isn’t good for my voice, but it is only a temporary anxiety that is remedied by a leisurely stroll through my neighborhood. OK, that's not entirely true, I’m still anxious out there walking on fatigued legs, but it sounds better than “before a leisurely sit at my desk.”