Braving Cancer in the Choir Loft: One Survivor’s Story
I was not very curious about the nuances of singing and producing pitch during my younger, more carefree choral adventures. A solid chorus member, I enjoyed the demands of music acquisition, the camaraderie and the chance to conjure my inner diva, when appropriate.
My perspective changed when I heard the words “you have cancer.” That year, four syllables cracked me- and my beautiful, imperfect, 45-year-old life — wide open and handed me the dramatic role no woman desires. I found myself memorizing, not Latin and French lyrics, but malignancy’s bewildering status symbols. Grade, stage, margins and node, hormone reception and recurrence. Donning drafty hospital gowns instead of costumes or robes and summoning the diva, not to perform, but to confront a relentless, faceless villain. When offers of support poured in, I learned “Yes“ and “things will be okay” were the only lines I needed.
I completed my transformation — from ordinary woman to infiltrating breast carcinoma patient to grateful survivor — in under eight months. During the harrowing passages, I felt scared, boxed-in, smaller than before. Carrying the role of cancer patient sometimes left me gasping and utterly out of tune. And I’m one of the lucky ones.
Facing a life-disrupting disease didn’t give me special gifts, but it reminded me strength and healing come from unexpected places and deepened my appreciation for music’s restorative powers. I’ve never regretted the nights I showed up to sing when I was too weary to speak or even stand.
Singing in perfect pitch tests professionals and amateurs alike. It’s an acoustical feat of mathematics, physics and human anatomy. We climb musical scales powered by our vibrating vocal folds. The higher we go, the faster our vibrations. Those frequencies are measurable, but how our ear perceives pitch is subjective and more complex as we approach a voice’s upper limits. It’s tough for one accomplished soloist to stay the course. That challenge expands exponentially when many differently-gifted vocalists attempt the crossing together.
Diabolical phrasing, chords that don’t resolve, inadequate breath control, nerves and the winter’s chill lead us astray. Sorrows enter our rehearsal spaces, announcing themselves with drooping shoulders and sagging tones.
When the choir drifts off-key, seasoned directors “tune” our voices and ears with exercises that enhance pitch accuracy. We might vocalize, section by section, over a major chord or instead attempt an elusive, well-tuned third and then, at our director’s signal, migrate down to achieve a lower one. A fascinating thing occurs as we’re sustaining our chords or thirds. Vibrations collide, blanketing us in an exhilarating cloud of sound that helps us to recognize if we’re hovering under or over and to recalibrate. If the tone flattens, we brighten it together, modulating up in barely-perceptible increments until all singers land on a pleasing, near-perfect third or triad.
The instant when 10 or 20 choir members lock into magical harmony to sound as one voice defies explanation, like a prima ballerina’s floating, her perpetual string of fouettes. It isn’t buzz or scream or reverb, but when an ensemble gets it right, the air celebrates with us.
I was hitting a nice, mid-life stride when four syllables knocked the wind out of me. I had a loving husband and amazing sons, good friends, interesting clients and meaningful volunteer projects. I was rediscovering my soprano voice and my passion for dance, after a two-decade pause. I’d forged a delicate peace with painful childhood circumstances that had bled into adult life and was dreaming about my coming chapters.
In the lead-up to Thanksgiving, I came under bombardment. Dad and I were saying our poignant, reluctant goodbyes when a tumor showed up, just inches from my cracked-open-wide heart. I knew we were running out of visits, his cancer wreaking havoc on Dad’s once-formidable bones and body. Many afternoons, I sat and held his bruised hand, offered him a sip of juice, and watched his extra-long, battered limbs and extra-large spirit slowly succumb. I wondered, should I tell him? Can he handle my news?
I returned home at dusk, for our family meal, and to fortify myself for the soul-rattling seige ahead. I sat at my writing desk, quietly plotting my body’s defense amid an escalating, multi-front campaign. Bolstered myself for the near-daily incursions — into my breasts, my bones, my whole body — and for frightening but necessary parleys with core needles and an x-ray guided stereotactic implement. I poured over radiologist and pathologist and oncologist findings, studied my surgical options along with shiny pamphlets extolling the benefits of adjuvant chemo-cocktails. And five-year survival projections and stacks of inscrutable, medical documents identifying me by my cancer and patient number. Infiltrating. Invasive. An enhancing spiculated mass in my left breast.
At times feisty or impatient, Dad’s gentle banter charmed his nurses and aides. He joked with the rotating cast of caregivers dropping off lunch or checking his IV, asked about children and spouses, by name. He’d fill me in, later, his reports detail-rich and often circular. Artistic performances, career milestones, graduations and weddings. I listened politely, but when these accounts took unforeseen, adjective-packed detours, I squirmed in my unforgiving chair. Back in the day, Dad couldn’t mention a pal without telling us that “George was blond and wavy-haired — dashing in his Scottish plaids. An absolute wizard of finance, and quite the ladies man, I’m pretty sure.” Dashing is high praise — Dad used it liberally. I hadn’t told him my news yet, I thought, we have miles of ground to cover. No minutes to waste on the stories of strangers.
On dark days, Dad railed against the unrelenting pain and his cruel fate. He wasn’t ready to leave, never would be. He hated his confinement, lamented his rapidly-disappearing independence and appetite. Some nights, he angrily dismissed his bland tray and yearned for homecooking. Once a college basketball standout, Dad now prayed daily for the strength to complete a humble task — like climbing out of bed or strolling down the hall — without assistance. I tried my best to sit with Dad in his sorrow and continued to pass along small foil packages of blueberry bread, brownies or baked salmon, gifts from my own kitchen.
