by Laura Roppé
You’ve never seen a girl like this,
with magic in her fingertips,
Outside the lines, with eyes that shine . . . so bright
You’ve never seen a girl before, makes you walk,
no run, right through a door
A door you swore you’d never walk before . . . in life
You’ve never seen a girl sashay, with a way,
with a way to make you stay
Get down on your knees and pray . . . all night
You’ve never seen a girl like this . . .
On the drive home from Seal Beach, Brad and I listened gleefully, over and over again, to the two demos Matt and I had created that night. The recording process itself had been utterly thrilling for both of us, and each time we listened to the songs, we relived that rush again. But, in addition to experiencing the sensation of bringing my songs to life, Brad and I were blown away by the actual finished product. We weren’t sure, and we knew we were biased, but . . . it seemed like these songs were pretty good.
“They’re better than most of the songs I hear on the radio,” Brad declared.
The next morning, when we played the songs for the girls, they were effusive with praise.
“Oh, Mommy! That is so good!” they squeaked.
And when I emailed the songs to Rob and Jann, my brothers in Cool Band Luke, they were over-the-top enthusiastic. Same thing with Dad and my good friend Pete at work. My confidence was building.
Finally, bunco night arrived and I played “Fly, Fly, Fly” for the Bunco Girls. Their reaction was as if I’d discovered a golden ticket in a Willy Wonka chocolate bar.
“You need to do this!” Bunco Girl Tiffanie commanded, as the others bum-rushed me with excited congratulations.
By the time I left bunco that night, my unrelenting desire had become an obsession. I was now a rabid dog, trotting down the street and frothing at the mouth: Record . . . album . . . now!
Chapter 27
Dear Laura,
Chemo! You get to feel the crappiest you’ve ever felt in your life, physically and emotionally; you look the absolute worst you’ve ever looked; and people pity you. And the best of all? You know it’s all coming around again very soon. Happy days!
Sorry, Laura. Whinge over.
Love Jane xx
My Dearest Jane,
If you think you could go through chemo and still have a recurrence or die, it is maddening. But if you just think that the chemo is the treatment to cure you, it makes all the difference. You take the medicine, and that’s that. Disease. Cure. Done.
I am squeezing your hand, Jane.
XO Laura
p.s. What’s a whinge?
Two weeks after my first chemo infusion, it was time to get back on the horse. My cousin Matthew was in the midst of recording an album with his band, but for me, he traded a recording session for a chemo session. As the nurse led Brad, Matt, and me past the rows of cancer patients receiving infusions, all the way to my designated Barcalounger on the far end, Matt’s eyes widened and his jaw clenched. As the bright red fluid entered my body through my port, a flurry of emotions flitted across his expressive face like a scrolling news ticker: fear . . . love . . . worry . . . anguish. Heartbreak.
The whirs and beeps of the chemo monitors and the scattered conversations of other patients filled the room. Matthew pulled out his acoustic guitar and began to play one of my songs, “Daddy’s Little Angels,” which he and I had composed together in my living room the night before. I was surprised to hear my own voice, unchanged and joyful as ever, emerging from my throat and singing the words to my song. As my body was anchored to the Barcalounger by a chemo IV, my soul flew around the chemo lounge, full of joy to be set free once again. For a moment, I forgot where I was, and that I was fighting to save my life.
When my eyelids began to feel heavy and flickered shut, Matthew quietly began singing Sam Cooke’s “Wonderful World.” His earnest voice was warm and comforting, like a fuzzy blanket. At the end of the song, the nurses and patients quietly applauded and asked for more. Music had proven itself to be the shortest distance between Matthew and every person in that room.
Back at home, I crawled into bed to await the inevitable post-infusion pain.
“Bye, Cuz,” I whispered, as he leaned over to kiss me. “Matt, your music was such a gift today. And not just for me—for all the other patients, too. Thank you.”
Matthew’s big, soulful eyes were moist. “Cuz, I’m the one who received the gift today.”
