Rocking the Pink

by Laura Roppé

  “You need to own it,” he counseled me urgently. His eyes were aflame. “This is your stage. Don’t hold back! You’re holding back!” He raised his arms in a dramatic flourish to emphasize his point.

  “Thank you . . . Meat Loaf.” Mr. Meat Loaf? Mr. Loaf? “I’m . . . yes . . . Thank you. Will do.”

  It was surreal. I was getting performance advice from Meat Loaf! The original bat out of hell! And he was beating the same drum I’d been hearing all week: I was holding back.

  Okay, okay, Universe! I hear you loud and clear!

  It was time to let go, to expose myself, to take a flying-squirrel leap with all my heart. It was time to go bare-assed in the display window at Macy’s.

  The next day, the camp welcomed Jon Anderson, the wildly talented front man and songwriter for Yes. You know, “Owner of a Lonely Heart”? (And now you have that song stuck in your head, don’t you?)

  Before Mr. Anderson’s arrival, we campers were warned not to get too touchy-feely with this particular rock star. Admire him without touching, we were told—hugging, hand shaking, and groping were no-no’s. Apparently, Mr. Anderson had recently been felled by a nasty flu, and, understandably, he’d grown leery of being pawed by his germy, though adoring, public. Adoration: good. Germs: bad.

  And then, only a few minutes after the enunciation of Mr. Anderson’s “no-germ policy,” there he was: blond hair, boyish face, unassuming and gentle demeanor. He reacted to our boisterous applause with a crooked smile and a wave, and we all settled into our chairs in anticipation of a camp-wide question-and-answer session.

  Much to the thrill of the audience, Mr. Anderson picked up an acoustic guitar and performed an angelic, simple version of “Starship Trooper,” for which everyone gave him a standing ovation. His iconic voice was pure and without pretense.

  The hair on my arms stood on end as I listened. This is exactly what Mark Hudson was talking about, I said to myself as I applauded enthusiastically. I understand.

  “Thank you so much,” Mr. Anderson said humbly. “Thank you.”

  And with that, the question-and-answer session disassembled and we campers separated back into our individual bands for further rehearsals.

  Just as I was singing my heart out in my band’s rehearsal room, Mr. Anderson entered the room. After watching for a moment, on a whim, he walked over to a spare microphone and began singing backup to my lead vocals.

  Jon Anderson is my backup singer!

  My singing quickly devolved into a sort of singsong laughter—the sound that comes out of someone experiencing unadulterated glee.

  At the end of our spontaneous joint performance, Mr. Anderson approached me, smiling. “I like your voice,” he said, and I blushed.

  Don’t touch him, I reminded myself. Germs: bad.

  “Thank you,” I responded to his kindness, taking a careful step back. “I’m actually a fledgling songwriter,” I told him. “Could you please share any songwriting advice?” I looked at him hopefully, careful to keep my germs at a distance.

  Jon Anderson assessed me, a relaxed, earnest smile on his lips, and then took a bold step toward me, right into my personal space (and into the zone of optimum airborne-illness transmission). And then, much to my shock, he grasped my shoulders and gazed straight into my face. “I see you,” he said. “You are beautiful. Just let the songs come through you. Don’t stop to think; just let them come through you. Just let the world see exactly what I see right now.”

  Our eyes were locked for a moment, his hands pressed firmly against my shoulders. Words wouldn’t form, so I collapsed into him and hugged him, a surge of emotion overcoming me.

  He hugged me right back, tenderly, sweetly.

  When we pulled apart, he nodded his head and whispered, “Namaste.” And then he waved to everyone and left the room.

  It took me over an hour to fully regain my composure.

  On the last day of Rock ’n’ Roll Fantasy Camp, campers and counselors alike trekked over to the Whisky a Go Go, where each band would perform a camp-closing set of songs. Déjà vu flooded me as I walked through the door of the Whisky and onto the floor adjacent to the stage: It had been twenty years since I had stood in exactly the same spot with Amy Bo Bamy and Marco, clutching my sides with laughter at the sight of Val Kilmer’s pirouetting dance double. Twenty years! Where had the time gone?

