But What If I Can't?

I am many things, one of which is a singer. I've sung for as long as I can remember, which for me is 2 or 3 years old.

My first musical memory is of my father standing me next to the piano and teaching me the song "Dites Moi" from South Pacific. Dad played, I sang, and an obsession was born. I can still hear the 4 bar piano intro in my head, V to I, in staccato chords. Dad would play the first note of the melody at the end of the 4th bar, so I knew where to start. But I didn't need the help. I couldn't HELP but know where the song started. It just made sense. It couldn't be anything else.

My love of music grew and grew, from a tiny spot in the center of my little body to the ends of the earth. Momma and I would sing songs from Disney movies and Broadway shows. I knew the words and melodies to every rock song Dad played with his band (I can still feel the foam microphone cover on my cheek as I sat at his keyboard during rehearsal breaks). My Fisher Price record player played everything from John Denver and the Muppets to the soundtrack of "Pollyanna" to Michael Jackson's "Thriller"-- a 4th birthday present from Dad. 

My family likes to joke that I started my "stage life" when I was negative 6 months old. Momma was pregnant with me during a run of "Trial by Jury", a G&S operetta. How could I help but love the theatre? I knew it before almost anything else!

Then when I was 6, I began piano lessons. I had been sitting at the piano "pretending to play" for so long that Momma and Dad knew this was the next logical step. My piano teacher was a little Italian nun with whom I had a love-hate relationship for the next 12 years. She was a part of the Irl Allison Guild; this is an organization for which you must play an "audition" every year in front of a judge, and receive an annual award commensurate with the material you present.  (Translation: If you don't screw up your songs too badly, you get a medal.) I loved these auditions because it was an adrenaline rush like no other.  You sat precariously on the edge of a piano bench, willing your hands to do what you'd worked so hard at all school year, in front of an audience. Then you got to do it AGAIN for a family recital in June..... now my obsession for music included the thrill of live performance.

And so it continued, with piano recitals, stage shows, choral concerts, band concerts, musicals, Pops concerts, Tanglewood concerts, Symphony concerts, more stage shows, TV tapings, movie soundtrack recordings, and on and on and on.

Last year, I came to a violent curve in my musical road.  I was onstage, and suddenly the feeling that I always cherished, that sense of "right" that music and performance gave me, was slipping away.  It turned to panic and rage.  My blood pressure skyrocketed, I broke out in a sweat, and I had to sit down in the middle of a performance.  My wonderful flying feeling from music was crashing and burning in front of my eyes. I tried to brush it off, as a simple flexing of the nerves, or a hypomanic episode.  But it keeps happening, and happening, and happening....

Since then, I have had a few other close calls and cancelled performances.  Two weeks ago, I was singing for a Marvin Hamlisch Tribute at Symphony Hall; we were doing all numbers from "A Chorus Line" with the original Cassie..... holy shit!  This is what young Broadway fans dream of!  How exciting!  But for me, it turned sour again.  I couldn't enjoy it.  I was so bogged down in sadness and anxiety that I had to actually keep myself from sobbing whilst another soloist sang "Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows".  I COULDN'T SING FUCKING SHOWTUNES WITHOUT CRYING. As the 2nd evening of performance progressed, I made a decision.  That night, I would go home, get settled in for the night, and kill myself.  This was it.  Music held no beauty for me anymore.  I sang and felt nothing. What was the point? What will happen to me now?  My sublime comfort in all the chaos had been music, and standing on a stage singing as though the devil were chasing me. It was gone. And soon I would be.

I managed to remember my promise to Paulie and cling to life until the next morning when I got help from my therapist... into another hospital. Now, I can get through the day without wanting to die, most of the time.  I tried hard not to cry for that week in hospital, and the week thereafter when I thought about the fact that I may never be able to perform again. I can't find my fire. I can't find my love of this precious gift that was given to me when I was 2 years old, standing next to Dad at the spinet in the living room, right along the stairs.

