The Silent Treatment

The Silent Treatment
By Charles Kraus, alias Charles The Magician/ Charles The Clown
[published 2006]

Up until the time I stopped talking, my professionally trained voice was one of my proudest accomplishments. Over the years, the hair went, the stomach went, a lot of physical characteristics suffered the effects of age and use. But my voice seemed to improve.

Firm, strong, unique enough to be a kind of trademark. Then, it stopped trading. The doctor’s theory was that I had a slight hemorrhage during a performance. As a protective measure, my body decided to grow a polyp - a small nodule sealing the tender spot. Once established, this mass changed everything I said into a rasp.  The more I tried to work around the vocal distortion by altering my pitch, the worse my tonality. Eventually, every utterance sounded as if it has come out of the mouth of a truck driver who'd smoked for thirty years and sang heavy metal three nights a week in a bowling alley. Surgery was proposed. Then it was performed. Next, I was allowed to say absolutely nothing for two weeks. This was followed by four weeks of progressively increasing increments of dialogue. Progressive incrementation is easy. Silence —  that’ll make you scream.

To help me interact with the world during those first two weeks, I carried around a slip of paper, a proclamation: I JUST HAD THROAT SURGERY AND WILL NOT BE ABLE TO SPEAK FOR A FEW WEEKS. The information was to be shared with anyone who needed to know — cab drivers, waiters, cashiers. Additional conversation was accomplished via a writing tablet. The world would talk. I’d send it little notes.

Some folks were sympathetic. They’d pout when reading my proclamation, or screw up their faces in a show of compassion. A few pushed my hand away, assuming I was asking for money. Standing on line at the bank, I began to wonder what the teller would think when I gave her my note. Isn’t that what bank robbers do? Would she press some sort of panic button summoning the FBI? A Starbucks barista took my note, thanked me, and put it in her pocket. Perhaps she planned to save it in case she had a vocal cord operation. When I offered a copy to a Nordstrom salesman, he turned it over and wrote, “that’s too bad."

It was impractical to present my disclaimer in situations calling for passing remarks. If you look a stranger in the eye, you’rc apt to get a “hello, nice weather.” If you wait on line at McDonalds, the guy behind you might want to kill the time by chatting. It was just too ridiculous to respond to, “I think I’ll get the fish sandwich,” by offering a note about my recent medical adventures.

I did offer the written explanation during a rather lengthy ride on the Bank of America Tower express elevator that travels non-stop from the 1st to the 40"‘ floor. The women to whom I showed it, read my words out loud to the other passengers. They stepped away from me. Perhaps vocal nodules are contagious. Give him room.

On one occasion, when l’d forgotten to take my little note with me, I chanced upon an old acquaintance. We sat down together over coffee. He told me about his new CD burner, about a lucrative business deal he might be making, and about one of his kids needing to have a set of tonsils removed- There was a lot I wanted to say regarding doctors removing things from a person’s throat. But, of course, I said nothing. The guy never noticed. He talked for twenty minutes, proclaimed his joy at running into me, and went off to pick up his dry-cleaning.

Pen and paper proved hopeless substitutes for the spoken word. My wife would explain why she planned to hang the new painting over there. I’d get out my pen and paper, set to address aspects of her pronouncement, ready to state why I thought the painting belonged in the dining room. But, by the time I‘d gotten half a dozen words into print, she’d have started on her second burst of discourse. It wasn’t just my wife. Everyone had more to say than I could reply to. It was folly to try more than a “yes” or “no.” Even if I could have written faster and spelled better. my thoughts would lack nuance. Spoken words are presented. They come out loud, or sofi, with a hint of skepticism, filled with joy, relief, compassion. This doesn’t happen on paper.

I missed speaking. When I talk, I hear myself. It’s a kind of self‘-feedback that helps me know I’m alive. Fortunately, the silence is over. I’m all healed and can talk as much as I’d like. Of course, there are precautions. The doctor wants me to stay away from aspirin or other blood thinning products to help avoid any more hemorrhaging. In other words, I have a choice, I can keep my voice healthy, or I can keep my heart healthy. I’ll probably opt for maintaining my voice. Hell, if I do have a heart attack, at least l’ll be able to scream for help.