  “Laura, we’re up,” my bandmate called to me, and I was startled back to the present. It was time for us to make rock history, baby!

  I followed my bandmates up one flight of stairs to the balcony, across the dilapidated upstairs viewing area, and then down another flight of back steps leading to stage access. After exchanging high fives and “break a leg”s with my band, I stepped out onto the Whisky stage and right down to front and center, to the precise square inch of real estate that had been calling my name for twenty years.

  This was the exact spot where the iconic Jim Morrison had performed “The End” forty years before, and where Val Kilmer had simulated the iconic Jim Morrison performing “The End” twenty years before, right in front of my nineteen-year-old, starstruck eyes. This was the very coordinate on Planet Earth I had lusted to occupy as I’d watched Val Kilmer writhing around in his black leather pants—back when I’d been certain that my jaw-dropping performance as Girl One would rocket me to superstardom.

  And now here I was, not quite the superstar I had once envisioned, but a thirty-nine-year-old woman, wife, and mother of two—a survivor who’d been to the hinterlands of hell and back. And I was standing on the Whisky stage, at long last, ready to claim my long-awaited moment in the spotlight.

  And what song was I slated to perform that night at the Whisky? None other than the Doors’ classic “Love Me Two Times”! On top of that, in one of those instances that beg the question whether “coincidences” exist, the mystery rock star joining my band on guitar that night, arranged by the camp, was none other than Robby Krieger himself, the real-life legendary guitarist for the Doors.

  I had fallen into a wormhole.

  I looked over at Robby’s mellow face and nodded my head—let’s do it—and he started playing the familiar guitar introduction to “Love Me Two Times.” My heart was thumping in my ears and my head was spinning. And, yes, of course, my hands were shaking, too.

  I’m pretty sure I flubbed the lyrics to the song (which takes a written book of instructions to do, simple and iconic as it is), though it’s all a blur now, and I’d be surprised if I was on pitch more than half the song. But, of course, I was enthralled during every second of the performance. It was truly a rock ’n’ roll fantasy.

  As I climbed up the steps leading off the stage and onto the balcony, Mark Hudson was waiting for me at the top.

  “You did good, kid,” he said. And then he shot me a beautiful, wide smile, framed perfectly by his rainbow-colored beard.

  Walking through my front door after arriving home from Rock ’n’ Roll Fantasy Camp, I instantly began yammering breathlessly to Brad about every detail of my week. Mark Hudson! Meat Loaf! Ace Frehley! Jon Anderson! I thanked him for holding down the fort yet again, and for allowing me to gallivant through yet another exciting adventure. And then, finally, after I’d exhausted every last anecdote about my week in la-la land, I dropped the bomb: “Babe, I’ve decided I absolutely must record another album.” I paused for effect. “Right now.”

  I waited for Brad to resist. To roll his eyes and wonder aloud why I had to go so . . . big with all of this. But he didn’t. In fact, he didn’t seem surprised at all. “Of course you do, honey,” he responded. “Lucy’s gotta get into the Copacabana.”

  I kissed Brad, laughing, and rushed to make a phone call to the person who had opened the front door of my tornado-ravaged, black-and-white house, the person who had allowed me to see how colorful life could be if only I would reveal, and embrace, my true heart.

  Matthew sounded happy to hear from me, as usual.

  “Hey, Cuz,” he greeted me in his familiar, laid-back voi
ce. “How’s it going?”

  “Hey, Cuz,” I answered back, smiling into the phone. “I’ve decided to make my second album.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Will you produce it for me?” I knew it was a lot to ask, given his busy touring schedule.

  “Cuz, I thought you’d never ask.”

  Chapter 48

  When I was lying in bed—bald, skinny, and gray, not sure if I was still alive or if my ship had already sailed—I heard a soft voice whispering in my ear. You’ll thank me one day, it said.

  In my vulnerable and weakened state, I was not surprised to hear the voice, actually, but I was surprised by the content of the message. How could I ever be thankful for this nightmare? Cancer is a bastard. May it never come back into my life, and may it never be visited on another human being.

