Greta Thunberg - Our House Is on Fire: Scenes of a Family and a Planet in Crisis

Its places, everyone.

The orchestra tune their instruments one last time and the lights go down in the hall. Im standing next to the conductor, Jean-Christophe Spinosi, were just about to walk through the stage door and take our positions.

Everyone is happy tonight. Its the final performance, and tomorrow we all get to go home to our loved ones. Or on to the next job. Home to France, Italy and Spain. Home to Oslo and Copenhagen. On to Berlin, London and New York.

The last few performances have felt like being in a trance.

Anyone who has ever worked on stage knows what I mean. Sometimes there is a kind of flow, an energy that builds in the interaction between stage and audience and sets off a chain reaction that unfolds from performance to performance, from night to night. Its like magic. Theatre and opera magic.

And now were at the final performance of Handels Xerxes at the Artipelag arts centre in the Stockholm archipelago. It is 2 November 2014, and on this evening I will sing my last opera in Sweden. But no one is aware of that. Including me.

This evening I will sing my last opera ever.

The atmosphere is electric, and everyone backstage is walking on air, a few centimetres above Artipelags brand-new concrete floor.

They are filming as well. Eight cameras and a full-scale production team are recording the performance.

Through the stage door you can hear the sound of 900 silent people. The King and Queen are in attendance. Everyone is there.

Im pacing back and forth. Im trying to breathe, but I cant. My body seems to want to twist to the left and Im sweating. My hands are falling asleep. The last seven weeks have been one long nightmare. Nowhere is there the slightest bit of calm. I feel sick, yet beyond nausea. Like a drawn-out panic attack.

As if I had slammed right into a glass wall and got stuck mid-air as I was falling to the ground. Im waiting for the thud. Waiting for the pain. Im waiting for blood, broken bones and the wail of ambulances.

But nothing happens. All I see is myself suspended in the air in front of that bloody glass wall, which just stands there without the slightest crack.

Im not feeling well, I say.

Sit down. Do you want some water? Were speaking French, the conductor and I.

Suddenly my legs give out. Jean-Christophe catches me in his arms.

Its fine, he says. Well delay the performance. They can wait. Well blame it on me, Im French. Were always late.

Someone laughs.

I really have to hurry home after the performance. My younger daughter, Beata, is turning nine tomorrow and I have a thousand things to take care of. But now I am where I am. Unconscious, in the arms of the conductor.