Intimations of Mortality

Thought for the Fortnight

It was an ordinary Thursday evening just after 7 p.m. And, as on every Thursday evening at that time, my choir was warming up for its two-hour rehearsal to come. All eyes were on the conductor, including mine.

But one of the tenors was very slightly late and was just coming into the room. A couple of people later said that he looked very ashen. He stumbled before reaching the seat he was heading for and crashed onto the floor. There was a clattering from the missed chair.

The conductor stopped. The room became very quiet. That is when I realised something was wrong.

And it was – very, very wrong.  It was a heart attack for all to see.

CPR

My choir has singers from all walks of life, but – perhaps surprisingly – it has four doctors who sing regularly. Not one has real expertise in heart conditions but at least they are doctors. 

By chance, none of these were there that evening.

But fortunately, one of our newer members turned out to be a young nurse who specialises in coronary intensive care. She immediately took over. She asked whether anyone had experience of helping with CPR or would be willing to help – and two people volunteered, including one woman I later learned had been a nurse in earlier years.

An ambulance was, of course, called immediately.

We were asked to clear the room. Some choir members simply went home. Many of us decamped into a second room nearby, where we sometimes rehearse, and waited to see what would happen.

The ambulance arrived quickly, we were later told. The paramedics, together with the nurse and her helpers, carried out CPR on the tenor for some time – close to an hour. I learned later that there was a substantial period when he wasn’t breathing. I hadn’t known that was possible.

Singing

After a brief period, our choir conductor came into the room where we were waiting. He said that he didn’t know what was the right thing to do in the circumstances, but if we wanted to sing, he would conduct us. Several choir members indicated that they would like to sing, so we began to rehearse as normally as we could.

I wondered if the tenor with the evident heart attack could hear anything, would he be helped or hindered by the stunningly beautiful sounds of Verdi’s Requiem, which we were rehearsing.

Some considerable time later, the young nurse who had initially taken charge popped into our room to give us an update. “We found a pulse”, she said. Clearly good news. The tenor had been taken by the ambulance to a local hospital.

She looked tired, of course, yet also pleased – a gentle combination of both modesty and pride. A professional with a job well done. “But,” she added, “if you don’t mind, I would like to go home”.  Yes, I thought. You have just saved someone’s life and must be full of adrenalin, not to mention complex thoughts about life and death.

Of course, you don’t feel like sitting in choir practice. Of course, go home and have a lovely glass of wine. Or something stronger.

The aftermath

Our choir has regular communications by email and during the next few days, there was a fulsome thank-you from the tenor himself, still in hospital. He indicated that he might not be able to get to the rehearsals immediately, but he still hoped to sing in the concert.

And another from his wife with enormous gratitude for the work of the key choir members in saving her husband.

And then exactly one week later, Thursday morning, the day of our next choir practice, came a very sad note. While still in hospital, the tenor had had another heart attack – and had died. His wife had noted that she was especially grateful for the extra week we had given her and her family.

It was a sombre choir practice that evening.

A week or so later, some members of the choir sang at the tenor’s funeral.

Intimations of mortality

It is strange that although many people are dying every day, we rarely find ourselves so literally close to it. It does make you think. 

Where will you be when your time comes? Will someone be around who knows what to do? Will you see your family in time? Will you be able to say all the important good-byes?

What if it is your spouse or partner – or, indeed, one of your children or grandchildren?  Will those things happen for them? Where will you be?

Even though I am over the age of 80, I am more aware of infirmities and illness than of death among friends and family. Yet seeing loved ones die is part of life as we grow older. This occasion was a big reminder.

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A version of this post was first published by Sixtyandme.com