CROAK, RIBBIT, WHAT'D YOU SAY?

CROAK, RIBBIT, WHAT’D YOU SAY?

I understand, I think.

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I know he has a problem with his voice.

It wasn’t deliberate. It wasn’t his choice.

I understand.

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He gets frustrated since his voice is impaired.

It began years ago, and I’ve always cared.

I understand.

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He sounds like a frog who’s about to die.

How it started, we’ll never know why.

I understand.

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He goes for his treatments, and they do help a bit.

But his frustration usually puts him in a snit.

I understand.

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Most of our friends just nod an “ok”.

They don’t understand, there’s nothing to say.

I understand.

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But my patience wears thin when feels he’s put out.

But words and phrases, then he starts to shout.

I understand.

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As I walked in the door, without word of warning,

He stomped where I stood, and his voice was now storming.

I understand.

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He was making a phone call when his voice faded away.

And there by the door, he decided to stay.

I understand.

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He ranted, he shouted, with my anger rising.

There was no point to hide it; I was through with disguising.

Through the years, I’ve always done my best.

To do the necessary, so his voice could rest.

Spasmodic Dysphonia is a nightmare, to be sure.

Unfortunately, for now, there isn’t a cure.

So, I guess, I’ll continue living with my husband-turned-frog,

And end this tirade – my long epilogue!