The problem was that Florence Foster Jenkins was a TERRIBLE singer. If the world of opera were the city of Springfield, Ms. Jenkins would be Ralph Wiggum with his head stuck in a bucket. She was the only woman in the performing arts whose voice could strip paint. She made Yoko Ono stubbing her toe sound like Regina Spektor having an orgasm. But don't take my brilliant words for it; listen for yourself:
Even though her parents forbade this child of luxury to pursue her creative calling (which you might recognize as both the plot of Frozen and the life story of every theater nut obsessed with Frozen), she never quit her dream, no matter how horrifying it was to see her practice it (again -- Frozen). She bucked their condemnations when she got engaged to a much older doctor -- which they also condemned -- and there her musical journey pauses, but does not end.
Fate was apparently an opera fan and did all it could to keep her off the stage. Florence divorced Dr. Jenkins, but not before he gave her syphilis. She took a mercury "cure" that left her bald. But giving up is for lesser souls, like the Denver Broncos. You kick Flo-Fo when she's down, she'll only rise up taller and further off-key. Life gave her syphilis, and she made syphil-opera-ade.