My saga began in my early forties, when I began to experience varying degrees of strange symptoms. My vocal cords seemed to become dry at times, causing “shearing points” in the passagio of E, F, G. At other times my voice felt “stuck,” and the vibration seemed to change. Without the ease of sound I was used to, I started to manipulate and force the air, which in turn often made me go sharp.
Doctors recommended vocal rest, which was virtually impossible in the German opera theater system. Performing was my only livelihood—and I wasn’t really ill. The problems would come and go randomly. I recall a “Figaro” performance where, as Susannah, I had been on stage for hours. Just before the last-act aria “Deh vieni,” I realized my cords were doing “it” again! I figured I would have to “rest the voice” the next day, but to my surprise and bewilderment, the symptoms were gone!
The medical testing continued, this time for acid reflux. Doctors told me there was, for lack of a diagnosis, “dryness on the cords.” A routine physical with blood tests proved once again that there was nothing wrong. I wasn’t suffering from night sweats or hot flashes, so no one mentioned hormones or perimenopause—and sadly, I didn’t know enough about it to ask.
This distressing vocal situation was followed by what I call my “fogging over” period: mental fog, fatigue, and memory lapses. The entire memorization process, so familiar to me, now became a struggle. I had always considered myself a quick study—but I was forgetting blocking the director had just given me. With that realization came fears of dementia or early Alzheimer’s. Tests for chronic fatigue syndrome also were negative.
The condition escalated, and in my late forties I noticed that I was starting to lose my top notes. I used to vocalize to high F, and now I was lucky to get to a D. I said good-bye to my last Carmina Burana in Gstaad, Switzerland. For me, singing does more than put bread and butter on my table. I firmly believe it was what I was created to do. The gift had been given—and it seemed to be coming to a close.
The roller coaster of ups and downs went on for several years until, at age 52, I experienced an even greater trauma. In the summer of 1999, my son expressed a wish to attend an American high school. After 28 years of living in Europe, I wanted to give him this opportunity, so with very little fanfare, I made the arrangements for us to move back to the States. I didn’t get much emotional preparation for the move, and for months on end, I found myself waking up thinking I was living someone else’s life. Everything was so new, and exceedingly challenging.
Within weeks of this transition, I realized I hadn’t had a period for a while. I started to experience debilitating “hot flashes,” sometimes as many as 17 a day. A photograph taken after a concert with Mstislav Rostropovich at the Royal Albert Hall is a constant reminder of this uncomfortable time in my life. The hall was hot, but I was hotter, cheeks beet red with visible perspiration. I could have glowed in the dark.
Back in the States, a simple blood test verified what I already suspected. I was in full-blown menopause. The news was somewhat of a shock, but I was relieved to finally hear the words. By that time, I’d done my homework. While on tour in South Africa and still on my health quest, I had been to a well-known holistic doctor in Johannesburg. He tested me for allergies (which for me, are ever-present) and talked seriously about the next phase of my life. He suggested that if I wanted to continue singing, I might want to consider hormone replacement therapy (HRT). His words are still ringing in my ears.
“Do not ever ingest hormones via the stomach. They don’t belong there. And always take estrogen with progesterone; never take estrogen alone.”
I heeded this advice. I tried the CombiPatch—a transdermal patch for women with intact uteruses who are experiencing menopausal symptoms—and it has been my salvation. Within two weeks, the hot flashes had become less intense and I started to feel like myself again. I have had absolutely no side effects—as opposed to some of my friends who are “ingesting.” Of course, the greatest relief was the return of my voice as I knew it: consistent, even in vibrato, flexible and high, with that spun piano. My cords were reliable once again.
As frightening as all this was at the time, I’m happy to say that no permanent damage seems to have been done. The vocal “pre-nodules” and “shearing points” are a thing of the past. I’ve learned that one of the effects perimenopause can have is a drying out of the mucous membranes. Without the necessary stickiness and lubrication, the cords “misbehave,” something that is very difficult to describe unless you’ve experienced it.
I do wonder what has happened to all of my female singer colleagues over the past three decades. Have they given up out of sheer frustration with similar symptoms? What a pity that would be.
With my newfound knowledge, I feel as if I’ve been given another gift. I, for one, plan to continue singing as long as anyone wants to hear me.
What can we poor females do when the “change of life” begins to change everything? Get help, get knowledge (go back to a good voice teacher) and don’t be afraid to challenge doctors!
My platform is healthy singing—and I’m on a mission to prove that we too can sing well into our golden years, if for no other reason than to raise the vibrations of this planet. I may have said good-bye to “Carmina,” but I’m saying hello to the Verdi Requiem. Not a bad tradeoff.
