My First “Real” Chapbook (and What Happened After Voice Break)

I just got the news that prepublication sales for my first traditionally-published chapbook, Breast Cancer: A Poem in Five Acts, will begin on February 20 through Finishing Line Press. I’m pretty excited about this, because I’ve waited a long time for my first book contract. I have four other book-length manuscripts in the wings, and I’m hoping this modest milestone will help me move forward with all of these projects.

Breast Cancer: A Poem in Five Acts isn’t really my first book. My first book is Voice Break, a longer poem about singing and writing. I self-published it through CreateSpace after one of my MFA program advisors at Pacific University suggested I come up with a musical cover and publish it. Voice Break is the reason this blog exists at all. The decision to take the project into my own hands, in lieu of waiting for a press to accept it, may be viewed as jumping the gun. But I was almost 50 at the time, really ready to bring attention to my writing efforts.

Voice Break Book Launch at Toad Hall in Yachats, Oregon, April 22, 2012

Voice Break Book Launch at Toad Hall in Yachats, Oregon, April 22, 2012

The thing is, I’m still living Voice Break, an outcome I wouldn’t have anticipated in 2012, when the book came out. Back then, I saw this long poem as being an exploration of an earlier failure I never fully came to terms with: my haphazard attempt to become a singer. I didn’t necessarily expect to continue singing as an aging adult. Yet a late-bloomer, “lifelong learning,” exploration of voice has taken on a life of its own, even through the trials of cancer treatment. I work at my singing these days—not with any big goal in mind—but because it has been truly fulfilling.

Voice Break ends as the narrator is performing as a soprano choir singer for the very first time at the age of 48 (before this, the only choir she ever sang in was Fifth/Sixth Grade Chorus at Valley Oak Elementary School in Davis, California). This soprano singing opportunity came about after a long break from her earlier tango with voice training that ended badly when she was 26. Not only did she wipe out as a singer, she walked away convinced she wasn’t really a soprano, because she can sing low. Yet when she returns to the art form some twenty years later, “just for fun,” to work with a new voice teacher, she learns how to sing soprano well enough to hang in there with the Cuyamaca College Choir, not to mention the chorus of a production of Amahl and the Night Visitors.

 Here’s how this singing story has played out from there (details not found in Voice Break):

The following year, the narrator notices the other college in her community college district has a choir that is going to perform in The Nutcracker, accompanying the San Diego Ballet. She’s curious to learn if she can join this choir, known as the Grossmont Master Chorale. She auditions and gets in, but not a soprano—as an alto one. She knows she cans still sing soprano if she stays with the Cuyamaca College Choir (where she is also on the faculty), so she asks her voice teacher, Esther Jordan, which way she should go. Esther suggests that since the Grossmont Master Chorale is a more advanced choir, the narrator’s musicianship would most likely take several leaps—if she can survive the GMC performance schedule. The narrator ends up taking Esther’s advice. She gets through more than three years with the Grossmont Master Chorale, singing as an alto one, before she is sidelined by breast cancer.

The narrator takes time off from studying voice (and everything else) as she undergoes breast cancer treatment. She wonders if she is done with singing, especially during the misery of chemotherapy. She does continue to work on her writing, particularly a long poem about her experiences with breast cancer. But once her life is back in order, she resumes voice lessons with Esther for a few more months, before retiring from the Grossmont-Cuyamaca Community College District (in El Cajon, California). She plans to take a break on the Oregon Coast to work on her health, write, and regroup.

Shortly after arriving in Oregon, she is pleased to note the Central Coast Chorale is holding auditions. She shows up and offers herself as either an alto one or a soprano two. The Central Coast Chorale lets her in—they place her in the soprano two section (remember, the narrator hasn’t performed as a soprano since 2011). Instead of dealing with the break altos face, the one that plagued her in her 20s (as detailed in Voice Break), the narrator is encountering the passaggio that flips singers off the treble clef. As an aside, the narrator no longer cares about voice type—she just enjoys the thrill of performing with an ensemble. As she practices with her new choir, she works hard to remember what Esther has taught her about the passaggio, particularly how she needs lighten her sound across this break, so that it doesn’t pop out at the conductor. She hasn’t noticed many frowns—so far so good!

The Central Coast Chorale will be performing its annual Wishes and Candles Holiday Concert on December 8, 14, and 15 in Lincoln City, Newport, and Yachats. For more information, see the flyer below.

CentralCoastChorale

How Breast Cancer May Derail the Voice Break Epilogue

In the spirit of lifelong learning—in the spirit of chasing a 10K as an aging adult—I began to work on my singing at the age of 46. I studied it fairly consistently until I was diagnosed with breast cancer. I am now 54. My reasons for getting started are chronicled in a long poem, Voice Break, which is mainly about the foibles of an adult new musician (and a little bit about learning to write poetry).

Voice Break covers the first two years of my voice lessons. By the end of the poem, the singer—moi—has just completed a semester of singing with the Cuyamaca College Choir (in El Cajon, California). I continued to sing with them for another semester and then moved to their sister college to work with the Grossmont Master Chorale. I now have more than 8 semesters of college choir behind me. During those years, I also studied singing with a voice teacher, Esther Jordan.

I am not writing this piece to make any claims about my voice—though my singing has improved. I’m revisiting this thread of my life because cancer treatment may drastically change the quality of my sound. As I move from the chemotherapy unit to radiation oncology, I find myself wondering if I should continue singing when and if my life returns to normal.

Singing did help me feel better during the first two months of this ordeal. I practiced when I could, though not every day. I knew it was time to stop when I began chemotherapy. This was mainly because my medical oncologist put me on steroids in an attempt to ward off an allergic reaction to the infusions. I was pretty certain the steroids would wreak havoc on my vocal cords, and I did get some validation on this hunch. Around the time I was taking the steroids, I was told my speaking voice sounded different.

In addition, my medical oncologist warned me the Taxotere/Cytoxan infusions I ultimately faced would probably force me into menopause. She turned out to be spot on. The chemicals quickly shut off my reproductive system, as if to close that valve with one big yank. Though this was a side effect of the chemo, it was an outcome my doctors wanted. Overexposure to estrogen is the likely reason for my breast cancer. If my reproductive cycle starts up again, my oncologist plans to shut down my ovaries with a monthly shot. Granted, I would have dealt with menopause if I hadn’t gotten breast cancer. I’ve just been thrust into the change rather abruptly. I don’t know how this shift in hormone levels will affect my singing.

So now I beginning six weeks of radiation. Fortunately, I won’t be taking any more drugs for a while. However, they are radiating the lymph nodes above and around my clavicle, along with the incision sites. I did wonder if this would harm my voice box as my lungs are at risk for minor damage. My radiation oncologist has reassured me my vocal cords should not be harmed by the radiation treatments.

There’s more. Once I am completely finished with the three big cancer treatments – surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation – it is likely I will need to take Arimidex for five years to ward off breast cancer recurrence. This may be the most important leg of my treatment, according to my medical oncologist. The cancer came on pretty fast. I did ask her if Arimidex affected the singing voice in any way, and she said she’d never heard anyone complain about this.

I recently added some light singing practice sessions to my routine. As a cancer patient, I’ve learned to engage in anything that makes my daily existence seem normal—it’s easy to feel as if one has dropped out of life during the treatment process. Singing practice does evoke memories of a healthier being. It is also a joyful act, which can only bring on unseen benefits. So far, my voice doesn’t seem overly different, though I haven’t yet tried to record it to find out if my sound has changed.