She approached with hesitation and uncertainty.
Still attractive at 73, despite the ravish of cancer 
That had unmercifully destroyed her speech.
Her eyes reflected the fear and despair 
Born from the pain of silence, darkened by sadness,
Quietly pleading for encouragement and hope.
Like most survivors she had many fears,
But most of all she wanted to talk. 

Pen and paper were kept in hand, a substitute for speech.
In her purse, an electric device that simulated voice,
A lingering source of embarrassment
That constantly reminded her of the loss.
She joined the others that had preceded her
As she silently moved from the solitary darkness.
The long journey to self esteem had begun,
But most of all she wanted to talk. 

The assault on silence began
With that mechanical voice she so despised.
Alien sounds tumbled precariously from her mouth,
Until the words started to slowly flow,
But the loneliness of silence had bred a deep depression.
With trembling lips and tear filled eyes
This newly acquired voice declared, 
"I can speak, but most of all I want to talk." 

Her lips drew taut, with a quivering tremble,
As her chosen quest was explained step by step. 
The discipline to succeed, and the disappointments 
That rage in dark fury were examined.
Her jaw drooped slightly from the weight of doubt, 
But her eyes darkened with determination when she declared,
"I can do it, I know I can, 
Because most of all I want to talk." 

The quest began with a search for sound,
A simple Ah would be music, a word a symphony.
Scotch was repeatedly whispered until finally spoken,
Next came "Cup Cake", two words strung together 
In a beautifully raspy voice, clearly understood,
She repeated, Cup Cake, Cup Cake, over and over,
Until her eyes filled with pride and joy.
Because most of all, now she could talk.

"O, Heavenly Father, I thank you for your sweet gift of speech, the second such gift to me during my life time, and for Your help through so many others during my recent and terrible silence. Never let me forget the anguish nor the despair suffered by me while speechless, for only in remembering can I tenderly assist those that unfortunately came after me. Teach me to do so with a clear understanding, a gentle compassion, a deep humility and with much patience.

I am a laryngectomee, tho’ not by choice
They operated on me and removed my voice.
It was caused by cancer, a terrific ordeal
(take heed you smokers, it's true and real)
I tried to talk but nothing could I say
My morale went down and I started to pray. 

Then in walked a man I did not know
He tells me his name in a voice soft and low
He told me things I was anxious to know
He tells me of a school where you learn to speak
They hold classes at least once a week.
And there is never a charge, not a thing to pay. 

He knows what it’s like, he’s been there too you see
For this soft spoken man is also a laryngectomee.
Now I’m feeling fine and I talk okay
My morale is up what more can I expect ?
I could be a lot worse than a laryngect... 

Now many years have gone by since I talked to that man
I am feeling real good and doing my bit
For the other unfortunates that cancer has hit
I tell them my name in voice soft and low
I tell them the things they are anxious to know
I tell them of a place where they can learn to speak.
There is never a charge, not a thing to pay. 

Where we have good teachers, the best in the land
Miss Mary and her speech therapist band.
Some do real good and learn to talk real quick.
Some others are slower, they’ve been too sick.
All in all they’re happy I know
To be able to speak in a voice soft and low. 

Some others didn’t make it they waited too long
To go to the doctor to see what was wrong.
It’s a terrific ordeal this cancer you see
But there are lots of things worse than
Being a soft spoken laryngectomee. 

Reprinted From “The Voice” of Montgomery County, MD

My father sits quiet in his chair 
With a hole in his neck, 
Eyes still aflame. 
You cannot see the flames of hell 
Without bringing the fire back. 
The baritone that charmed men and beast, 
Mostly heard from the shower, 
Buried. 
The comforting snore, 
A warning to my creatures of the dark, 
No more. 
He sits quiet in his chair, 
Eyes still aflame, 
Singing the stolen song. 

But why didn't you take my voice instead?

An ominous cancer raged within the darkness. 
Yesterdays sun that caressed and nurtured life 
Was but a distant memory lost. 
A storm of despair and fear was conceived in fury 
As I prepared for the sounds of silence. 

The lightning struck as a surgeons knife. 
Destruction was swift and final 
To flesh, and dreams of future life. 
Thoughts of rising from the pain and fear 
Were thunderous sounds of silence. 