It didn’t take long: I felt the nausea at my door within an hour, banging furiously like an angry beast, but the new antinausea meds Dr. Hampshire had prescribed me were a thick, bolted door keeping the monster out. Instead of the nausea this time around, I felt searing bone pain and can’t-lift-my-head weakness.
Lions and tigers and bears, oh my. This was worse than the first time around.
Dr. Hampshire explained that the toxins from the first infusion had already settled into my system, and that with each subsequent infusion, my body tissue would become more and more overloaded. “With each chemo infusion,” Dr. Hampshire warned, “it will get harder and harder.”
All I could do was lie in bed with Buster by my side, not sleeping, yet not able to move, either. I was stranded in bed like poor James Caan in Misery. And chemotherapy was my ankle-breaking Kathy Bates. My number-one fan.
On the fourth day, Mom and Sharon came over to care for me. The three of us lay in bed together, just like the old days (except that in the old days, Mom’s younger daughter wasn’t listless and writhing in pain).
After our bit of nostalgic three-way bonding, Sharon got up and busied herself with my laundry while Mom went downstairs to make me scrambled eggs and dry toast.
“I can’t eat it, Mom,” I mumbled when Mom put the aromatic plate of food under my nose. “I’m so sick, Mom. I can’t do it.” Indeed, I felt as if my body were made of lifeless cardboard.
“You have to eat, sweetie,” Mom coaxed. Tears were in her eyes. “I need you to get better.”
I was about to console her, when she added, “If you don’t get better, who’s going to take care of me in my old age?”
There was an awkward silence for a moment as I tried to decide if Mom was joking or not. Finally I mumbled, “Wow, Mom. For some reason, that just doesn’t motivate me.”
Mom burst out laughing. As usual.
Suddenly, I was back in her Honda, learning to drive a stick shift at age fifteen. I was in the driver’s seat at a red light, as she reminded me what to do when the light turned green.
Yeah, yeah, I know, I told her.
But when the light turned green, I stalled the car. And I could not get that car to move. Cars behind us started to honk vigorously as the light went from green to yellow and back to red. I became frantic amid the din of angry horns.
And what was Mom doing this whole time? Laughing. So hard that tears ran down her face. She could have yelled at me, or demanded to switch seats so she could get us out of there in a jiffy. But no, she just enjoyed the ride, stalled though it was.
And now here she was, spooning scrambled eggs into her ailing daughter’s mouth—trying desperately to enjoy the stalled ride. The strain on her face told me she wasn’t succeeding.
A few days later, my hair fell out, just as Dr. Hampshire had predicted. When I brushed my teeth, little hairs fell into the sink. When I showered, hairs covered the drain. When I woke up, hairs dusted my pillowcase.
Jane and I wrote to each other almost daily to track the “progress” of our hair loss:
“I am a mangy dog.”
“More hairs on the pillowcase this morning.”
“Each shower is a fantastical journey of hair loss.”
“Scratched my head and six hairs came out.”
“Brushed it and the hairbrush was full.”
“I am a Gregorian monk.”
“I am Squidward in SpongeBob SquarePants.”
“I am one of the
ESP triplets in the goo in Minority Report.”
Brad had been getting a kick out of rubbing my shaved head like a good-luck charm, but now I had to tell him to stop. My scalp hurt too much. Instead, I came up with a new game for him to play:
“Brad, come here,” I beckoned. “Pinch some of my hairs.”
Brad gamely pinched a lock of my short hair with his index finger and thumb, and then gasped as the hairs came out of my scalp like a knife pulled from warm butter.
It was oddly addictive. “Can I do it again?” he asked. “That’s kinda fun.”
“Knock yourself out, babe.”