  And yet here I am, two years past my initial diagnosis, and there is no doubt that cancer has been the catalyst for untold blessings in my life. And for those blessings, I do indeed say thank you.

  For one thing, were it not for cancer, I never would have known that my face shape is so well suited to short hair. Thank you, cancer!

  But, of course, there’s more to be thankful for than a flattering new hairstyle. Much more.

  I now have the inside scoop about a card game being played every single day right under our noses: Every day, God fans out a deck of cards, facedown, and instructs: Pick a card, any card. Until I picked the “cancer card” that fateful day, my card had always read PICK ANOTHER CARD. And I had just taken that for granted. When I eventually pulled the card with CANCER stamped across it, I cursed my bad luck. I felt singled out. This must be a mistake! But then, slowly, with time and lots of support, I accepted my card. And, with no other option, I played the card I had been dealt to the best of my ability.

  Now, I know I must go “all in” with my chips, every single day. I can’t control anything else, perhaps, but I can choose to be happy right now. And if I make that choice, then that’s everything. Because only right now actually exists, anyway. I’m just grateful for every day I get to pick a card.

  Thank you, cancer.

  I was stripped bare by cancer, and I’m not talking about losing my hair or my hips (which have both come back, by the way). Losing my physical self somehow jump-started the process of losing extra figurative baggage, too. As I battled for my very life, it took too much energy to nurture any pretenses, and the layers started peeling off, one by one, until I was exposed and raw. Off went my vanity. Goodbye, ego. Adios, people-pleasing. Sayonara, complacency. Arrivederci, pride. And then, at the bitter end, my self-confidence and self-reliance left me, too. I was completely humbled and in need.

  When my treatments were over and some color had come back into my cheeks, I turned my attention to all those layers crumpled in a heap on the floor. And I realized, Hey, I can cherry-pick which ones to put back on. First things first: I quickly picked up and reattached my newly refurbished self-confidence and self-reliance. Whew! And then I examined everything else in the pile. Hmm. There was nothing else worth reattaching, so I left everything else on the floor.

  In all that new space, my true self expanded, flooding into nooks and crannies my cast-offs had previously occupied. I was a helium balloon, filled to the brim with who I really am. Life became . . . simpler.

  I do not pretend to have spiritual or medical answers for anyone else, but I believe that the mind, body, and spirit are all connected. For many years, I thought I could wear a colorful scarf around my neck, despite the fact that scarves are not me at all, and play a character in a movie constructed inside my head, without consequences for my soul. I thought I could do all the “right things,” the things a good person is “supposed to do”—unrelated to my deepest hopes and desires and talents—and nonetheless feel sufficiently fulfilled in life by external kudos and approval. I thought I could live with extreme stress at my job for the majority of my waking hours, forcing myself to be a pit bull when I wasn’t one—and yet not have that stress affect my mind, body, or spirit. I thought I could compartmentalize.

  Well, we all know how that worked out for me. By day I felt physically ill, like I had a “terminal illness”; and by night I dodged oncoming locomotives. And yet I never changed course—until the day I was diagnosed with cancer. Really, I would have saved myself a lot of aggravation if I’d just listened to (and followed) my inner voice before it began shrieking hysterically into my ear. Within minutes of learning I’d been diagnosed with cancer, I was defiantly declaring the end of my legal career. Why the hell did I think I needed the golden ticket of a potentially terminal illness to begin living my life in earnest?

  Before cancer, I had started down the path of self-emancipation, of course. I had already recorded my album and was happily skipping down the musical road. But I was doing so with caution. “I’m a lawyer who sings,” I told people at cocktail parties, enjoying the novelty but not wanting to be pegged as a full-blown “dreamer.” Were it not for cancer (or perhaps some other life-changing event that might have come along), it is highly unlikely, in my view, that I would have taken a belly-flopping leap of faith—a leap with all my heart—to pursue my dreams. I probably would have stayed grounded in my head, at least in part, never willing to admit to the world at large, “Yes, my head is in the clouds. I follow my heart. Oh, and by the way, I’m a people person, too.”