I listen to music and sing along softly to the radio. I sing jazz as fiercely as I want while doing the dishes.  I can't practice.  I'm trying hard to keep my chin up, knowing I do have some musical obligations.  My conductor at the Hall is being gracious and wonderful and letting me try a few weekends of Tanglewood this summer. I am determined to find my sublime comfort again, in the memories of a toddler singing in French with her father......

.....but what if I can't?...........

The Little Dolly

The past weeks have been a little dicey, as my last post indicates.  My husband has not been well, and to make matters more difficult, I have not been well.  The flu came at me twice, and I swatted it like an annoying insect twice.  A few days of rest and fabulous chicken soup (made by said husband) seemed to do the trick in both cases. Paulie needed a trip to the ER on Saturday, and so flu symptoms were quickly forgotten as we headed over to LGH and took the time to get the thing diagnosed (a post-surgical kidney infection... GAH!) and treated.

Now, the past few days have been restful without any effort on my part; a rehearsal here, a few lessons to teach there have been the extent of them.  There are probably a million long-term projects I could be working on, but for now I can't think of a single bloody one.  There is a new novel on my coffee table, a bag of junk food newly procured from the convenience store, and a few scratch tickets (purchased from the winnings of my Christmas stocking tickets).

This is a new experiment.  I will attempt now, with great trepidation, to not do anything simply because I have the time.  I will not do anything on PURPOSE!

Ah.... there it is...The Voice of Reason: "Laura, you have so many things to get done.  You don't work a full-time job.  You don't have a house full of people to take care of.  Get out there and do something!!!" The voice of reason usually sounds like my father, which is inherently unfair, given that my father is NOT the kind of person to push anyone else.  He's simply the hardest-working person I've ever met, and so when I don't think I can work, his voice sounds.

My father is the person who worked 3 jobs while attending college full-time, and then continued to work at least 2 part-time jobs while working full-time once he graduated.  He married, had 4 children, and made us all feel like the most special people in the world, all the while teaching a full school day, gigging at night, and oh, yeah, getting a Masters Degree as well.  In the summers when he wasn't teaching, he added another job to the docket.  He painted houses, worked in offices, taught private lessons... he did whatever it took to make sure that we were provided for, both physically and emotionally. He's a bit of a demi-god in my book, and one whose shoes will not be filled.... EVER.

So, of course, here comes my guilt.  As people in the biz might ask: "How do you follow that?"

I dunno.  I guess I'll stop trying.

The more important thing about my father that I truly wish to be, much more than a hard worker, is a supremely kind and generous person.  My father finds a way to make every person in a room feel special, for whatever their strengths are. He remembers names of spouses, children, family, and friends.  He asks about jobs and accomplishments. He sometimes touches their arm when he talks to them, so they know that they are his sole focus.  When someone cries he hugs them, rubs their back, asks what he can do.  He passes a guy asking for money on the street and always has a one or a five on him to give. Sometimes they want to talk.  He does that too.  He's the guy who makes sure that people have what they need, and always DEMANDS that no one know about it; therefore I'm not going to tell you about any of those things either, just that they happen.

When I have been at some of my very lowest points, my father has been there.  I remember being rushed to the hospital for a suicide attempt, and my father wasn't home at the time.  When I came to in the room I'd been assigned, it was to my father's arms around me.  I immediately started to cry and ask forgiveness.  Dad just sat there on the side of the bed, holding me and telling me it was ok.  That I was his Little Dolly, and I would be fine.  He told me to "take it easy" (his favorite phrase), to take my time feeling better, and not to worry about a thing. While I still have moments where I'm sure that I'm disappointing him to the point of pure frustration, I also know that he loves me more.  It's awe-inspiring and scary and comforting all at the same time.

So now, 13 years later, I'm choosing to take another page from Dad's book.  I'm going to try my very best to be as good as I can to people (a life-long pursuit, especially for one as snarky as I am!!!), and at least for tonight, I'm going to take it easy.