The Show Must Go On, Right?

In our family, we are firm believers in powering through anything, a "show must go on" mentality.  I will never forget when John spoke, from the pulpit in stake conference, and told everyone, "Sleep is highly overrated.  You can sleep when you die."  It got a big laugh, but little did people know how true that is for us.

When I look back on all the things I did after my back surgeries (I needed the second one because I was running again one week after the first one), and my ankle surgeries (only Mark will remember me "booting" it all over Northwestern's campus...in the snow), I think I was fairly insane.  I mean honestly, there are days when I wish I had time to sit around and just watch TV, or relax, and those were perfect opportunities.  But no!  That's not how we work.

This idea holds more truth in regards to performances.  I look at it from the point of view of the audience or the organizers of events:  they are counting on us to perform, and we should be there to fulfill our responsibility.  My kids have performed with stomach flus, colds, low blood sugar, dehydration.  Shoot, I performed a 20 page Saint-Saens piano concerto when I had mono!

Sometimes though, despite all that I do to prepare us for performances (and to mask the illness), I'm unsuccessful.  Take for example, Glo, who had two performances scheduled in one night and was vomiting during the day.  I pumped that girl full of Pepto-Bismol, saltines and Sprite.  I took her to school so that she could rehearse with the groups, only to have her vomit in the school office as I was signing her in.

Okay.  Bad idea, but for the most part, I'm successful.  Like, probably 95% successful.

So, Glo brought home another illness last week.  Just a cold, and quite honestly, I wasn't too worried.  We've got hygiene down, and are masters at washing our hands, coughing into our elbows and other such nonsense.  We aren't one of those families that expects an illness to spread to everyone--we will even go so far as to put a surgical mask on the offender, so that the rest of us don't contract the virus!  Too, since I've got my nose all fixed up, I haven't had near so many problems with congestion and such.

I should have know that my hubris would be my downfall.

December is a crazy month for musicians.  Seriously, all the beauty that people enjoy about the season stems in large part to some musician(s) giving up their holiday for the enjoyment of others.  And most of the time, we love doing it.

I have had to play for multiple things every weekend this month.  This Sunday was no exception.  I had successfully staved off a cold through the week, going to Philadelphia on Wednesday, DC on Thursday, and Mifflinburg's Christmas Market on Friday.  I knew I was getting sick, but I just took Airborne, sucked on zinc tablets and denied that the illness would progress any further.  After all, I didn't have time to be sick.

It hit me like a ton of bricks on Saturday morning.  Pain deep down in my chest with the kind of cough that just hurts.  It didn't matter.  I had a rehearsal Saturday morning, and a performance Saturday night.  And of course, at that performance, we were one of the final groups to perform so I spent the majority of the party with my head in my hands at the dinner table.

Saturday night.  It was one of those nights of the damned.  I coughed in bed for two hours, and when I finally got out of bed, I was racked with chills.  I jumped in the bathtub, still with my fleece on until the water filled the tub, and stayed there for three hours, unable to move...except of course to cough!

I think I finally fell back asleep around 6 a.m. and thanked fate that we still have afternoon church for the next three Sundays.  I crawled into my church clothes around 10:30 and got to church to play organ, accompany a violin solo and play two choir numbers.  I planned on going home for the 2nd and 3rd hours, before coming back to church for choir practice afterwards.

Did I ever make it home?  Oh no.  I had so many people talking to me after sacrament meeting, that by the time I headed out to the car, Ethan had ensconced himself in a pew for Sunday School, and he had the keys!  I crawled over three people to get to him and couldn't imagine crawling back out.  Then, the third hour I needed to talk to the Family History Center Assistant Director.  Why?  Because I was worried about her, and because I love her.

By the time I headed to choir, I was seriously about to pass out.  I was running a high fever, and when I run fevers, I don't think so clearly.  Nor do I sight read music particularly well.  Especially in A-flat major while transposing it up an octave on the fly.  Seriously, my brain was foggy, but at least I was there, right?  Or, at least I was there for the choir director--think how panicked she would have been if I hadn't been there.

When I wrote Mark about it last night (he gets online on Monday morning), this was his response:

That all just sounds like a normal day for the Kennedys at Christmas time.  Just a whole bunch of accompanying and playing and working and slaving away.  Merry Christmas to us!

So, another night of the damned, and when I woke up this morning to Hannah heading off to seminary, I told her to go wake Ethan and have him drive her.

I was done.  I give up.  I'm sick.  And I've spent this entire day in bed, with John dosing me full of antibiotics and steroids and Tylenol.

However, if my future generations take nothing from this, I want you to know that this is the kind of people we are.  We will work until we die, and we will do it happily and not let others know that we are suffering.

Don't you ever be one of those washed-up missionaries who returns home, gets married, and is known for being completely undependable.  You will feel far more joy in killing yourself to help others than in sitting at home, recuperating from illness.

Because in our family, the show must go on.