  As it turns out, when I have faith in myself, when I listen carefully to the voice inside me, I am my own best woobie.

  It has been quite some time since I dreamed my bare ass was the main attraction at Macy’s or that a train was barreling through my bedroom. Have I finally conquered my lifelong anxieties? I’m getting there—though, in the interest of full disclosure, Brad says I still occasionally demand in my sleep, “Who the hell are you?” Apparently, I’m still working on it. But I am grateful for my progress.

  Thank you, cancer.

  And here’s something else I am sure about, now more than ever, thanks to cancer: Nothing is insurmountable. One day, we will all die. (I’m sorry if I just spoiled the ending for you.) Dying is the worst that can happen, right? That being the case, there can be no permanent downside to striving to optimize one’s self, to at least trying to live one’s dreams. I now understand: There is no permanent downside to being the real me, to opening my heart and exposing myself to pain. Because pain is not permanent. But regret is. And, of course, the upside to trying all of these things is limitless.

  When I was at UCLA, I took an ancient-Greek philosophy class that has stayed with me all these years; in particular, I’ve never forgotten Plato’s “Allegory of the Cave.” Forgive me if I butcher this, but this is how I remember it from twenty years ago: There is a group of men living in a cave, all shackled together in a row. They were born there, and they’ve never left. Year after year, the shackled men sit, bound together, staring at the wall of the cave. Just behind them, where they cannot see, there is a bonfire that throws shadows onto the wall in front of the men. The bound men are entranced by the flickering shadows on the wall.

  One day, a man at the end of the row breaks free of his chains. Once freed, he turns around and sees the bonfire and realizes the source of the shadows he’s watched his whole life. He tries to convince the others of what he sees, but they do not believe him.

  “Let’s leave this place! Let’s see what else is out there!” the freed man exclaims.

  “There is nothing more than this,” the others say.

  But the freed man will not be deterred. He makes his way to the mouth of the cave and steps outside for the first time. He is overcome by a blinding light—the glorious sun! At first his eyes are pained by the brightness of the light and by the vibrant colors he has never witnessed before. But soon he is able to adjust to his new surroundings. And, he realizes, they’re beautiful. He exults. He races back to share his discovery with the shackled men.

  “You must come! There is much more than this outside the cave!”

  But the
shackled men, who have never left the cave, cannot conceive of a world outside it. They have no way to fathom the sun. They are content to watch the shadows flickering on the cave wall. It’s all they know.

  I apologize to you if you are a certified Greek philosopher. But this rendition, whether accurate or not, is what has stayed with me all these years. The moment I read this allegory at age nineteen, I knew I didn’t want to be one of the shackled men in the dim cave, watching shadows flicker on a wall. I wanted to venture outside into the bright sunlight, even if it meant initially searing my eyes. And yet, despite this innate yearning inside me, there were times in my life when I settled for dim light and flickering shadows, out of fear or complacency. It’s comfortable here, I told myself. This is just fine.

  Now, though, I know I must never stop searching for the bright light outside the cave. I must strive to learn and explore, and to stretch myself in ways I have not thought possible. And I must do so in ways that are true to me. Rather than being maniacally driven to accomplish, I must take greater care in choosing what to accomplish.

  As with the freed man in Plato’s cave, my shackles have clanked to the ground, and I have turned around to behold the flickering bonfire behind me. And do you know what I have seen in the illusory flames? My need for others’ approval. My lifelong willingness to let others define me. My pursuit of “success” without regard to personal cost. My overblown sense of my own importance. Shadows of reality.

  And when I ventured outside the cave, do you know what I witnessed there? Love. Powerful, healing, nothing-else-matters, lift-me-up, wipe-my-tears-away love. Higher love from God (or the universe or the collective conscience) that has the power to uplift and heal! Love from strangers, my new brothers and sisters! Love from family, my dearest ones, the keepers of my heart, whom I will never take for granted again! Love for myself—my flawed, big-dreaming, optimistic, spaztastic, late-blooming, adventure-loving, bighearted self! Love is the light I saw when I ventured outside the cave. There was nothing else out there. Or if there was, I didn’t see it.