Chapter 28
Having a dream didn’t mean I knew how to make it a reality. Producing an album with my cousin Matthew simply wasn’t an option. He was touring almost constantly with his band; plus, he had several side projects that consumed his spare time. And I didn’t want to rely on anyone’s goodwill, anyway. It was imperative to get this thing done right now. I was consumed with an inexplicable sense of life-or-death urgency: I had to record an album before it was too late.
My online research revealed that there were countless professional recording studios and producers to choose from in San Diego and beyond. How would I be able to discern the “real deal” producers from the poseurs and con artists? It was intimidating. I called several studios and talked to their resident producers. Mostly they were nice enough, and clearly knowledgeable about music and recording, but my gut instinct told me to move on. Then I saw that one of the local studios boasted a Grammy-nominated producer named Steve Wetherbee. That certainly caught my attention, so I called and spoke with Steve for about half an hour. I was impressed by his obvious love of music, and also by his warmth and sincerity. When he invited me to come down to his studio to talk in person, I didn’t hesitate.
Walking into Steve’s studio felt like entering a church. It was the kind of studio you see in music videos, where the producer sits at a massive control panel riddled with countless levers and buttons while, on the other side of a Plexiglas wall, a recording artist sings into a grapefruit-size microphone.
This is where the magic happens, I thought.
I played my two demos for Steve, and he complimented my voice and songwriting, as well as Matt’s musicianship.
“Do you have any more demos?” Steve asked.
“No,” I told him. “The rest of the songs are in my head.”
“How many additional songs are we talking about here?”
“Maybe . . . ten?” I answered.
Steve seemed intrigued. “Will you sing them for me?”
Pushing my nerves aside, I sat down on a stool and proceeded to sing every one of the songs that had been bouncing around in my head for months. After each song, I offered details I had imagined: “On this one,” I explained, “I hear a violin line like this,” and then I hummed. “And on this one,” I continued, “I’m thinking sort of a Bonnie Raitt feel, with a guitar riff sort of like this.”
Steve said my songs were catchy and memorable and my voice was unique. And, he added, the song structures were really strong—quite surprising for a neophyte songwriter. “You should make an album of these songs.”
No kidding. Or else I’m going to lose my mind.
Steve said he could produce and record the album at his studio, including enlisting all the studio musicians I would need. But, of course, all of this was going to be expensive—akin to buying an economy car.
Small price to pay, I thought.
When I got home and told Brad about it, he said it sounded really exciting. But when I mentioned the price tag, he laughed out loud and said it was out of the question.
“But, honey, Steve says my songs are really good,” I argued.
“Of course he does, babe—it’s like the Barbizon School of Modeling: Anyone at all can go in there and be told, ‘Oh, yes, you should be a model,’ as long as they pay the modeling-school fee. That guy would tell anyone with enough cash that their songs are good.”
I was speechless. And deflated. My songs are good, I said to myself. But, it seemed, that was that. This wasn’t the kind of purchase I could make without Brad’s consent, just as I wouldn’t expect him to go out and buy a car (or a puppy, for that matter) without consulting me.
No matter how hard I tried, though, I couldn’t let it go. My determination only escalated with each passing day.
The next week, Brad and I were preparing for an upcoming family ski trip to Utah for Presidents’ Day 2008. As we packed, I could barely think about what gear the girls would need for the slopes; my thoughts kept drifting to the album I was increasingly desperate to make.
“Brad, can I get a new car?” I asked, as he stuffed ski pants and goggles into a duffel bag. For quite some time, he had been suggesting that I drive something more fun than my minivan.
“Yes, absolutely,” he answered.
“Thanks, but I’d rather have an album.”
Brad rolled his eyes. I had tricked him. “Honey, why are you so focused on this? Why can’t you just record some more demos with Matt now and again, whenever he’s back from tour? Why do you have to go so . . . big with this?”
I surprised myself by starting to cry. “I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “I just feel this life-or-death urgency about it. Like, I have to do this right now.” I was sobbing now. “I don’t want to die without doing this, babe. I don’t want to lie on my deathbed and realize my kids don’t know who their mommy is!” I was a blubbering mess.