The terror of death subsided in the eye, 
Replaced with self pity and surrender. 
An exodus of pride and dreams 
Bred malignant tumors of apathy in the mind, 
As I accepted the sounds of silence. 

It was easy to forsake confidence 
Then slip into the shadows of the tempest. 
Yesterdays dreams became thoughts of failure 
As lost ambition poisoned the mind and soul. 
Despair and pain were born from the sounds of silence. 

The light struggled through slowly at first, 
Just enough to reflect some silver in the clouds. 
As rays of hope melted the indifference 
Particles of esteem and self worth fused together, 
Like a laser attacking the sounds of silence. 

A vibrant rainbow embraced the passing storm. 
Powered by the music of children’s laughter, 
Supported by love, faith and encouragement. 
It lights the gateway to the impossible dream, 
A challenge is issued to the sounds of silence. 

Dawn brings a new day, a new life, 
Like ivory swans rising on thermals of promise. 
Successes path will be lined with failures thorns, 
But roses will blossom every few miles. 
Victory is certain over the sounds of silence. 

Today is a kaleidoscope of love and life, 
Filled with opportunity and rewards of endless vision. 
I no longer cringe and hide from the pain of silence, 
The quest for speech once lost is fulfilled. 
Only a distant memory remains of the sounds of silence.

Mario Lanza became my idol, when I was very young
I tried to emulate his voice, knew every song he'd sung.
In literature, Keats and Shakespeare I studied very hard, 
My voice would swell and passions tell, as I would quote the Bard

But reading books and learning much weren't total education
For music's art would play its part, I sang with great elation.
In prose or verse, or tenor soaring, my voice was my ID
The accent sweet, the tone unique, told all that I was me.

Then Cancer struck that fragile chord, not just once but twice!
Eating away, eroding, burning. Rewarding the smoking vice.
Cobalt beams would kill it dead, that very first time around,
Second time, the surgeon's knife, and I'm left without a sound

Desperation, fear and dread filled each day of my new life
As I tried ways to find out how to overcome my strife.
I had to learn to speak again, but how when on ones own
I was a freak, no one to teach, this silent fool...alone

Then slowly, slowly words came out, a drone for sure, it's true
But language graced these lips again, so how could I stay blue?
I'd used a tool, vibrating source, to imitate a voice,
Then I discovered gulp and speak......I had another choice

Where once I had a single voice, I find I now have three!
The third came with my keyboard "chord" and screen of my PC.
The latest, loudest of them all, gives power to speak to nations,
And sends out notes of hope and cheer to newer cancer patients.

The message that I've tried to send, in this short history,
Is one of faith and hope to all who sadly follow me.
The surgeon's knife will take but flesh, and leave you with your life,
So take that gift and use it well, tell others of your strife...
For we are teachers, you and I, all laryngectomees...
Who've proved to all that we have beat the dread Big C disease.

I once could sing -
Just like Pat Boone,
Serenading my love
Beneath the moon.

Then cancer of the
Throat hit me.
A future then
I could not see.

I'd got engaged,
In love was I,
I hung my head
And began to cry.

Then along came the surgeon,
Big and bright.
"Come on my son
Stand up and fight.".

"A Provox valve is
what you need!"
I had little choice -
So I agreed.

Together now we
Laugh and shout.
And that's what
Life is all about

He first appeared in my youth
silently probing,
looking for a weakness.
The attack was silent
and caused little pain or concern,
just some hoarseness in a voice
that grew steadily weaker.
But the battle had started,
between me and the Dragon. 

The prognosis was good, 
a small cancer on a vocal chord.
Once removed,
everything would be fine.
The fears passed, 
victory was mine.
I was invincible, could do as I pleased,
smoke, drink, lots of bragging.
For it was proven,
I could beat the Dragon. 

Nine years later I awoke in a sweat,
gasping for air that wouldn’t come.
The Dragon had returned in a rage 
to destroy the fool that mocked him.
The struggle was fierce,
and my voice was lost in the fight for life.
I had a hole in my neck for life giving air,
tempered with the knowledge
to forever beware.
The price was steep,
but again I survived. 

