Two months ago I was diagnosed with a nodule on my vocal chord. I was told that if I was a Very Good Boy for two whole months it would be all better. (Very Good Boy is defined as follows: strict vocal rest for two weeks; no coffee, no chocolate, no alcohol.)
Today was my two month check-up and I was proud to report that I had indeed been a Very Good Boy. Strict vocal rest was about 85% successful; I haven’t had a drop of coffee and only crumbs of chocolate (you know how “Cookies-n-Cream” is mostly cream, right?) and on a few ‘special occasions’ I had a couple of drinks. It is summertime, after all. All in all, I think I did pretty good. And, when I do pretty good, I expect a pretty good reward.
While I knew from the quality of my voice that I had not quite won the war I was confident that I had definitely made progress. Just not enough. The good news is that the nodule is smaller by one-third. From three millimeters down to two. Somehow my doctor managed to restrain himself from offering an exuberant high-five. (We did manage to congratulate ourselves on how we handled the scope-up-the-nose-down-the-throat-routine. He tried to claim he must be getting better. I assured him I deserved the credit for both my mental preparation as well as my execution at the crucial moment. I was truly “in the zone.”)
Happy though I was to hear of my nodular reduction, I said to him (in a subtle this isn’t quite the birthday present I was hoping for tone): “I thought you said that in 8 out of 10 cases this is resolved in two months,” regretting every one of those “special occasion” drinks. He considered me as the father considers the child’s incessant need for instant gratification and said: “No. It can take longer.”
Silly me. I go back in three months.
And, come Halloween, the drinks are on me!