Brad was confused by my sudden outpouring of fierce emotion. “Okay, honey, but why do you have to produce the album at such a professional level? If it’s just a vanity project, just a legacy to leave to the girls, then you don’t need anything more than demo quality.”
I was so frustrated! I could barely speak. “It has to be the absolute best quality I can manage. It can’t be demo quality. I can’t explain why. I don’t know why.”
Brad wasn’t on board. And I was incapable of explaining this ferocious need I felt all the way down in my bone marrow. We were at an impasse.
The next morning, we piled into the car for our nine-hour road trip to Utah. While the girls happily watched Shrek on a portable DVD player in the back seat, Brad and I reveled in spending hours of unfettered time together. Between the girls, work, and the daily goings-on of our busy life, we hadn’t spent this much undistracted time together in as long as I could remember.
We listened to music for a while, watching the desert landscape whiz by. The girls had fallen asleep in the back seat.
“Sing me your songs,” Brad suggested.
I was overjoyed. Up until that moment, he had caught only snippets of the songs in my “collection”; he had never heard each one from beginning to end.
I sang my heart out for Brad, and then explained in excited detail the way I envisioned arranging each song.
“On this one,” I told him, “I want the bridge to come way down, sort of like this song,” and then I played a John Mayer song on my iPod. “And on this one, I want the feel to sound something like this,” and then I played him an Alanis Morissette song. As I shared these thoughts and feelings with Brad, relief and joy spread through my body. Now he could hear what had been plaguing me for so long. Now he could finally understand.
Brad seemed stunned. “Wow, those are really, really good, honey. I had no idea.”
I beamed at him. “You think so?”
“I do. Maybe I should at least talk to this Steve guy when we get home.”
I nodded. That sounded like a plan. In truth, I thought my heart would leap out of my chest like that squid monster in Alien, I was so overjoyed at this concession. But for the time being, I tried to push the album out of my mind and focus on our family vacation.
It wasn’t hard to do: The girls were endlessly entertaining on the slopes. Sophie snowplowed down the mountain methodically and cautiously, while Chloe careened down like Evel Knievel, oftentimes duplicating the “agony of defeat” fall from ABC’s
Wide World of Sports.
At the end of the week, as we made the long drive home from Utah, I looked over at Brad. He seemed in high spirits, despite having just received a speeding ticket from a pleasant policeman named Officer Malcolm. My heart bubbled over with love for my husband. I turned around to peek at the girls, sleeping sweetly in the back seat, and thought how young and innocent they were. They had so much life ahead of them, and they knew so little about the important things. I was overcome by an all-encompassing love for my family.
In a flash, my thoughts turned to worry. What if my girls had to grow up without me? I thought, shuddering. What if I had only five minutes left in this world to tell them everything they’d need to know to grow up right? I searched the car frenetically for a scrap of paper. And within twenty minutes, I had scratched out all the words and melody for a song called “Little Daughter.”
When I had finished writing, I turned to Brad. “Listen to this new song, honey.”
Tears sprang into Brad’s eyes from the first moment I began singing, and they kept coming until the last line of the song. When I had finished, he wiped away the tears and cleared his throat. “Babe, that is beautiful,” he said softly. And then, to my amazement, he added three little words that sent an electric current shooting through my veins: “Let’s do it.”
Chapter 29
When we got home from our family ski vacation, Brad and I visited Steve, the producer I’d been lobbying to hire, at his impressive studio. An hour later, as Brad and I settled back into our car, he conceded, “It’s not the Barbizon School of Modeling after all.”
A few weeks later, I was happily embroiled in the time-consuming (but thoroughly enjoyable) task of recording a full-length album. Up until then, I had thought a song was recorded when a band of musicians simultaneously played their instruments, all together, in a studio. As I found out through working with Steve, however, although that may have been how records were created in the “olden days,” it was not how modern records were usually recorded.