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added up to what they called the “precipitating event” which fried my chords. I now have permanent, rigid cysts inside each vocal fold and the pornographic pictures to prove it. (The color photographs—obtained by sliding a gag-inducing metal probe down one’s esophagus—look disquietingly vaginal.)
    The medical verdict is this: When I make sound, my vocal folds don’t meet, the way they’re supposed to. It’s exacerbated by the fact that I’m an “effortful” speaker—not exactly a demure conversationalist—which means I’ve spent years essentially “heaving” my thoughts out, instead of just sharing them.
    After spending too much money on a vocal therapist, I decided that, for the cash, I’d rather get a massage once in a while. I also was bored by the inane vocal exercises (“ M olly m akes m ore m oney...”). After lame attempts at avoiding the “bad” foods which apparently spike acid reflux—i.e., every food I like—I gave up and went back to caffeine and spicy tomato sauce.
    The upshot is that I’m left with a physical, raspy remnant of a memorable night.

    “Making you feel merrily …”

    On March 15, 2010, at Avery Fisher Hall, Broadway luminaries such as Bernadette Peters, Mandy Patinkin, Patti LuPone, and Audra McDonald gathered to honor Sondheim’seightieth birthday. In a gala concert directed by Lonny Price, LuPone belted out “Ladies Who Lunch” from Company , Peters and Patinkin reprised their glorious duet “Move On” from Sunday in the Park with George , and Elaine Stritch brought the house down with “I’m Still Here” from Follies . But to me, the most stirring moments came from Merrily : Peters’s rendition of “Not a Day Goes By” was achingly apt because she had lost her husband five years earlier in a plane crash. “Not a day goes by, /Not a single day / But you're somewhere a part of my life, / And it looks like you’ll stay.”   The song has also served, very personally through the decades, as a kind of recurring anthem—not just for people I once loved, but for that unmistakable feeling of being achingly missed.  
    The other Merrily snapshot was Jim Walton’s rendition of “Growing Up”—a song that was added to a 1985 production at the La Jolla Playhouse. Jim took the stage in his tuxedo, still suave despite less hair. He sat at the grand piano and played the song simply, looking exactly as he used to when he tickled the keys as Franklin Shepard on our stage.
     
    “So old friends, now it’s time to start growing up.
    Taking charge, seeing things as they are.
    Facing facts, not escaping them
    Still with dreams, just reshaping them.”

        “Still with dreams.” How could we all not see our older selves in those words? “Still with dreams, just reshaping them.” What else is life, it struck me, than adjusting your expectations … still hoping but not too hard, chastened by realism and less time left; no chance of being a wunderkind anymore, no longer believing miracles might happen; “seeing things as they are.”

    Paul Gemignani was, as always, the titan in a tux, swaying slightly with his back to us, guiding the august Philharmonic Orchestra with a sure hand. I had the urge to hug him (all of us always had that impulse,) and then felt silly for thinking it; he probably wouldn’t recognize me today.
    My sister, Robin, had invited me to this concert: As a culture reporter for the New York Times , she often covers Lincoln Center and attends their special events. She and I could barely look at each other during the two Merrily songs. They brought us both back and, for me, they dislodged unsettling questions that mercifully receded, unanswered, as soon as the music stopped:
    Where was that unrestrained, emotional part of me now? Does maturity ultimately come down to being overscheduled and sensible—settling into a routine that is certainly interesting and fulfilling but lacking flashes of magic?
    Why did these songs jolt me