After more than 30 years of marriage, Bobbi Snow didn't think her husband's sense of humor could catch her off guard.

She was wrong.

They were driving in the predawn to the hospital, pensive and a little shell-shocked, when Rod Snow leaned toward her. In his best gravelly pirate imitation he growled, "I'm Capt. Jack Sparrow of the Black Pearl, and they're going to slit my throat this morning."

She was stunned, briefly. Then she cracked up.

Doctors would, in fact, "slit his throat" that morning in May 2004, cutting his neck from ear to ear to remove his voice box. He would lie on the table for more than four hours with his head tilted back, his neck open and exposed while the surgeon cut out the cancer that had plagued him for 2 1/2 years.

Along with the cancer, the surgeon would remove something that Rod thought was key to his identity.

A gifted orator, the Salt Lake attorney was "the voice," a man who could move you to tears or engage your attention with a simple inflection change. He was a storyteller, a persuader, a teacher, a singer with a rich tenor — and his voice was a crucial tool.

What they wouldn't remove was his sense of humor, often irreverent and unexpected. Or his determination to reclaim his place in the courtroom and the pulpit, to maintain the life he treasures.

Five years have passed since Rod's periodic laryngitis and scratchy throat turned out to be cancer. A doctor initially told him it looked like a polyp on his left vocal cord, unlikely to be a big problem since he wasn't a smoker.

Rod, who was not only a busy attorney but also a bishop in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, took the devastating news to a close friend. That retired ear, nose and throat specialist advised him to see otolaryngology expert Dr. Kim Davis. "And I'd do exactly what he says."

So they did.

Davis knew that Rod, perhaps more than most, needed his voice. They decided to chase the cancer with a laser and try to save his voice box. It was a long period of monitoring, interrupted by surgeries for biopsy or laser treatment.

Rod couldn't seem to catch a break. If there was a 10 percent chance that it was cancer, he fell into that small group. If a treatment was supposed to solve the problem or at least last a while, he was back in the operating room in a couple of weeks. He had a marginal laryngectomy with radiation and his voice was nearly back to normal, but that was temporary.

The cancer was as stubborn and persistent as the man it was plaguing.

Over a two-year period, Bobbi kept a tally. Her husband was in the operating room 28 times.

If there was a positive, it was that his particular type of cancer develops more slowly than some and is, at least for a while, confined by the larynx itself. If it escapes, it's often lethal. It is not a cancer that responds particularly well to chemotherapy, although they gave that a shot, too.