Churning stomach? Check.

Dull headache? Check.

Cold feet? Check.

Make the call. Make the call.

Just a simple call to 911 would solve these problems. Three little buttons on my phone. Make the call. Save yourself, I thought. Let the paramedics help you.

What’s wrong? Why don’t you call?

I was dying. I knew it. I’d convinced myself of that. I knew sweet death was coming or would surely come if I somehow actually stumbled up the three stairs to that stage and sat down at that piano.

“A stretch.”

That’s how my daughter’s music teacher described it. Heck, I’ve had a child. I know “stretch.”

This was no stretch. This was life and death.

How could this have happened to me? How could I, at the wise age of 44, have allowed myself to be talked into performing a piano duet with my 12-year-old?

At first glance, it had appeared so easy.

“Gosh, Sarah, this looks like after-beats on the French horn,” I told my daughter two weeks ago when she showed me my part on “Edelweiss.”

But I soon learned that the bass clef is not my friend, not by any stretch of the imagination. I then remembered that the bass clef and I had had a stormy relationship when I took piano lessons.

But I knew I could conquer this. I was an adult, after all. So I practiced. And I struggled. I practiced more. And I struggled. It had been 24 years since I’d played the horn and 33 years since my last piano lesson.

Two days before the recital, I was required to play for Sarah’s music teacher. Her baby grand Steinway is a far cry from the upright Wurlitzer I inherited from my grandmother. In fact, I could barely make the keys work. But after a couple of times through “Edelweiss,” Sarah and I had it down.

I was confident. A little more practice, and I’d nail the song and the repeat at the recital.

We arrived right on time to the recital. So far, so good. We settled into our seats on the third row, on the aisle. Easy access. So far, so good.

I can’t really say when my body turned against me. I guess it started with the sweaty feet. I’d heard of sweaty palms but sweaty feet? Then I began to worry as I realized each of my body parts was up to something unusual.

That’s when I knew my ambulance friends were my only hope.

“What do you think about calling 911?” I whispered to Sarah.

She grinned at her goofy mother and nodded her head.

I realized then that I was acting like a complete baby. Suck it up, I told myself. Deal with it.

But I couldn’t hear my inner voice because some father was on stage singing “Splish Splash.”

Oh great. We get to follow a comedian. Never mind that his kids have buried their heads in their hands, horribly embarrassed. Never mind that he looks like an idiot. People are laughing. People think he’s great. He’s so brave to get up there and make a fool of himself.

Finally, the funny guy sits down. On cue, Sarah and I walk up together. We bow together. We sit together. We lift our hands to the piano keys together. And we play together.

For awhile.

And then I bobble a note. I recover.

Suddenly, though, none of those notes looks remotely familiar. My nemesis, the bass clef, was seeking its revenge for all of the times I’d cursed it.

I don’t remember much more.

The other parents say I did fine. They’re lying. Sarah said it was OK. She was lying. And her teacher thanked all of those parents who played with their children, who stretched themselves.

I think that’s one exercise I don’t need to repeat.