Ethel (name changed to protect the innocent) is a beloved member of my community chorus. She sits directly in front of me during the singing season. When I joined more than 20 years ago, I was certain she was in her 80s. I was clearly wrong, because two decades later she is still here, still singing, still bringing an entirely unnecessary amount of pizzazz to the stage every single season.
This year, however, has come with some plot twists.
Some days she is wheeled in, slightly disheveled. Other days she arrives preceded by a walker and a look that says, don’t rush me. But every time, without fail, she brings spunk and soul to the soprano section. We are fiercely protective of her. She is not just a person in the choir. She is a legend. A living, singing legacy of more than 50 years.
Before I tell you what happened next, there is something important you should know about me.
For reasons unknown to science, medicine, or me, absolute terror makes me laugh. Funerals. Wakes. Near disasters. If a moment becomes too overwhelming, my nervous system responds by declaring it comedy. This has not served me well socially. I have come dangerously close to ending more than one relationship because of it.
Now. Back to Ethel.
One winter night, Ethel was rolled into rehearsal. It was clearly not her best day. She murmured to herself when we should have been singing and sang confidently when we should have been stopping. Time had lost all meaning for Ethel, and she was not taking notes.
About 20 minutes in, mid-song, Ethel’s head dropped forward.
The director noticed the outage and stopped the chorus.
“Ethel,” he called.
Nothing.
“Ethel, are you okay?”
Still nothing. No movement. No response.
As the person directly behind her, I leaned forward to check if she was breathing. My hand touched her shoulder.
Nothing.
I became absolutely certain that Ethel had died. In rehearsal. Directly in front of me. I began mentally preparing to explain to the police why my fingerprints were on her.
Then
“We are the champions!” she belted out.
Full volume. Full confidence. Continuing the Queen song we had started earlier, like no time had passed and no minor death event had occurred.
I nearly left my body. I am convinced she briefly left hers and came back.
The chorus collectively inhaled in relief.
And I lost it.
I laughed so hard I couldn’t breathe. Tears streamed down my face. I was shaking. The kind of laughter that suggests either hysteria or possession. People turned around, concerned. I could not stop.
Ethel, meanwhile, sat upright, triumphant, having survived death, rehearsal, and Queen.
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