In Search of My Voice - Oasis #1

“We are born in debt, owing the world a death. This is the shadow that darkens every cradle.”

- David J. Morris, The Evil Hours

 

The Call

I was having a good week, recuperating from the vocal cord surgery I underwent on August 29, 2025. The prognosis from my surgeon was very optimistic. He was pleased and quite certain that the strange leukoplakia on top of my right vocal cord – along with the rapidly bulging polyp beneath the surface, were both benign. He’d warned that the cyst was like an iceberg effect and may require a little time for flesh to re-occupy the void. Yeah...“iceberg.”

For the next seven days, as prescribed, I rested my voice, doing my best to keep my mouth shut (always a tall order). In fact, I was rather hopeful of my progress toward healing...until 4:45 pm Friday last, when a direct phone call from my surgeon lit up my phone. Here’s a tip: anytime your surgeon contacts you directly at 4:45 p.m. on a Friday, don’t bet on it being good news.

He proceeded to explain that both the polyp and plaque on my right vocal cord are, indeed, an aggressive form of squamous cell carcinoma: cancer. He was – and I could tell in his voice – shocked.

“You told me before that you’ve never been a smoker, aside from the occasional cigar…right?”

“Correct,” I replied. “Why do you sound like you don’t believe me?”

“Well, this specific type of cancer is what we always see in chronic pack-a-day smokers over decades! In fact, 98% of chronic smokers present with these same markers. But if you were in that category, you never would have had the sensitivity to find yourself at my office so soon. It would more likely have been when you’re at a Stage 3 or 4.”

“Afraid to ask, doc…where am I?”

“Yours,” Doc continued, “is rated at between zero and one. And nearly no one in the other 2% presents at such a low level. The good news is, catching it this early gives us other interventions to consider, rather than having to go immediately to radiation.

But it means a return to the OR, to take out more around the area, and to remove all the plaque.” He paused, “…and one more thing.”

“Yeah…?” I rasped.

“You will be on an exclusive list of my patients that I will monitor and test, every six to eight weeks.”

“For how long?” I naively asked.

“Indefinitely.”

“Could you be more specific, please?”

“The rest of your life.”

“Could you be…less specific?”

How could he have been so spectacularly wrong? Trust me, this relatively young surgeon is no slouch. His credentials are deep. I have been impressed at his knowledgeable and circumspect approach from the beginning. Perhaps this attests to the reason we refer to the medical profession as the “practice” of medicine. (“Exclusive,” my ass.)

 

The “Good News”

My speaking voice has temporarily returned – a rather cruel irony, given the likely impact of the next surgery. Armed with the most advanced toys and technology, including microscopic lasers, my surgeon’s goal is to irradicate ALL of it with “clean margins”... vernacular for taking enough healthy flesh behind the cancerous area to ensure it does not return. Two very “microscopically” minor problems:

1. There’s no guarantee “it” won’t return, hasn’t begun relocating, etc.

2. This “cure” may cost my ability to sing.

As the good doctor explained, there are interventional therapies: among them, the injection of platelet-rich plasma to return some pliability to the vibratory layer of the vocal cord. We discussed a range of such things…on Friday last.

 

“It”

When the movie of Stephen King’s bestseller was first released on cable TV, I accidentally tuned in to the opening scene. If you’ve seen “It,” you’ll instantly recognize to what I’m referring. Pennywise, the evil, seemingly omniscient and murderous clown, is peering out of a sewer opening, tempting and taunting a little boy to approach. Sparing you most of the graphic details, this clown – the embodiment of all our darkest fears – grab’s the arm of the poor, unsuspecting “Georgie,” bears a mouth of razor fangs, gnawing off the poor boy’s arm. When psychological pain crosses the boundary into physical violation…let’s just say, it’s rather unsettling.

In a similar way, it might seem, cancer – the ubiquitous “It” – strikes at the heart of our deepest collective psychological wounds. I now serve as host to ”It” – a malevolent force of self-destruction. This “It” will always lurk in the sewer of my deepest terrors.

Yes – I am quite terrified. But I am also NOT a quitter. Walking “by faith, and not by sight” has sustained my life in Christ. Perhaps He’s trying to open my eyes to something I don’t yet see. If He decides it’s time to come home, I am certain He will let me know. In the meantime, screw you, clown!

 

The Search

For the lion's share of my adult life, I’ve been a singer of all sorts: church weddings (I hear the Adam Sandler snickers), quartets and choirs. Singing is as natural and essential for me as breathing. Whereas composing four novels thus far has re-ignited my cerebral cortex, singing has simply been my preferred language...the universal language given us by our creator. Putting that at risk, by removing the remnants of the cancerous ”iceberg” lurking beneath the surface of my vocal cords – thereby robbing me of a primary means to communicate with God – feels like a cruel, cosmic joke, with life-threatening implications.

Over the past weekend, a particularly righteous family member observed, upon learning of “It,” that I need to become more “spiritually connected.” If only she knew.

Patience, focus, faith, and appreciating the beauty of each breath – each moment in this wondrous gift of life, is my self-written prescription for overcoming...in search of my voice.

Such a journey is not a single event. Rather, I walk again in the desert, embarking on a journey with a certain destination, but an uncertain number of stops along the way. Each stop is an oasis, a chance to pause and spiritually reflect in a multi-part series of essays. I know neither the number of essays...nor how many I will be capable of writing. However, my intent is to share this journey of experience, each “oasis” another step toward becoming…whatever He wants.  You will find these essays posted on my website.  

 

 

The theme of this walk in the desert? “In Search of My Voice.” Peace. Shalom.