It won't cost much...JUST YOUR VOICE.
I used to hate public speaking. It didn’t matter if it was just a presentation in front of my class or something in front of a huge group of people, I’d get so nervous beforehand. No amount of picturing people in their underwear helped. My hands would get clammy, my stomach would knot up, and my heart rate would skyrocket and I’d feel like I was going to pass out.
(Much later, I’d discover that a big part of this was anxiety and WOW did meds help.)
Then, when I got a job managing volunteers, I was suddenly tasked with not just leading some of the training classes, which only had 4-5 people in them, but the new volunteer orientations as well, which could have 20-30 people in them. When I moved to my new position in Washington, there were sometimes 50-70 people at orientation, and smaller groups at wildlife specific info sessions. These all happened several times a month, so I got a lot more comfortable, and DARE I SAY even good at, talking in front of groups of people. It definitely helps if you enjoy the subject matter, and I loved telling new volunteers how they could get involved and about all of the animals they could help.
During my first chemo treatment, when the nurse found out where I worked, she told me about a couple of injured birds she’d tried to help by bringing them to the wildlife center at work. This is pretty common. Usually when people find out where I work or what I do for a living, they want to tell me about a dog or cat they’ve adopted, or a wild animal they’ve encountered that needed help. I don’t mind this at all. I tried to explain all I knew about the what they do at the wildlife center, but she was having trouble understanding a lot of what I was saying, so I gave up after a while. It sucked. I love talking about wildlife, I love sharing information about how people can help, but I just couldn’t do it in that moment. It felt like the words were stuck inside of me, but no matter how hard I tried, there was no way to get them out.
It turns out that talking to people, even just a mindless chat, was something I took for granted. After all, I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t able to do it. But it’s been over three months since I’ve been able to carry on a normal conversation with people. And look, I’ve never particularly LIKED talking to strangers, but sometimes it’s necessary or even (WHAT) preferable to be able to speak to them. For instance, when we went looking for orcas last month, people around us were all chatting and asking questions and sharing information and I was glad Joe was there so I could remain silent. I’d murmur to him every so often if I had something to say and then he’d share with the group, but otherwise I just stared at the water, waiting for orcas. I wasn’t then able to speak in a way that was easily understandable, especially with a mask on. And I’m still getting there, to be honest.
This is a common occurrence nowadays. I try not to let it bother me, but it is incredibly frustrating when people can’t understand me. Sometimes I just say “never mind,” if it wasn’t something that important. I do this a lot when I’m trying to make jokes or some smart ass remark, which, before all of this happened, was about 85% of what I said. Don’t get me wrong, I’m relieved that I’m able to speak at all right now. As frustrating as it is when people can’t understand me now, nothing will match the frustration of trying to communicate with my doctors and nurses solely by whiteboard, which is what I had to do in the hospital. Trying to explain in detail how I was feeling and what I needed without fully understanding it myself without being able to explain it verbally was awful. It was also one of the lowest times of my life but I wasn’t able to really talk to anyone about it in person.
When I saw the speech pathologist a couple of weeks ago, I asked her if I’d ever speak like myself again. She paused and explained, “Everyone is different. You may not sound exactly like you used to, but you’ll be understandable, and those you’ve never met before likely won’t notice anything unusual about your speech.”
I appreciated her perspective, but those aren’t the people I’m worried about. I’m more worried about the people I DO know, those who know what I used to sound like. Who I used to be. I’m not really sure what I’m worried about. It’s not that I think anyone will be mean or judge me for speaking differently (we’re not on the grade school playground anymore, after all). Maybe it’s that I don’t want people to pity me? Or to have to acknowledge that things are so different now? I don’t know. I guess I’m still working out those feelings.
I can’t help but think back to all the words that used to come so easily. I was never a huge talker, but I could talk a mile a minute when I was really excited about something, I loved telling stories to new volunteers at orientations and would often find that, even at the end of an hour and a half presentation, I’d wish I had more time to talk to them. And to think of all the nonsense that used to come out of my mouth! I’d try to say the most off-the-wall stuff to Joe just to make him laugh. I’d make up dumb songs about the dogs. I’d pretend to BE the dogs, or other animals I saw, and carry on conversations for or with them.
All of that, that whole entire part of me, is lost right now. It’s just…gone. While talking is getting easier, it’s still not easy. It’s still uncomfortable. Though the swelling has gone down, my tongue is still bigger than normal and kind of feels like a foreign object in my mouth that I have to talk around. I’m still a bit sore and uncomfortable from radiation. It’s still frustrating to be misunderstood. To not be able to really get into detail when Joe, or anyone else, asks how I’m doing or feeling.
In general, I’m doing fine. I’m improving, day-by-day, even if it’s not as fast as I’d like. I know this, logically, and I have hope that things will continue to improve. But I still have bad moments. Bad days. Days where it’s hard to look on the bright side. Where it’s hard not to focus on how easy things used to be and compare it to how hard those things are now. Where I get FOMO as I scroll through social media, looking at all the fun things people are doing or eating. Where I fall into a depression because of the reality of how much longer things are going to be difficult.
I once described my need to write as having too many words in my head, and that I needed to get them out like you would poison from a snake bite or I’d go crazy. Even before starting this blog, I’d write in a journal every day, just to get all my thoughts out and in some semblance in order. Still, it’s different than being able to share these thoughts, off the cuff, with others. And while I’m so grateful to have writing as an outlet, I kind of can’t wait to be able to talk to strangers again.