La Paloma (The Dove)

When I answered the phone, I would know right away if it was Ed Sheehan on the line.  His voice was easily recognizable, because he called once a year, every year, on his very own birthday; and this annual phone ritual had taken place all my life, and long before.      

“Is Teddy there?”

“Sure, I’ll get him.  Hey, Dad, it’s Mr. Sheehan.”

When my dad came to the phone, we all got quiet, because we knew he was about to sing.  Many years before at a birthday party for Ed, Ted’s present for him was a song.  Mr. Sheehan once said that the only thing he ever wanted for his birthday was to hear the song again, and each year we listened as our dad serenaded his lifelong friend.          

Dad’s voice was neither strong nor well-trained; nor did he have a big range.  Nor did any of that matter; his voice was just naturally and effortlessly beautiful.  There was a soft, tenor lilt to it; and because Spanish was his second language and nearly his first, I have lovely memories of him singing Mexican ballads while in the kitchen, crafting his coveted spaghetti sauce or pies and cakes from scratch.  I grew up on “Alla en el Rancho Grande” and “Cielito Lindo” and “La Cucaracha.”  But the song he had sung in Spanish at a long-ago birthday party for his buddy, and the one that the buddy called every year from wherever he was, just to hear Ted sing it over the phone, was “La Paloma.”

Una cancion me recuerda aquel ayer   (A song reminds me of that yesterday)

But one April evening when I picked up the phone and realized Mr. Sheehan was calling, I froze.  What were we to do?

The previous November Dad checked into Hollywood Presbyterian Hospital for a surgery to remove his larynx.  Months of chemotherapy had not eradicated the cancer as hoped, so he went under the knife.  The operation was successful; that is, they got the cancer.  But the unintended consequence was costly.    

When they did this procedure, they removed the cancerous larynx and surgically separated the esophagus from the trachea, leaving a stoma (little hole) in the front of his neck, where he would thereafter breathe directly into his lungs.  No more breathing through his mouth or his nose!  As a result, he could no longer speak.  So how does a salesperson go back to work and ever communicate again without a voice box?

Una paloma blanca me canta al alba   (A white dove sings to me at dawn)

After the post-op healing, Dad enrolled in a class at Cal State L.A. to learn “esophageal” speech, which is something every kid who ever attended junior high knows how to do, although they probably could not pronounce it.  In brief, you swallow air, and burp up the words.  In junior high? Often bad words! 

Over time Dad built up strength in his diaphragm, like a professional singer; and within a year he could “burp” up a long sentence, maybe 10 or 12 words.  There was no inflection, but he was clearly understood.  After several sentences he would routinely build up extra air and had to offer up a wordless belch to relieve the pressure, like a steam engine blowing its whistle.  On one occasion he blurted out a huge one, no doubt overheard by the ships at sea.  When he had everyone’s attention, he croaked, “There goes the Gettysburg Address.” 

Ted showed real courage and went back to work.  He was an inspiration to many, and his innate sense of humor kept it in perspective.  Not one to draw the spotlight, he didn’t like it when people fussed over him, and many did.  When he returned to the office, and a huge crowd of colleagues gave him an ovation, he brought the house down with this gravelly response, describing his view of cancer and their adulation, “This is a buncha bull s—.”        

But this new way of speaking, this courage and this comeback were not yet in evidence on that fateful evening when the phone rang, and it was Ed’s yearly birthday call. Even if Dad had already been able to speak, it was that phone call from his old friend that made us realize that he would never sing again.  Not to us, not to himself, and certainly never again to Mr. Sheehan, who sadly never called again.

Yes, Ted could talk.  Yes, he could go to work.  Yes, he could do granddad.  Yes, he could do almost anything as before.  Except sing! Oh how Ted loved to sing. He was really sad about it, Mr. Sheehan’s birthday was forever changed, and the kitchen was never quite the same to me. 

Donde va que mi voz ya no quiere escuchar (Where does it go to, that it doesn’t want to hear my voice anymore)