On Christmas Eve, 1993, I was seated between my husband and a woman I didn't know very well...more a vaguely familiar face than a friend. All during the service, I lip-synced the carols, treasuring each familiar and beloved word. I had had laryngitis for a couple of months, but didn't think much of it. It was winter. I talked quite a lot. Didn't everybody get laryngitis? I didn't feel ill, and was able to manage my several small businesses as well as keeping up with my housework. I just couldn't sing. No big deal! Of course I knew the seven warning signals of cancer, but they surely didn't apply to me. I just had laryngitis and couldn't sing. I wasn't sick. Doesn't everybody get laryngitis in the winter?

At the end of the service, the lady next to me turned and said, "Don't you sing Christmas carols?" "Of course," I croaked, "I love Christmas carols. I just have a touch of laryngitis." I had already learned to smile a lot and speak as little as possible. Whenever I answered the telephone, the caller said something like, "You sound awful! Do you have a cold?" No, I didn't have a cold. I felt fine. I just didn't have any voice.

I sort of let it pass, and developed my own coping mechanisms...or maybe I should call them denial tactics. I spoke softly, wrote a lot, smiled silently, and walked around with huge buckets of iced tea. All through the spring, it didn't get any better...but it didn't get much worse either. I did find some problems, though. My two daughters each had calling cards to call home whenever they wanted to. When either of the girls used one, a recording would come on, to which I would have to reply, "Yes." By late spring, the automated telephone recording could not understand me. I tried so hard to say, "Yes" clearly, but it came out more as a harsh scratchy sound. At one point I even considered getting TDD, the telephone service available for the hearing and speech impaired. That was a low moment for me. We solved the problem by changing to Call Home America (where no response was necessary), and the problem was temporarily solved. Denial? I suppose so. I could recite the seven warning signals quickly and easily, but surely they didn't apply to me. No, no!

By summer, I could not sing, yell, scream, hum, or even speak very well. When I needed to speak in public, I often wrote things and asked my dear friend Rosann to read them for me. I was beginning to worry a little. It had been about eight months, with no cause that I could pin down. Oh, we cracked all the old jokes about how wonderful a silent wife was, but it was beginning to wear thin. I wanted to talk. I needed to talk. I wanted to sing. I've never been a real singer, but at least wanted to join in things like "Happy Birthday."

The otorhinolaryngologist confirmed my worst fears. In July, he examined my throat and found a growth on my right vocal cord and recommended radiation. This was the beginning of my battle against all odds. My hair, already baby fine, thin and dry, was going to ascend to new lows, and my croaking was going to temporarily cease. Little did I know that the site he found was a small secondary adenocarcinoma. Little did I know that this was to be the beginning rather than the end. Little did I know I was going to change from a slightly overweight woman (size 16) to a thin person (size 8), with every rib sticking out like an anorexic. The denial, the Christmas carols, and the jokes were over. I was officially a cancer patient. I would be faced with difficult choices, impossible dead-ends, and all the emotions that accompany a major change in one's life. "Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night."