Que Sera Sera

 

Que Sera Sera

 

I was sick and stuck in bed for what felt like an eternity—two weeks to be exact. Funny thing is, I can't recall now what the ailment was. It could have been the mumps, measles, or whooping cough. Back then, every kid seemed to get one of these at some point, as if they were childhood rites of passage. My parents, diligent and worried, made sure I didn't leave the confines of my bed, and so I lay there, bored out of my mind, counting the seconds as they crawled by.

We had a TV back then, one of those bulky sets with a screen so small you practically needed a magnifying glass to see it. But, of course, the TV was in the living room, while I was exiled to my bedroom. So, television wasn't an option to pass the time. Instead, I had the radio, and that’s where this story really begins—my first memory of the radio.

My bedroom became a world of sound. I lay there, with nothing to do but listen to KGIL, a station broadcasting from the San Fernando Valley. The jingle—“KGIL in the Valley, serving the San Fernando Valley in the golden state"”—played so often that it became etched into my brain. To this day, I can still hear it, clear as a bell. I think that’s where I developed an ear for jingles, those catchy little tunes that advertisers use to worm their way into your memory. Back then, they played them over and over, until you found yourself humming them involuntarily, even in your sleep.

One name that stood out was Larry Van Nuys, the DJ who seemed to be on the air every time I tuned in. I was too young to realize it then, but now I can’t help but smile at the cleverness of it all. Larry Van Nuys, broadcasting from the Valley—it was a stage name, of course. It had to be. But to my fevered, bored-out-of-my-skull self, he was as real as the thermometer that kept reminding me I wasn't getting better anytime soon.

Then there was the music. I wasn’t old enough to have a real taste in music yet, but there was one song that played over and over, almost as frequently as that jingle. “Que Sera, Sera (Whatever Will Be, Will Be),” sung by the ever-cheerful Doris Day. If there was ever a song to get stuck in your head, it was that one. The melody was simple, the lyrics almost hypnotic, and Doris Day’s voice was as smooth as honey. At first, I found it comforting, a gentle reminder that whatever was making me sick would eventually pass. But as the days wore on, it became something more—a lifeline, a promise that this too would end, and I’d be back to playing outside with my friends.

But when you’re stuck in bed for two weeks, with nothing to do but listen to the same song on repeat, it starts to take on a life of its own. “Que Sera, Sera” became more than just a song; it became the soundtrack of my sickness. I’d lie there, staring at the ceiling, letting the words wash over me. “Whatever will be, will be.” What did that even mean? As a kid, it was hard to grasp the idea of fate, of letting go of control and just letting life happen. But maybe, in some small way, that song started to teach me that lesson.

The days blurred together. Morning, afternoon, and evening were all marked by the voices on the radio, by the advertisements that I could recite by heart, and by the soothing, relentless repetition of that song. Sometimes, I’d hear snippets of news, stories of things happening in the world outside my bedroom. It all seemed so distant, so disconnected from my reality of pillows, blankets, and chicken soup.

Occasionally, my mom would come in with a glass of ginger ale—flat, because somehow, that was supposed to be good for me—or a bowl of soup. She’d fuss over me, checking my temperature, making sure I was comfortable. My dad would poke his head in too, cracking jokes to cheer me up, though I could tell he was worried. They both were. But mostly, they left me to my own devices, trusting the radio to keep me company.

By the end of those two weeks, when I finally started to feel better, when the fever broke and I was allowed to sit up in bed, I realized that something had changed. That radio, which I’d initially thought of as a poor substitute for the TV, had become something more. It had been my window to the world, my companion in boredom, and, in a strange way, my teacher. “Que Sera, Sera” had taught me that sometimes, you just have to let things be, that you can’t always control what happens, but you can choose how you react to it.

Even now, all these years later, whenever I hear that song, it takes me back to that bedroom, to the sound of Larry Van Nuys on KGIL, to the jingles and advertisements that became so familiar. It reminds me of the lesson I learned during those two long weeks in bed—that life has a way of unfolding as it should, and all we can do is go along for the ride.