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.

Rod, now 63, was born in Santa Monica, Calif., but grew up in Utah. He served in the LDS North British Mission, then attended the U., where he earned a bachelor's degree in American history before entering law school. While there, he married Bobbi Moench.

When he graduated, his interest in environmental improvement led him to the Environmental Protection Agency in Washington, D.C., where he helped forge lead-free regulations that changed gasoline's makeup and required catalytic converters in cars. The young lawyer worked closely with the gasoline and auto industries and the Sierra Club and says he knows his agency did a good job because "when we were done, everyone sued us."

But he wanted trial experience he wasn't getting, so he took an offer from the U.S. Attorney's Office, where he worked for four years in the 1970s. Then he came home to Utah to help form his current law firm, Clyde Snow, where he's handled civil and criminal cases and done a lot of arbitration.

He and Bobbi have been married 37 years and have six children — Alyssa, Chris, Jeremy, Sara, Emily and Mary — now all grown, and 14 grandchildren they can't see too often. The grandkids are, for Rod, life and laughter and the promise of a future. They're also a dose of normalcy in a situation that is extraordinary and frustrating.

He kept working through the cancer treatments. Early on, he'd have the laser treatment or biopsy on Friday and be back to work Monday or Tuesday. Bobbi held fast to her routine, too, volunteering and serving in her church calling, relying on their children and a strong network of friends for what she now calls "life support."

They removed his voice box in May 2004, said to cure 90 percent of patients. He was one of the 10 percent. Again.

Later, he would be able to talk some, but he had trouble swallowing. When they fixed that, his voice got worse. Still, he was rethinking how he'd do things and thanking God he had that option.

The laryngectomy was on a Friday morning, and an allergy to one of the medications sent him to intensive care. His head ached, and he couldn't buzz the nurse because he dropped the call button and he had no voice.

In fact, he would be completely silent for eight to 10 weeks, at least. But when Mother's Day dawned that Sunday, Bobbi, who'd slept at the hospital, woke to two dozen long-stemmed red roses. Rod had remembered to ask his son Chris to pick them up. The thoughtfulness made her cry.