Seven more years I lived with caution,
sighing with relief after five had passed.
But the Dragon still lurked,
patient that my resolve wouldn’t last. 
On a cold winter’s night
he came with renewed fury,
driven and determined to win.
The charge was met with steel, ions and hope;
once again he was driven back
but each time he takes a little more.

Time lessens the memory,
eases most of the pain.
But the battles take their toll
and scars still remain.
A reminder that tomorrow 
is a precious gift.
The Dragon won’t die,
he never really leaves.
But he can be defeated, 
driven from the field.
As long as you never give up, 
or lay down your shield.

Strong young bodies and curious minds
Reflect the memories of sweet sixteen
Life was forever, never thought as short
Trust came natural and heroes never lied.
Into this world came a man never seen
Rugged and handsome, an image of pride.
He offered new pleasures with an outstretched hand,
That was my first vision of the Marlboro Man. 

For one brief moment I felt deceived
As the aromatic smoke seared my lungs with pain
Try again, my friends all laughed
Don't be afraid of the joy you'll receive.
My head was spinning, I couldn't focus my brain
But I sure looked cool with that butt in my hand.
It can't be bad, everyone does it
And no ones more healthy than the Marlboro Man. 

So much has changed since those early years
Of flip top boxes and macho men.
From a pack a day, then two, sometimes four
I'd cough every morning and fight back the tears,
While lighting another and whistling a hymn.
Yet across the screen rides that symbol so strong,
With millions of followers across the land.
This can't be the legacy of the Marlboro Man 

The addiction was sweet when I could still breathe
But the days grew numbered as my voice got hoarse.
Sure I was living, but this wasn't life
Stairs were like mountains, or an obstacle course.
Twenty years of smoking before I would lose
That voice so dear, to the surgeons knife.
The decision was mine, of that there's no doubt
But the price was never mentioned by the Marlboro Man. 

Today I can preach, but you probably won't listen
To my stories of grief, and lives lost for no reason.
To smoke is a gamble and the odds aren't too good
For the only way to win is not to die.
The trap is clearly for the innocent and young
Who believe in tomorrow as we all should.
But resist the temptation, I know you can
After all, look what happened to the Marlboro Man.

A laryngectomee I may be
But I can hear and I can see.
I can drive my car and I walk,
And with my electric larynx I can talk.
I can't smell or taste very much,
But my loved ones I can always touch.
My appetite is really better than good,
Still I eat slowly as everyone should.
I kiss my spouse and put out the light,
Then I sleep peacefully throughout the night.
I think that I am a very lucky guy,
And here are a few of the reasons why. 

I awaken each morning with a yawn,
I arise to greet each breaking dawn.
I enjoy my breakfast just like you,
I do all the things that I want to do.
I enjoy meeting and talking to everyone,
And going places and having fun.
A keen sense of humor and a cheerful smile,
Will take you down the road of life 
for many a mile.
If you let a smile guide you as you go along,
Your heart will be singing a cheerful song.
I'm as happy as I can be,
Cause I'm so glad that I am me.

I am a laryngectomee, tho’ not by choice
They operated on me and removed my voice.
It was caused by cancer, a terrific ordeal
(take heed you smokers, it true and real)
I tried to talk but nothing could I say
My morale went down and I started to pray. 

Then in walked a man I did not know
He tells me his name in a voice soft and low
He told me things I was anxious to know
He tells me of a school where you learn to speak
They hold classes at least once a week.
And there is never a charge, not a thing to pay. 

He knows what it’s like, he’s been there too you see
For this soft spoken man is also a laryngectomee.
Now I’m feeling fine and I talk okay
My morale is up what more can I expect ?
I could be a lot worse than a laryngect... 

Now many years have gone by since I talked to that man
I am feeling real good and doing my bit
For the other unfortunates that cancer has hit
I tell them my name in voice soft and low
I tell them the things they are anxious to know
I tell them of a place where they can learn to speak.
There is never a charge, not a thing to pay. 

Where we have good teachers, the best in the land
Miss Mary and her speech therapist band.
Some do real good and learn to talk real quick.
Some others are slower, they’ve been too sick.
All in all they’re happy I know
To be able to speak in a voice soft and low. 

Some others didn’t make it they waited too long
To go to the doctor to see what was wrong.
It’s a terrific ordeal this cancer you see
But there are lots of things worse than
Being a soft spoken laryngectomee.

Like the endless tide they arrive,
Survivors of a cruel devastating disease,
Victims of despair and uncertainty.
Hearts once filled with joy
Quiver at thoughts of tomorrow.
Yesterday was an endless delight,
Today... a nightmare of doubt
Fueled by fear of the unknown.
Each heart beats a steady rhythm,
Searching for a song, that's waiting to be sung. 

They march to some distant tune,
Heard by many as sorrowful blues.
Crusaders lead marches with blaring bugles,
To fight a gallant battle....
Against the destruction of flesh and spirit.
Others write verse, embracing life's dream,
While some wait for the inevitable, whatever it is.
Each story has a familiar tune,
But the medley is seldom the same.
So many songs, waiting to be sung.

The horizon frames a vivid red sun
So deceiving without time and direction.
Does it rise with the promise of tomorrow,
Or linger with the light of yesterday's dream ?
Drifting clouds mask its features,
Gently pushed by winds of uncertainty.
Soft shadows float slowly by
Like gentle lullabies caressing the soul....
Or the dark silent rage before the storm.
Inside each of us is a song, waiting to be sung. 

Across the land they unite in support,
Resurrecting the music of life.
Joyous chords explode in a crescendo
As shadows are blasted by trumpets
Announcing tomorrows rainbow of light.
A symphony of glorious sound
Is orchestrated by victorious dancers,
Rising from the ashes of silence.
Listen to the verses, feel the rhythm,
Life is a song, waiting to be sung...

Though the pond is still
the image gazing back 
shimmers with distortion
as though unseen influences
are shaping things to come.

The silence of the moment
is broken by the imperceptible sound 
of clouds slowly passing by. 
Their fluffy white reflections mirrored
in the stillness of time, a background
for the aura that surrounds the moment.

As a butterfly flits across the water
its brilliant palette soothes the mind
while teasing the imagination. 
The colors of life which seem so endless
have escaped me. 
For I wonder,
What color is time and sound?

Time, and sound, are images 
framed in the depths of our minds.
A spectrum of things past, present, and future
A distant thunder approaches with certainty,
first heard as a rumble of despair 
then rising to a crescendo of hope.
Promises of tomorrow delivered by voices of courage.

Every child believes that their Grandpa is the best
But this is especially true for me
The man I call Papa, is special indeed
He is the kind of man I want my sons to be

He faces each day so differently than you or me
Not seeing the bad, as I sometimes see
Grateful to see the light of each new day
Accepting the trials that come his way

Never once asking...
"Dear Lord, Why Me"?
The man I call Papa is special, you see
My dear sweet Papa, is a Laryngectomee

The stare of strangers
Not wanting to be crass
What happened to him?
They want to ask

If only they knew
The pain he's gone thru
This thing in his throat
With each new day, it grew

This thing called cancer
Tried to take my Papa from me
This thing called cancer
Took his vocie, you see

It took his ability to smell and taste
As it grew larger, without any haste
This thing called cancer
His spirit, itn could not take, a lesser man, it would surely break

From pencil and paper in hand
To a new way to talk
His eyes told his wife "I love you"
While holding her hand

It took a strong womean
To try to understand
Life as they knew it
Was forever gone

That day in November, when he came home
Fear in his eyes
Cancer is his throat
Was the day when all our hearts broke

Twenty years, now it has been
Sometimes, even hard to understand
But his strength grows on
Proving what makes this man

There are days when we miss his voice
But not half as much
As we'd miss the man
The man I call Papa

We are very blessed
To be able just to hold his hand
With many lessons left to teach
He goes on the best he can, with a smile upon his face

For him, each new day is a gift
But for us, he is the gift
He has taught us to be strong
How to love

We are truely blessed to have...
This man. I call Papa

This is for my Papa, R.N. Ivie Jr.
The most wonderful man I know

All my love,
Kellie Long Adair
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March 18, 2001