Before too long, I came to admire Dad’s zig-zagging, glowing tales of acquaintances and lifelong friends. My father had a unique talent for capturing the extraordinary, ordinary aspects of the human experience, for celebrating the things we do in healthier chapters. Cancer couldn’t take that from him.
Dad had been fighting prostrate cancer for 13 years. Visiting him at fine medical facilities throughout greater Philadelphia, I never met a hospital gurney or gown that suited his lanky, six and a half foot frame. That image — of Dad’s tall body and size 13 feet overwhelming his skimpy, uncomfortable and hopefully-temporary cot and garments— stayed with me. Cancers are always uneasy. They are never ‘one size fits all.’
We got the word on a Saturday night. I’d just reassured Bob and the boys (and myself) that everything would be okay after my treatment, when my phone buzzed. Louisa said it was time for us to gather at Dad’s hospice, her voice low and trembling. We entered that sacred space and joined her at his too-small bed, finding Dad silent but very much with us — halfway between homes. We said our “I love you’s” and traded sweet and funny memories, shoulder to shoulder, drawing strength from one another and from Dad’s love of a well-crafted anecdote. We wept and prayed. And when we sang, a hymn my dear chorale director once taught me came pouring out.
“Through all the tumult and strife, I hear that music ringing. It finds an echo in my soul. How can I keep from singing?” (Audrey Assad)
On his final night, my father’s chest labored with each and every subsequent breath until we saw him draw in — and hold onto — his most important one. The air patiently awaited his permission, then transported my father to his next home. Dad died of metastatic prostate cancer four days before my breast cancer surgery. I attended his memorial service, in a haze, five days after my surgeon cut the tumor from my chest.
For 45 years, I had the privilege of living without a sheet of paper predicting if I’d be around in five years. I moved through life’s transitions confident that I’d have enough time. Time to write my book, take voice lessons or finally master Billy Joel’s “Angry Young Man.” Time for new adventures or do-overs, to heal old wounds. In December 2006, cancer stole my Dad and eroded my peace of mind. I refused to let it change who I was.
Amid the pandemonium, one decision was easy: I would continue to sing and take rigorous ballet classes in the months ahead. Some thought I was ill-advised or foolhardy; others applauded my ‘positive outlook.’ In either case, my moxy didn’t spare me the progressive toll of chemotherapy, radiation and estrogen-destroying medications. Cellular warfare attacked my stamina and spirit. It punished my muscles and tendons, and my untrained, lyric soprano. My clear and steady voice was strangely temperamental, prone to croaking or evaporating mid-larynx. With my brain fog, hobbling myalgia, crushing fatigue and disappearing hair, my suffering voice felt like cancer piling on. The diva went into hiding.
When people said “Becca, you’re so strong,” I smiled. They didn’t know that embracing vulnerable was the harder thing; it required a system override or an existential re-tuning.
Before long, my focus shifted from near-perfect chords to music-making’s subtle, curative powers. I noticed how singing awakens our emotions and gently moves us into community, soaked up the beauty of our silences. I admired the way choristers stagger breathing in torturous passages to sustain the sound and one another. How a lush, alto line sends descants floating to wondrous heights. I realized that, even if I couldn’t sound a note, my presence contributed to the music.
There were a few tone-deaf remarks and sour notes, I confess. One solo I should have postponed, after arising with a tight throat and slightly-swollen tongue, a reaction to my new medication. Antihistamines got me through two very groggy church services, but I wanted a do-over. Yet I mostly recall how gracefully my musical community tuned me. Changing seats to ease my physical discomfort. Arms to steady me when my emotions overwhelmed. The kind diva passing me the missing choreography, instead of scowling, when I trampled on her solo line.
Friends raising a glorious roar when I could barely chirp — reminding me we belong to something mightier than any hardship or disease.
Singing through cancer punched up my playlists for the blessedly-ordinary and terrible days and taught me to treasure songs that speak directly to our broken places. I count on the haunting, intersecting supplications of Renaissance master Victoria — and Bach and Coldplay — to calm the MRI chamber’s mayhem. It’s Prince, Bowie and Jackson Browne inviting me to dance in my kitchen. I memorized those melodies that carried hope and faith back to me when they went missing for a spell.
I’m still okay. Gratefully, still a lucky one. I eventually reclaimed my diva and, shortly after our move to Connecticut, joined a lovely women’s chorale. I’m discovering anew how our routine vocalizations can mysteriously realign, not only troublesome notes, but our anxious minds. During one rehearsal, I could almost see all of our countless, unspoken burdens yielding to the room’s overtones, then evaporating into our swirling, ephemeral soundscape.
I believe the best choirs accept our offerings of exacting diction, buttery timbre and angelic tones, along with our heartaches, to grow something of honesty, tenderness and majesty. Sing long enough and you’ll one day find yourself harmonizing with — and holding up — someone who’s making her way out of a dark or lonely valley.
The fragile heart and unpredictable, faithful voice rising with the descant — and missing an entrance or two — were once my own.
People said I inspired them by sharing my voice while my body was so visibly under siege. It was uncomfortable, almost as unnerving as cancer itself.
Looking back, I think that was the point.
(In honor of #NationalCancerSurvivorsDay. This essay appeared earlier on sweatpantsandcoffee.com and the Patient Empowerment Network.)
