Shaun Bengson and Abigail Bengson Photo by Marc J. Franklin

They seem like a lovely couple, wry and mutually supportive and ready with a quip to alleviate the tough moments. Immediately, they put us at ease: "If you have to get up and pee, we won't be offended," Abigail volunteers. "I'm in pelvic floor therapy, and I'm peeing right now." There's a lot of fourth-wall breaking, punctuated by discrete scene playing, and surely no one can play the Bengsons better than the Bengsons.

Lee Jellinek's set is a quite elaborate skeletal rendering of their home, or rather her mother's home, where they waited out the pandemic. It was a painful period for them, in many respects. First, it was cold and isolated, and Abigail considers Vermont winters "less Norman Rockwell and more Donner Party." Their young son Louie was and is much loved, but more than a handful. The couple were both wracked by a series of disabilities. Shaun is hard of hearing, and other impairments for both are alluded to but not specifically named. Their movements are somewhat limited, though Steph Paul's choreography puts them through a workout.

For all that, Abigail's fondest wish in this challenging environment is to have another child, and their efforts in that regard constitute most of the action. Spoiler possibilities abound here, and I'll do my best to write around them. We're plunged into a difficult-pregnancy journey, and did we really want to see Abigail on the toilet, or hear about NICUs and stitches? The Bengsons' dedication to one another remains touching, and even as they argue, and they do, their unending commitment is never in doubt.

It's also sung about a lot. The songs, as songs, I didn't find up to much. The words repeat and repeat, the melodies are moderately catchy, and memorable phrases are rare; about the best we can do is Abigail, recalling her first pregnancy, effusing that "It's swell, I swear, to swell." But she does have a fine voice, Joan Baez silvery in the upper register and pleasingly belty in the lower, and Shaun, with less in the way of vocal pyrotechnics, excels on guitar and accordion. The band provides able backup, and when you're urged to clap along, you probably will.

We feel for them, as the tribulations of a fraught pregnancy pile up and their unconditional support becomes harder to sustain. And while we appreciate how candid they're being, sometimes we wonder why they're sharing so much. Possibly it's a form of therapy? The feelings are so naked, the temptation can be to look away. The director–Rachel Chavkin, no less–hasn't shaped it in a way that makes us eager to know what happens next.

Along with that crowded stage are numerous videos, some culled from the Bengson family video library and some live, with band members playing Abigail's doctor (Noga Cabo), her mother (Reginald Chapman), etc. These are fun. There are also supertitles, close to but not entirely accurate–such as when, announcing them, Shaun promises they'll be right "like, 94.3 percent of the time," while the supertitle insists it's 93.4. It creates a timing problem when a funny line, and there are quite a few, can be read before it's heard. But on the whole they work well, well enough to make a case for using them at other musicals, especially if they're Operation Mincemeat.

The Bengsons soldier on bravely for 70 minutes, pouring out their hearts, and our own hearts go out to them, truly. The emotions in My Joy Is Heavy are large, and we're moved. But even as we are, and even as the finale sends the Bengsons and the band dancing out into the audience, the tone is exuberant, yet the subject matter resists celebration. Yes, it's joy. And yes, it's heavy.