The heart

“Anessa, guess what?!” I asked her, feigning excitement.

“What?!” She asked jumping up and down, mirroring my excitement.

“We are going to take, not one, but TWO trains, to visit Daddy tomorrow!”

Anessa squealed in response. I would later disappoint her when she learned the train at the zoo was not one of them. Her mood was remedied though when I told her she could watch YouTube on her iPad when we got on the second train.

I hadn’t planned on visiting Miguel in Poughkeepsie where he was working on a workshop of a new musical. I blamed the logistics of traveling with Anessa, but the subject of the musical was also daunting. “The Heart” follows the literal heart of a young man following his death in a car accident into a donor recipient. Miguel was playing the father of the young man who died.

Yeah…

But then Miguel asked me to come see it. He wanted my opinion on his role and the show, should it find the support for a full-scale production, and he be offered the opportunity to continue with it. Miguel and I agree that for him to do another eight shows/week production schedule, the role and the show are going to have to be special. Unless we get to a place where we really need the money and then anything goes.

With Anessa content in a nearby conference room with a babysitter, I settled into my theater seat surrounded by close to a hundred other patrons ready to support new art. To separate myself from the subject matter, a friend had suggested I take notes and maintain a more critical mindset. That was, after all, why Miguel had asked me to attend. But as the lights went down, I realized I didn’t have a pen or paper. It was fine, I would take mental notes. I really thought I would be okay. I mean, how many times had I seen Hamilton? Sure, I cried sometimes but it was never debilitating and at least I hadn’t forgotten tissues.

The production was simple, as most readings of new works are. The actors sat on chairs in front of music stands which held their scripts on a bare stage. If I hoped the stripped-down vision would dull the impact, I was sorely mistaken. I watched with a critical eye, but the raw emotion got to me. More specifically, Miguel’s raw emotion got to me.

As the show was coming to a close, I was quite proud of myself, the tissues I’d brought were wet, balled up messes, but I didn’t think I looked any worse than the folks sitting around me. After a standing ovation, the lights came up and with them the telltale lump in my throat. I just needed to swallow it, and I would be fine.

I tried to congratulate one of the writers who was seated one row in front of me but could only get out, “that was beautiful,” before all my focus was directed to keeping the pressure behind my eyes at bay. I still thought I could contain the emotion, swallow it, bury it, tie weights around its ankles and throw it overboard. But as I funneled into the exit line it became clear that the dam was breaking and I didn’t have enough fingers to plug all the holes.

Outside the auditorium, I did my best Olympic-style speed walk to the bathroom, but it was already crowded with full-bladdered theater patrons, so I diverted to the next open door which happened to be an empty stairwell. I sat down on the top step and gave into my grief. I knew the show was going to be emotional, but my body’s physical reaction had caught me off guard. These sobs were not just inconsolable but uncontrollable, a violent eruption unlike anything I’d felt in years.

On the two-hour drive home, Miguel would admit to me that this role took significantly more out of him than Hamilton had. Maybe it was the fact that he had performed Hamilton over 1,000 times before Adelaide died. Or that Hamilton had been set in the past, allowing Miguel to detach his personal experiences from the historical character he was portraying. But his experience with this show was different. The lines more blurred between this character and himself.

Time will tell if Miguel reprises this role. I’ve stood witness to this industry for far too many years to make assumptions let alone plans. But I’m glad I saw the show and I can appreciate the impact it had on me.

I no longer cling to my grief the way I once did, and I certainly don’t miss the days of never knowing when my grief werewolf would take over. But there is something comforting about feeling my grief so acutely again - both in the ferocity of the release and the peace that washes in afterward. A reset of sorts. And a reminder that Adelaide continues to live on in my heart.

Photo ID: A simple paper program for a production of The Heart, held up in front of auditorium seats and a bare stage with minimal lighting.