Page 91 of The Callahan Effect

The certainty with which he spoke surprised me.

"I don't perform surgery simply because somebody wants it and I don’t give false hope."

He folded his hands across the desk.

"I perform surgery when I believe the potential benefits far outweigh the risks."

He allowed that to settle before continuing.

"I believe you have a very good chance of producing a usable voice after surgery and rehabilitation."

My thoughts drifted toward specialists Dad had taken me to for the first two years after I’d become mute. I'd lost count of how many we’d seen. Some had offered cautious optimism, while others admitted they didn't have a treatment they genuinely believed would restore my voice. Eventually the appointments stopped, and Dad did everything he could to help me adjust to a life neither of us had expected.

Dr. Kershaw broke into those memories before they carried me too far.

"Caroline told me you've spent a great deal of time reading about thyroplasty."

Too much time, if I'm being honest. I’m not convinced anything could be successful after all this time.

"The internet can be a wonderful source of information but it can also convince intelligent people that they're experts in their own limitations."

That struck closer to the truth than I cared to admit.

I've read every paper and study I could find. Most of the outcomes are encouraging, but twenty years... I can't get past the fact it's been twenty years.

Dr. Kershaw read the screen carefully before handing the phone back.

"You're concentrating on the length of time. And I can understand why."

He folded his hands on the desk.

"If you'd walked into my office expecting guarantees, I'd have been far more concerned."

I frowned slightly.

"Medicine doesn't work that way. It deals in probabilities, not certainties." He paused before continuing. "I can't promise you'll leave this hospital speaking normally."

The honesty was oddly reassuring.

"What I can promise is that I believe you have a genuine opportunity to regain your voice. I wouldn't recommend surgery if I didn't."

The room fell quiet again.

After several moments he asked the same question Caroline had posed.

"What have you got to lose?"

I had a father who loved me unconditionally, a future career I was passionate about, and a man waiting downstairs who'd already proven he would stand beside me through absolutely anything. Losing those things had never been the risk. The real risk was allowing fear to convince me I didn't deserve the chance to speak again.

I want the surgery, but my father and boyfriend can't know yet.

Neither Caroline nor Dr. Kershaw tried to change my mind. Both understood that telling the people closest to me was a decision I needed to make in my own time.

"Then let's give you every opportunity to regain the power of speech that we can."

Within fifteen minutes the paperwork had been completed, consent forms signed, and a surgical date arranged for the following week after another patient postponed an elective procedure. Looking down at the confirmation sheet resting in my hands, I realized something extraordinary.

For the first time since I was six years old, I wasn't wondering whether I'd ever speak again. I was wondering what my voice would sound like.