The Wednesday I went back to the choir

I sang in the same Memphis choir for nineteen years before Mom moved in with me. I missed the first rehearsal after she came. Then the next. Then I missed Christmas Eve.

The thing I lost first

It wasn’t sleep. It wasn’t even the choir, exactly. It was the version of myself who showed up there — the one who knew the alto line, who laughed at the same jokes from the same tenors, who got hugged in the church kitchen. That woman went away quietly while I was busy keeping Mom safe.

What changed

The respite caregiver, Marcie, came on Wednesday evenings. I was suspicious of her at first — protective in the way you get when you’ve been the only one for a long time. But Mom liked her. Mom called her “that nice girl” within a week, which from Mom is a knighthood.

I went back to the choir on a Wednesday in March. I didn’t know if I’d remember the line. My voice cracked on the first phrase and the alto next to me put her hand on my back and didn’t say anything. I cried through the rest of the rehearsal and sang anyway.

What I tell people now

Respite care isn’t a luxury. It’s the thing that lets you keep being you while you take care of someone else. The choir didn’t replace me while I was gone. They were just glad I came back.