Singing Out Loud Helps Ease My Chronic Pain (At the Risk of Embarrassing My Son)
It never used to be like this — I wasn’t shushed or scolded when I sang
“Stop. You’ll embarrass me,” Ryan tells me from the back seat.
We’re stopped at a red light. The windows are barely rolled down, and no one we know is around us. I’m singing along to Maxine Nightingale’s “Right Back Where We Started From.” But, apparently, we have now reached the stage of Ryan’s life where his parents can — and do — embarrass him.
It didn’t use to be like this; I wasn’t shushed or scolded when I sang. I was accompanied. After all, this is the same boy who sat in the shopping cart and sang along to Michael Jackson’s “Heal the World” as it played over the market’s loudspeaker. This is the same boy who took my hands and danced as Grandma made a purchase and we heard Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline” playing in the store.
I started singing to Ryan when I was pregnant. In fifth grade, Ryan needed to choose an adjective that accurately described his personality and started with the same letter as his first name. He picked “rhythmic.” It was perfect.
When Ryan was younger, he had our favorite sing-alongs — “Lollipop” by The Chordettes, “Sugar Sugar” by The Archies, “The Name Game” by Shirley Ellis. And this Maxine Nightingale song. I remember Ryan sitting in his high chair, holding onto a red plastic serving spoon, pretending it was his microphone. I used my own red serving spoon, and stepped to the side of the refrigerator, before making my grand appearance once it was my turn to sing.
Music has always played an important role in our family. Soft music plays during dinner — something like Norah Jones, Michael Bublé, or Sade. A wider variety of music plays in the car — Bruno Mars, Justin Timberlake, Billie Eilish, Prince, Madonna. (I remember how tickled Ryan was to discover “Cereal Girl” from Sesame Street was really based off Madonna’s “Material Girl.”) And we’ve always been a family that sings along.
But now I’ve been told there is a time and a place for my singing. And when we’re out in public, even within the confines of our blue Honda Civic, singing isn’t allowed. With one exception — if Ryan is singing along and I don’t sing too loud or bop around too much in the driver’s seat, I can sing and get away with it.
Little does Ryan know that when I drive to school to pick him up, I’m usually rocking out. If I can’t find a good song on the radio (I like the spontaneity), I’ll play one of our mixed CDs. Ryan says the fact that our car plays CDs and doesn’t have an auxiliary jack for my phone makes it old — another faux pas.
Yet, I don’t think Ryan realizes why I sing loudly in the car each afternoon or why I play music while I’m cooking dinner. Something happens when music is played. Without realizing it, you start to sing along. You realize you know all the words, even though you don’t ever remember learning them. I start singing and my heart feels a bit lighter. And for those few moments, I’m granted a bit of an escape.
I live with a rare autoimmune disease, an invisible disability, called Undifferentiated Connective Tissue Disease. Medically speaking, it means I experience symptoms of lupus, rheumatoid arthritis, and myositis, which translates to pain, fatigue, and weakness in my left leg on a daily basis. Pain can intensify or strike at random — while sitting at my desk, while eating dinner, or while reading on the couch. But it is also cumulative, increasing and worsening as the day goes on. So I usually need a little boost during the afternoon drive and dinner preparation.
Music doesn’t make the pain magically disappear. But it’s a way to take the edge off and distract myself with something that makes me feel good.
A few days later, we were in the car again. I heard the first few notes and smiled. “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” — how many times had we listened and danced and sang to that song? Before I could say anything, Ryan spoke from the backseat.
“It’s our song. Wait for your part until you start singing,” he said.
“I will.”
I waited. I listened while he sang Marvin Gaye’s lines. And then, when it was Tammi Terrell’s turn, it was mine too.
Wendy Kennar is a freelance writer who has lived her entire life within the same zip code. She was a public school teacher for twelve years until a chronic medical condition made it necessary to leave her teaching career. She is constantly amazed and inspired by her young son. Her writing has appeared in numerous publications and anthologies including the Los Angeles Times, Christian Science Monitor, United Teacher, L.A. Parent, Mamalode.com, RoleReboot.org, Breath and Shadow, and XOJane.com to name a few. In addition, she is a regular contributor at MomsLA.com. She writes at wendykennar.com.
