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Alexis Soloski considers the history of how theatre and disease have shaped each other.

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On Thursday afternoon, the school nurse called. My 6-year-old daughter had run a fever and complained of a sore throat. Could I come and get her? It could be the flu, we agreed, or possibly strep throat. Neither of us wanted to name other possibilities. I called our pediatric practice as I walked to her school, securing an appointment for a strep test. While we were waiting, with her sucking a dripping Popsicle, and me twitchily checking my phone and trying not to spiral, I saw the announcement that all Broadway productions would close immediately, reopening in mid-April at the earliest.
As we walked to the medical practice — the first strep test was negative, but the doctor insisted on running a second and honestly I’ve never felt so grateful to have a bacterial infection confirmed — then headed for the pharmacy, my phone kept buzzing. Each notification was an email announcing a new postponement, a new closure, as though theater in New York were some gaudy chandelier and I could see its bulbs blinking out, one by one. I had a show to see that night, another on Friday and more over the weekend; they all disappeared, except, inexplicably for Taylor Mac’s “The Fre,” in which cast and crew jostle together in a ball pit. That one I canceled myself' ... Keep reading on The New York Times

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