As regular readers of this column will know, we are nearly four months into being canine parents again. Arie (short for Aurélia) was 10 months old when we got her in April, so there was untraining as well as training to be done.
She is quite comfortable in a kennel and also has a bit of separation anxiety, so when all in the household need to be away, we’ll usually try to leave her in her kennel for her own safety — and that of any chewable items (read: anything) upon which she might take out her distress.
She’s comfortable in there but apparently lonely, as well. Then an idea struck …
Might the Master’s Voice Help, Even in His Absence?
At the same time my last book, Living Well With Multiple Sclerosis, was published in print form, it came out as an audiobook (available wherever you download your favorites). And I was the one who narrated the audio version.
I remember sitting in a small recording booth in the famous Brill Building on Manhattan’s Broadway — where so many ’50s and ’60s hit songs were written — in awe and a little bit nervous.
The recording studio was booked for four days, which seemed like a lot to me, but we needed an extra few hours on the Friday to complete the book. I was nowhere near as good at narrating my own words as I thought I would be. I mean, I’ve not only a face but also a voice for radio. (For a taste of both, tune into The Unspeakable Bits webcast, which I host for MS Ireland.)
My idea was to soothe Arie by playing the audiobook while I was away, and when I got home after the first attempt, I found her sleeping to her master’s voice. I was so very happy, and then I heard what she was listening to.
The Sound of My Voice Reading Shocked Me
My narration — the reading of a printed page — was shocking.
I know my eyes tend to shudder sometimes (it’s called nystagmus), and my memory went back to that recording studio and how many times the editor had to interrupt me because my eyes were skipping over words or having difficulty tracking from one sentence to the next on the illuminated iPad screen from which I was reading.
The recording that had kept Arie calm made the hairs on the back of my neck bristle.
Even with professional editing, I could hear my words coming in bursts rather than flowing. I mistook the last word in a line for the end of a sentence, and my emphasis was all over the shop.
I’m proud of the words I wrote and that Emma Rogan and I edited them into a popular book about MS. My performance on the audiobook, however, was an MS slap across my face.
Can I Carry On if It Gets ‘That Bad’?
Communication is my “if it gets that bad” set of symptoms. The stuff for which I would consider a course of steroids or a more aggressive treatment option.
To have difficulty speaking or writing and generally getting my point across is what a wheelchair or a nursing home or incontinence is to others with multiple sclerosis. I’ve called them the “if it gets that bad” symptoms, because we all have lines we’ve drawn in our futures with this disease.
They are lines we hope never to cross, but I have learned that often, once we get to them, they are not as bad as we had feared. I know people in assisted living who find freedom in having their care managed by others. I hosted a webcast on the thought of “ending up” in a wheelchair from which I learned much. So I know that the “that bad” stuff isn’t usually that bad.
My Ego Is Bruised, but I’ll Move On
I can’t say that I’m happy about how I sounded on that recording. I can, in fact, say that I was disappointed and sad about how MS has affected my speech. I was shocked, I was frightened, I was annoyed. I’m still annoyed and a little bit afraid of how this manifestation of MS symptoms might progress. But it’s not the end of the world.
The words — even if not all that well spoken — are important. The man speaking them is sincere in his hope that they will help. That I struggled in such a public manner but got on with the task at hand may be of comfort to others with the disease.
My ego is bruised for certain, but I’ll either find a workaround for this MS symptom or, more likely, never accept an invitation to read aloud for the public again.
But at least it calms our savage little beast, and that’s a win for sure.
Wishing you and your family the best of health.
Cheers,
Trevis
