State of panic

I hate being sick in the run of a show. More than the physical discomfort and staying in bed the whole day, what gets to me is not being able to do my job.

So, getting sick while on the Il Divo tour (worse, after only two performances) was something I was neither wanting, nor remotely prepared for.

Upon our arrival in Tokyo, my throat began giving signals—nothing painful or too uncomfortable, but certainly there. I was thankful we had a couple of days off, enough time to recover in time for our first night at Budokan. (Or  so I thought.) Our only activity was a dinner at Hama, hosted by our promoter in Japan, Seijiro Udo. It was low-key, nothing stressful. I had no alcohol or any other vocal no-no, and the company was lovely and lively.

The next day, however, I woke up to find … nothing. My voice wasn’t there. It was around 11 a.m., and our concert was in eight hours. I gave myself a little time to wake up. Nothing. I gave myself some more time. Still nothing. At that point, I began to panic.

First things first: Find a doctor. I sent an e-mail to our tour manager Levi Tecofsky, asking if I could see an ENT (ear, nose, throat) doctor as soon as possible. A few minutes later, he came back to me with doctor information, and had arranged transportation that would be ready in minutes. Sheilla, my sister-personal assistant, and I got dressed and off we went. Gaja Keito, our Japanese production assistant, accompanied us.

We were sent to Tokai University Hospital Otolaryngology and Voice Clinic. An elderly Japanese doctor examined me. Gentle of demeanor and with a rock-steady hand, he had a manner that put me at ease. He said he needed to look at my vocal folds (cords) with a camera that he would thread down my nose. I had gone through this procedure before.

Good news

I held my head steady as the scope and camera took a video of my vocal instrument, including a stroboscope to observe how the cords were connecting. That done, the doctor asked me to take a look.

First, the good news: My vocal cords were normal. These were the words that I absolutely needed to hear from the doctor, as this was the greatest anxiety I had carried throughout the morning. Seeing for myself that my instrument was fine and healthy was the best thing. They were connecting properly and looked great.

Next, the less-than-good news: Peering beyond my cords, we saw that my trachea was coated with sputum, or phlegm. It was like looking down into a narrow well that had algae growing on the sides, except in this case the “algae” was yellowish-white and not green. The doctor said I had an inflammation of the trachea, and would need a course of antibiotics and mucolytics. At the end of my visit, the nurse sat me down at a nebulizer for three minutes to breathe in cool, moist, sterile air.

I had no sooner put my coat and scarf back on and said goodbye, than a Japanese lady in the hospital’s reception uniform appeared with a bag containing my complete course of medication (talk about Japanese efficiency!). She sat me down and explained how many times a day to take everything. Once back downstairs, I paid my bill at the cashier, and headed straight for the theater. When I got there, I sent a text to my regular ENT, Melfred Hernandez, listing in detail what had been given to me. He patiently explained what each medicine was for, and gave me the go-ahead to perform.

No sound check

I didn’t do a sound check that day—I left it to Matteo Cifelli to take care of the house mix, and to Phil Down on monitors to give me a little vocal boost in my inner ear monitors so I wouldn’t push too hard. I opted instead to get something to eat to get the first dose of meds into my body, and warming up nice and slow. My mother, whose intuition is kind of scary, sent a message asking if I was OK. I told her what was going on, and she seemed to not be panicking. But she started praying for me. My husband Rob was kept updated, and he responded with a lot of prayers, too.

The show? It went fine

Having experienced illness on the road before, whenever even the slightest bout of anything hits me, anxiety and panic usually follow. In the past, I’ve been confined in a hospital, hooked up to an IV and pumped with medication just so I could get myself on stage the next day. I’ve been put on three weeks’ worth of absolute vocal rest after blasting my voice every day for months. More than the physical battle my body is in for, it’s the feeling that I’m disappointing my coworkers and audiences that hits me. In the Tokai waiting room, I had started mentally preparing the litany of apologies that I would recite, because my body failed. After the diagnosis, I was grateful that the litany wouldn’t see the light of day.

I have a long tour ahead of me … at the end of it, it’ll have totaled three-and-a-half months. There’s plenty of travel, venues and performances to come. If there’s anything to take away from this latest experience, it’s that I need to take good care of myself for the ongoing marathon. The finish line is still a long way down the road. Wish me luck.