Last week I caught that nasty Influenza A. Even knocked on the ER door because I could find a breath. Tons of grody illnesses going around and the only way to escape any of it is to not leave your house. Boy, this flu was FLU-ING. Might as well been first round Covid. And if you’re one of those people that frequently comes up to me and says “oh my God you’re always sick…why you’re always sick”, and throw in an eye roll with a little laugh at me, let me just pop in one more time that I suffer from a chronic autoimmune disease and my immune system does not work; it malfunctions. That’s it’s strongest characteristic. As far as how annoyed you are about me being sick AGAIN, you can imagine how annoying it is for me to be the one who’s sick AGAIN.
So here I was this week, very, very sick with the whole checklist of all the symptoms. Chained to my bed, Netflix my bestie. My fever was high, and I was hallucinating California wildfires in the blinds that were burning on the lake in my backyard. I called my mom on the phone to call one of my kids downstairs to bring me a blanket because I was freezing. At one point, I convinced myself that I was an accountant but I couldn’t read numbers. Shit got weird. I was sick as fuck.
Most people, when they get sick like this, they have to call into their job; they can’t do it. I have two choices… Show up, suck, talk to a bunch of people when my throat feels like I swallowed glass OR I cancel and stay in my bed and disappoint everyone, while also, remaining broke.
So last night I showed up to one of my favorite places that I play at because the owner and the management and the staff are so sweet and kind and the food is so good and the people who go there all the time are really good people. We set up, get ready, we start. I tried to sing three notes and I shit.the.bed. It’s coming out like insanity. I have no control. I am, in fact, Peter Brady.
It’s like you waking up in the morning, getting in the shower, getting dressed, making your coffee, grabbing a bite of breakfast, getting in the car and driving to your day job…you walk in and say hi to everybody…you get to your desk, you put down your coffee and you turn your computer on….and you type. And the words come out like ghjjhtftgyuhjkopngddetuhfssdtybvdss
And you try it again, because that can’t possibly be right:
Ddfghjireessfvhjkklkjbgrdseefhgfghgg
Wait….what?
Jjkngfdrtyiijbfswqqqwdghikjbcddedvv
…
Good luck with your day.
I’m not going to let people tell me that it’s OK, that it was fine, that it wasn’t “that bad”. I have one fucking job and that’s to open my mouth and deliver something good. It’s been a no-brainer since I was seven. So you can imagine my dismay three seconds into a three hour gig that I had literally had 0% control of my voice.
I stood there with my eyes welling with tears, my body was stiff and frozen in actual fear, and I mouthed to my husband,“ what do I do?”
My urge was to walk off the stage and go in the car and sit with my coat over my head and fucking cry and then try to call somebody who can sing and say please come to my gig and take it over, but I couldn’t.
So I had to plow through, smile and look people in the eye who were either disgusted, confused or embarrassed.
This job. I picked it. Not your problem, it’s mine. It’s showing up being completely vulnerable in front of everybody so you see all the good and all the bad and it’s my plight to get used to people saying whatever they want to me and let them think they have a right. This weekend I could’ve stayed in bed and been sick just like everybody else who was sick, but I came out. Pull up your skirt, Nancy.
The next time you’re at a restaurant with family, and there are some people making music in the corner, my goodness, please remember they’re human. We have our own full little lives and just because we are hired help, it looks fun and we get to have a cocktail while we do it, it’s hard sometimes. My purpose is to bring you joy… I’ll trade you that for a little bit of grace…and a cough drop from the bottom of your purse xo
HEATHERLAND 