Rocking the Pink (19 page)

At the end of the week, Brad, the girls, and I huddled around our radio, awaiting the results of the contest, scheduled to be divulged on the morning show. And then we heard it. There was my voice, belting out “Mama Needs a Girls' Night Out,” on the radio: “She was up four times in the night with Baby . . . ”

Winning the Academy Award could not have felt any better than hearing my song on the radio for the first time.

“Wow, I bet lots of women out there can sure relate to that one,” the DJ said. And then she went on to play the three other finalists' songs, leaving Brad, the girls, and me to jump for joy in our family room.

Shortly after that, there was a rap at my back door. My neighbor Bunco Girl Tiffanie was standing there with a huge grin on her face.

“I just heard your song on the radio!” she shouted, and she joined our family jump-fest.

A few minutes later, the radio station called to officially confirm I'd been selected as one of the top four finalists.

Even more exciting, the contest organizer told me, two weeks from then I would battle for the win against the three other finalists in a live “battle of the bands” at the San Diego Hard Rock Cafe.

Double awesome! . . . Wait, what?
Only then did it dawn on me: I didn't have a band.

Don't panic, Laura, I thought. I had a couple of options here. First, since the studio musicians on the record already knew all of my songs, the most pragmatic thing to do was to hire them to play the four-song set at the Battle of the Bands.
Simple.
But after a round of phone calls, I was crestfallen to find out that every single one of them was already booked for the night of the contest, a mere two weeks later. Not yet panicked, I went with option two: I called the guys from Cool Band Luke. Jann, my bass player, was unequivocally in.
See? It's all gonna work out.
So was my drummer.
Another relief.
Rob, in his characteristically self-deprecating fashion, said he'd play guitar for me, too, but he thought I should get a professional if I could. I assessed the situation: I needed a violinist, a keyboardist, and possibly a guitarist.
No biggie.

I did what I always do when I need to locate a difficult-to-find item: I shopped online. A website catering to bands and musicians
led me to a photograph of a beautiful blond woman with a violin. The music samples on her website varied from classical to bluegrass.
Bingo.
When I called this violinist, Jennifer Argenti, we clicked. She was soft-spoken and sweet, an absolute doll, but she was more than that, too: She had played in the Santa Monica Symphony for years, as well as with numerous rock and country bands. Several years earlier, Jennifer had left a corporate career to pursue her music full-time. On top of all that, she was the Western Surfing Association's Women's Shortboard West Coast Champion of 2007. My kind of woman.

Jennifer said she'd love to play with me at the Battle of the Bands. “Do you need any other musicians?” she asked.

“Well, actually, I could use keys and guitar,” I told her.

“I've got just the guys for you.”

I couldn't believe my luck, and thanked her profusely.

“What about a backup vocalist?” she asked. “I've got the perfect girl for the job.”

“Bring her,” I said, without a moment's hesitation.

A few days later, the whole group was exchanging animated greetings inside a small, dilapidated rehearsal studio.

“Are you all ready?” I asked, brimming over with excitement.

“Hell yeah!” came the reply, followed by a boisterous rendition of “Mama Needs a Girls' Night Out.”

Since the songs on my album had been recorded one instrument at a time, it was the first time I'd heard a song of mine performed whole by a live band. I'd never felt anything like it in my life. It was akin to giving birth to a baby, without the physical pain. It was hard to keep tears of joy from spilling down my cheeks throughout the entire rehearsal.

A week later, it was time for us to pull off the impossible: play four of my songs at the Battle of the Bands, as if we'd been a band forever. With the help of my fashionable girlfriend Tiffanie, I'd put together a “star quality” outfit (a black-and-red beaded halter top with I-meant-to-do-that ratty jeans and high heels), and my long hair was blown out to shiny perfection. I felt like a million bucks.

The line to get into the club wound around the block, and the place was packed. A buzz filled the air. Brad was there, of course, along with the Bunco Girls, who held up signs that read GO LAURA! and WE LOVE YOU, LAURA! How could we lose?

My band was slated to play first, the least desirable time slot. But no matter; we were jacked up and ready to rock, and so was the crowd. I came onstage and, once again, was plagued with shaking hands. But the moment I started to sing and the crowd began screaming, I forgot my nerves and just enjoyed the ride. And you know what? We killed it, though my adrenaline-fueled dancing was a bit over the top.

When our short set was over, we watched the other three acts. One of the bands, a group of guys about my age, was particularly good; they'd obviously played together a helluva lot. If we didn't win, I was pretty sure they would. Another guy was clearly a talented singer-songwriter, but the songs he'd selected to play were pretty low-key for an event like this, so I didn't think he was in contention.

The last band was led by a young, extremely handsome guy with a heartfelt voice. His sidekick guitarist, a guy in leather pants, no shirt, and an open vest, thrashed his long black hair around and thrust his pelvis gratuitously through every song, obviously trying to look like Slash but looking like Rico Suave instead. In contrast with the band's
organic, boy-next-door front man, Rico Suave's inauthentic shtick was totally out of place and comical.

After the fourth and final band had played, the judges went into another room to deliberate, leaving the contestants to stand around, wringing their hands and clutching their stomachs.

Finally, the head judge called all four bands up to the stage to announce the winner, Miss America pageant–style: “Third runner-up is . . . ” that low-key singer-songwriter guy. “Second runner-up is . . . ” the band of thirtysomethings I had thought would win. Was that a good or bad sign?

It was down to my band and the good-looking young guy with the Rico Suave guitarist. “First runner-up is . . . Laura Roppé.”

