It all started last summer, and my mom and Dad and I are still praying that everything will turn out all right. We haven't given up hope. So far, it hasn't cleared up and I'm scared.

Ever since last June I've had worries with my singing voice, and to tell the truth it's gotten worse. How did it happen? Early last summer when I was recording my single, "Volare," at the Capitol Studios in New York, we first noticed the hoarseness. When everything was ready and we ran through a practice-session, my manager, Frankie Daigh, came over to me shaking his head.

"It needs a little more zip," he said."

"Have a lozenge," Frankie said, pulling a pack out of his pocket.

I sucked on the cough drop; it was sweet and the honey soothed my throat. Frankie told me to take deep breaths. I did, but they didn't help. In a few minutes, we were ready for a "take."

After the "take" I was disappointed with myself. My voice remained fuzzy; it wasn't what it should have been....

Later, at the hotel, Frankie ordered tea with honey for me, and I got into my pajamas. I didn't feel sick or upset. I could speak perfectly, but when I sang my voice was fuzzy.

A grey-haired doctor arrived wearing a long look and carrying a black satchel. He studied my throat. "It appears raw," he said slowly. He sprayed it, told me not to smoke for a couple of days. "You'll be okay," he said sourly before he left.

I didn't talk much the next day, and late that afternoon we drove to Connecticut for a rock 'n' roll show. When the time came for me to sing, I knew my voice hadn't improved. I don't think anyone but Frankie and me could tell this, what with all the band music and the hollering. Frankie was more worried than I, but we didn't cancel any shows. We were on a rough schedule of one-nighters in Maryland and Pennsylvania.

We were on the road for ten days before Frankie got panicky. "Bobby," he announced, "we're going to a specialist. I don't like what's happened at all. By now, your voice should have improved."

We headed for Philadelphia to see one of the great throat specialists. After he examined me thoroughly, the doctor removed his tortoise-shell specs and he nodded his head. "It's an acute case of laryngitis. You must give your throat a good rest." So I went to visit my grandmother, Lena Sapienza, in Wildwood, New Jersey. She looked after me like I was a baby. She fed me all kinds of delicious foods, and I sat in the hot sun for hours. When I went back to Philly I was better. I felt stronger. And I could hum a tune without feeling a fuzziness in my throat. The specialist examined me and gave me the green light to sing.

Frankie and I flew to Pittsburgh for a one-nighter. The show was great; my voice was in top form. Frankie was so happy he treated to a big T-bone steak dinner at the Holiday House. The next day we flew to Roanoke, Virginia, and that night while I was on stage the hoarseness returned. After my first song, I realized I couldn't sing the top notes. I didn't know what to do. The audience out front was applauding like crazy, and I didn't want to disappoint them. So I sang through the two shows. When I went to bed that night, my throat burned as though a perpetual flame blazed inside it.

The doctor ordered me to quit singing.

For five days he pumped me full of booster penicillin shots.

I breathed oil of eucalyptus through an inhaler so my vocal cords would open up.

I was booked for a two-week tour with Duane Eddy and Sam Cooke; Frankie signed a big twelve-piece band to back me which helped matters a lot. Whenever my voice grew hoarse I could fake a few notes and have the band come up louder. After the tour I went home weak, exhausted and terrified. For two weeks I didn't talk. The doctor forbid me to utter a word. I wrote everything I wanted to say to my mom and dad on tablet paper. My parents cried every night, and finally when the doctor told me to cut down on my personal appearances, Frankie asked him if there was any danger of losing my singing voice permanently.

The doctor hedged. Then he talked about the possibility of a nodule on my vocal cords if I didn't watch out. I must be under his constant care, he said.

How it all will turn out only our Good Lord knows. I use my singing voice less these days, and I hope there will come a time when it will be perfectly fine. In the meanwhile, my family and I pray to God every day for His help, healing...