When my mom was diagnosed in 1987, she decided to fight it tooth and nail. And my dad rose to the challenge in a big way. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with, and the cancer didn’t stand a chance. The prognosis was not good, but in addition to chemotherapy and radiation, my mom started reading books about fighting from within. The cancer may have later returned to claim her, but that first time she and my dad kicked its ass but good.
I can remember pretty clearly when my mom came upon a meditation in one of her books, which recommended having someone read and record it for later listening. I was there when she asked my dad to record it for her, and told him that he had the most soothing voice she had ever known. I was maybe twelve years old, and I was deeply touched by that. So my dad busted out the audio equipment and recorded his voice over some of my mom’s favorite soothing music: the original score to the movie Somewhere In Time (Side A), and the one from Out of Africa (Side B). With bonus Claire de Lune, and one or two other classical pieces.
The original intention was for her to listen to it during radiation and chemo treatments, but she ended up listening to the tape fairly often while meditating at home, when sickness would wash over her. My dad bought her a top-of-the-line Sony Walkman, and went through a fairly exhaustive list of earbuds to get some that would comfortably fit her rather-small ears. (As a side note, this Walkman-and-earbuds combination was elevated to Deeply Cherished Possession status for me after my mom died in ‘92. When they eventually started malfunctioning, I’ll admit there were more than a few tears shed. I currently own a set of yellow “sport” earbuds solely because I researched and found that they are the only model Sony still sells which are of the same design my mom used.)
Somewhere along the way, my dad asked me to dub a copy of the tape, just in case it got worn out or eaten by the deck. So, for years, I’ve had a copy of this tape (with my own writing on the label), but for a mixture of reasons (A. I was a teenager who didn’t like classical music, and B. I don’t think I was ready to listen or understand) I never listened to it. Several years ago, when my dad passed away and I was going through his house, I found the original tape, which has my dad’s handwriting on the label. I filed it away in a safe place because, having just lost my dad too, I really wasn’t ready to listen to it.
At some point last year, I popped it into my tape deck and fast-forwarded through to see if I could hear any narration — just to make sure I wasn’t cherishing a tape of two movie soundtracks — and I didn’t hear anything but classical overtures. I was a bit crestfallen, and decided to put the tape away for another time.
Yesterday, while packing up my stuff to head to Sacramento to visit Rebecca, I decided to listen to it in the car. About five minutes into the music, a voice came in. He spoke confidently and clearly, and in soothing tones. He was reassuring, peaceful and loving.
But I couldn’t tell for sure if it was my father’s voice. And that hurt.
I listened to all of Side A, thinking all the while “naaaaawww…is it?!” Because this voice sounds higher-pitched than I remember, and…honestly, I don’t remember my dad being from Fargo, North Dakota. So I kept listening, and imagined that maybe this was a pre-recorded meditation that was included with my mom’s book (did they even have that back then?). And I started just listening in a way that allowed me to be there with my mom while she healed herself. And I cried in traffic.
When it flipped to Side B, I got ready to listen for nuances in the voice, to again try to place my father’s voice. And for just a minute, I again decided it wasn’t him. But then, a few sentences in, I heard a few familiar pronunciations, and the phrase “unlock the door” was what sealed it: this was my father’s voice. My twenty-plus-years-ago Dad, a man who did not yet know what it was like to have battled cancer with the love of his life. A man who did not yet know the feeling of telling his children their mother would die. A man who did not yet know a decade without her.
And I realized that I probably just never heard my dad speak at such great length before, especially in those “pleasing tones,” and especially not when he was only 40 years old. He was always a casual conversationalist, quick with a laugh, and prone to clearing his throat in a distinctive way. Maybe I was listening too closely for the laugh, and that’s why I didn’t recognize him. But there it is, clear as day: this is my father, speaking to my mother, leading her into peaceful and loving contemplation. It’s a beautiful thing to hold on to, and to almost participate in, years after they’re both gone.
Now I’m eager to head home, to dig my tape deck out of the closet and dub these recordings into MP3, to share them with my brother and sister, my aunt, and my uncle. My love to you all.