Damn.
We were the runner-up—also known as the losers. (As Will Ferrell's Ricky Bobby says in
Talladega Nights,
“if you're not first, you're last.”) That handsome young guy—with Rico Suave on guitar!—had won. We were crushed. We just couldn't understand it.

A little while later, as my bandmates and I signed pointless forms in the back office, promising to perform at Kenny Chesney's concert if the winner had to drop out, the head judge pulled me aside to let me know we'd put on a great performance.

“You were definitely the fan favorite,” he conceded. “But that young guy is just a bit more . . . what the judges are looking for.”

I was pretty sure that was code for “you're just too damned old.”

I was disappointed—that was the truth. But pretty quickly, I was able to look on the bright side: Every band member had said to me that night, “I believe in your music, Laura. I'm on board.” I might have lost the contest, but—
snap!—
I had just gained the Laura Roppé Band.

Shortly after my second chemo infusion, it was time for the annual Bunco Girls' Christmas party. I had not committed in advance. “I'll come if I feel up to it,” I had promised. But, of course, I wanted to go. I missed my life. I missed my Bunco Girls.

As luck would have it, on the day of the party, I felt like three hundred bucks. I cooked up a big vat of mashed potatoes (my specialty) and hitched a ride to the party, about a mile away, with my neighbor Tiffanie. This year, the party was hosted by much beloved
Bunco Girl Rebecca (who also happens to be the wife of my running partner, Mike). Her home was warm and inviting and decked with wreaths and candles, like a scene out of
It's a Wonderful Life.

As I entered Rebecca's kitchen, the other Bunco Girls were already drinking wine and swapping animated stories. When they saw me, they “woohoo-ed” with joy and surrounded me in a group embrace.

I sat down on a kitchen stool, and normal party conversations resumed: “Christmas presents . . . holiday plans . . . kids . . . baking cookies . . . too much to do . . . ” I tried to track the conversations, but I felt myself shutting down. My scalp was suddenly killing me, and I was beginning to feel nauseated.

We sat down for dinner. Happy conversation continued all around me. I ate my dinner quietly, crawling deeper and deeper into a dark hole, further and further away. Silverware was clinking on china. Laughter. Joking. Compliments about the food. I couldn't think of anything to add to the conversations around me. Hair loss? Fatigue? Fear of death? Buzzkills, all of them. Staying positive? I was tired of talking about that. Wrapping presents and Christmas shopping? I didn't care, to be perfectly honest. There was nothing to say. And then my hands felt clammy. The walls began closing in.

I slipped into the other room to pull myself back together. I could still hear the happy chatter from the dining room. I was all alone. I started to cry. And cry.

After fumbling to retrieve my cell phone from my purse, I called Brad at home.

“Baby, come get me,” I whispered. I didn't want the other ladies to hear me.

Brad didn't ask a single question. “I'm coming,” he answered, and then he hung up the phone.

Two minutes later, Brad blasted into the room like Mr. Incredible, found me weeping in the living room, and whisked me out the front door. Though I was able to squeak out “I love you” and “I'm sorry” to my stunned friends between sobs as I left the house, I couldn't offer any explanation about what was happening to me. And, really, I didn't fully understand it myself.

But I did know one thing for sure: Brad, once again, was my hero.

 

 

A quiet Christmas with family came and went.

What a difference a year makes,
I thought, recalling Sharon's Christmas party exactly one year before, when Matthew had first offered to demo the songs in my head.
Was that really only a year ago?

On New Year's Eve 2008, Brad and I sat through my third chemo.
Happy New Year.
As I sat in my Barcalounger, a tube pumping poison into my arm, I made a list of my New Year's resolutions:

That night I was in bed, deathly sick, with faithful Buster at my side. At nine o'clock, Brad and the girls came in, flutes of apple cider in hand, to wish me Happy New Year, East Coast time, since the girls couldn't make it to midnight. At midnight, Brad came in again and whispered, “Happy New Year, my love” in my ear. But as I waged my fierce internal battle, I could barely register the tender moment.

Just as Dr. Hampshire had warned, each chemo infusion had become harder and harder as the toxins had accumulated. My body had begun to deteriorate. My red-blood-cell counts were becoming dangerously low. The fatigue was becoming unmanageable. I could not tolerate the shooting pains in my bones. I started relying on powerful pain medication to get me through the worst days. The meds helped, but they made me cloudy and listless. My appetite was nonexistent, and my taste buds didn't work right. Everything tasted weird and metallic. I lost weight. My eyes were sunken, and my skin had become gray. I had long since lost all the hair on my head and everywhere on my body, but now my eyelashes and eyebrows were starting to fall out, too. When I looked in the mirror, I did not recognize myself.

“How did I get here?” I asked my reflection aloud. It gave me comfort to hear my voice. I still
sounded
like me.

Many days as I lay in bed, I could hear the girls, coming in from school, downstairs with the baby sitter. I could hear them flinging their backpacks onto the floor, and the refrigerator door opening and closing. But I could not move. And then, the next thing I knew, there were warm hands on my cold, bald head. Caressing it. And then luscious, soft lips pressed against my hairless skin.

“Hi, Mommy,” would come the little voice. “I love you.”

“Crawl in, baby,” I would say quietly, lifting up the corner of my bedspread. And whichever girl it was, sometimes both, would scootch right into bed with Buster and me, making my shivering, cold body feel warm again. I would touch their cheeks and inhale the smell of them, and I would thank God that six months earlier, I'd felt an inexplicable urgency to record an album. Thanks to that album, no matter what the future might hold, my voice would always be there to guide my little daughters in song: