Christmas season started a little earlier this month with a visit to a children's hospital. Coincidentally wearing a red sweater and a pink scarf (I didn't intend to add to the holiday spirit with my clothes), I was reminded again of how much these little things matter when a child life therapist pointed to me on the hallway and exclaimed, "Oh wow, you look so...perfect with the whole holiday season and...everything!"
My repertoire for the night consisted solely of holiday songs. I "jingled all the way" through the rooms of four and five-year-olds, immersing myself in the joy of hearing "jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle all the waaaayyyy" in semi-yelling by the little people. Flakes of snow flied into the PICU with "Let It Snow" as a dad sang along to his daughter, who listened with utmost attentiveness and admiration even though her hero forgot half of the lyrics. Through "Silent Night" I shared sacred moments of peace with a couple of mothers and their babies--the pure sound that gently caressed our souls reminded us once again of what Christmas is all about.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Friday, November 30, 2007
The "No" Moments
One thing that all musicians take for granted is a willing audience. Occasionally there are unappreciative audience, and even rude ones at times, but a musician almost never encounters an unwilling audience. In a nutshell, the objective of a musician is to share, to please, and to be appreciated. Any other purpose would seem to fall out of the general definition of performance.
Before volunteering for MOC, I was warned by its orientation packet not to "take it personally" when a patient declines the mini-concert. There is a myriad of reasons why someone would refuse to hear music on a hospital bed, and all we can do in that situation is to respect that wish and move on. Much sensitivity is required from the volunteer guides and musicians, as some of these "no" signs are subtle and not easily picked up. For example, I once encountered an elderly lady who did not give my guide a big "no" when she asked her whether she would like to hear some music. As a matter of fact, I didn't know what their exchange was like because I usually don't enter a room until I was invited (so as not to crowd a room and to give the patients the privacy that is often a luxury in a hospital setting). As I started playing, I noticed that she was trying to tell me something. She waved her hands slightly, but it was her eyes that told me to stop immediately. I asked her softly if something was the matter. She grunted a little, and pointed to her head. Apparently she had a headache and wanted some peace and quiet, but could not convey that wish easily.
There was another "no" situation tonight, though a little different from that one. My guide was met with a resounding "yes" from the visitors of a gentleman, who had heard me playing in other rooms. She quickly introduced me, and I went into the room, ready to share everything I had. The admiring glances and voices of anticipations I received by the doorway was quickly interrupted by a gruff "But I don't want her to see me like this!"
An awkward silence ensued. I backed up to the doorway, stood next to the bathroom, and started playing softly. I listened attentively for any uproar inside the room that would serve as a signal to stop playing immediately, but there was total silence. As I came to the final cadence, the room came back to life again with chatters from visitors at each corner. Amidst the "wow" and "brava", the same deep voice thundered--a little gentler than the first time--"Thank you."
That, was music to my ears.
Before volunteering for MOC, I was warned by its orientation packet not to "take it personally" when a patient declines the mini-concert. There is a myriad of reasons why someone would refuse to hear music on a hospital bed, and all we can do in that situation is to respect that wish and move on. Much sensitivity is required from the volunteer guides and musicians, as some of these "no" signs are subtle and not easily picked up. For example, I once encountered an elderly lady who did not give my guide a big "no" when she asked her whether she would like to hear some music. As a matter of fact, I didn't know what their exchange was like because I usually don't enter a room until I was invited (so as not to crowd a room and to give the patients the privacy that is often a luxury in a hospital setting). As I started playing, I noticed that she was trying to tell me something. She waved her hands slightly, but it was her eyes that told me to stop immediately. I asked her softly if something was the matter. She grunted a little, and pointed to her head. Apparently she had a headache and wanted some peace and quiet, but could not convey that wish easily.
There was another "no" situation tonight, though a little different from that one. My guide was met with a resounding "yes" from the visitors of a gentleman, who had heard me playing in other rooms. She quickly introduced me, and I went into the room, ready to share everything I had. The admiring glances and voices of anticipations I received by the doorway was quickly interrupted by a gruff "But I don't want her to see me like this!"
An awkward silence ensued. I backed up to the doorway, stood next to the bathroom, and started playing softly. I listened attentively for any uproar inside the room that would serve as a signal to stop playing immediately, but there was total silence. As I came to the final cadence, the room came back to life again with chatters from visitors at each corner. Amidst the "wow" and "brava", the same deep voice thundered--a little gentler than the first time--"Thank you."
That, was music to my ears.
International MOC Counterparts
I made a new friend this week--Holly--a lovely lady from Manchester, England. She is visiting New York for a few weeks while gathering ideas on starting a program similar to Musicians On Call in her hometown. There is already an organization called Musique et Santé in France that does the same thing as MOC, so it is extra exciting that there will soon be another organization like these in England.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Foreign territory
The elevator doors open, and the stillness struck me--a stark contrast to the other floors, where chaos abound in every way: noise, smell, and motion.
"I don't usually bring musicians up here, 'cause patients are, you know, in a worse condition." My guide explained to me in a low voice.
"Are we playing for ICU patients?" I asked.
"Oh no!" her voice raised slightly to my naive suggestion. "No, no...just some who are a step down from the ICU."
A nurse was expecting us. She took us to her patient, a solemn woman in her sixties who sat on her bed with her back so straight and her expression so stern that I couldn't help but think of the stepmother in Disney's Cinderella cartoon. Her daughter was next to her, as was a big portrait of Jesus with some Greek writing at the bottom. The room was painted in a strange shade of green that only added to the eerie stillness around us. "I brought you a giiift!" The nurse said in a sing-song tone, and we were met by a pair of icy brown eyes. The daughter gently stroked her mother's hand and smiled at us.
I improvised for a little while, then segued to "There Is A Fountain". I usually watch the weaker patients closely, making sure that the volume and the content do not become too strong so as to disturb them. Every small movement of a facial muscle is a tale tell sign. In this case, the patient was clearly alert and even a little unwelcoming, so I kept my eyes glued to the junction of the moving bow and the strings. As I came to the last cadence, I was pleasantly surprised to see the ice melting in those eyes that were so strict at the beginning and a pair of wrinkled hands clapping. Mission accomplished.
As we stepped into the hallway, another nurse was standing there, waiting for us. She asked us to play for her patient as well, and my guide told her to lead the way. We tried to follow her brisk steps, but she suddenly disappeared around the corner. I kept on going, but my guide slowed down a little and became hesitant. "Are we really going to the ICU?" she mumbled to herself.
To the ICU we went, beyond glass double doors into a small, poorly-lit space with only three "rooms". The nurse explained to the others what we were doing, and as soon as they understood (which took a while, I think because the concept is a little unusual), they surrounded us with such excitement as if we were from another planet. "Come stand over here," the nurse who brought us motioned me over to the entrance of a room. "That way, Mr. Cha can see you and everyone else can hear you." Someone went and fetched Mrs. Cha, who said, "Yes, yes, the music will stimulate his brain, just like when I talk to him."
The excitement went on, and I did not bother to wait until everyone quieted down to play. Even if I did, we were never going to have a concert hall atmosphere anyway. Every two notes were interrupted by "ooh, that's nice" and "this is really going to help him" from the people around me. Mr. Cha gave me his undivided attention. His eyes shone brilliantly as his lips pressed together into a thin line, shadowed by white beard stubs. He quietly banged the railing of his bed at the end of the piece, and his wife was ecstatic. She thanked me over and over again, and as I turned around, one of the nurses gave me a kiss on the forehead.
You never know where your gifts will take you. The key is to be prepared and open for any opportunity when the Gift-giver says, "Go." Each new territory entered is a foreign territory the first time. After that, it is a place where you have left--and will hopefully continue to leave--your mark.
"I don't usually bring musicians up here, 'cause patients are, you know, in a worse condition." My guide explained to me in a low voice.
"Are we playing for ICU patients?" I asked.
"Oh no!" her voice raised slightly to my naive suggestion. "No, no...just some who are a step down from the ICU."
A nurse was expecting us. She took us to her patient, a solemn woman in her sixties who sat on her bed with her back so straight and her expression so stern that I couldn't help but think of the stepmother in Disney's Cinderella cartoon. Her daughter was next to her, as was a big portrait of Jesus with some Greek writing at the bottom. The room was painted in a strange shade of green that only added to the eerie stillness around us. "I brought you a giiift!" The nurse said in a sing-song tone, and we were met by a pair of icy brown eyes. The daughter gently stroked her mother's hand and smiled at us.
I improvised for a little while, then segued to "There Is A Fountain". I usually watch the weaker patients closely, making sure that the volume and the content do not become too strong so as to disturb them. Every small movement of a facial muscle is a tale tell sign. In this case, the patient was clearly alert and even a little unwelcoming, so I kept my eyes glued to the junction of the moving bow and the strings. As I came to the last cadence, I was pleasantly surprised to see the ice melting in those eyes that were so strict at the beginning and a pair of wrinkled hands clapping. Mission accomplished.
As we stepped into the hallway, another nurse was standing there, waiting for us. She asked us to play for her patient as well, and my guide told her to lead the way. We tried to follow her brisk steps, but she suddenly disappeared around the corner. I kept on going, but my guide slowed down a little and became hesitant. "Are we really going to the ICU?" she mumbled to herself.
To the ICU we went, beyond glass double doors into a small, poorly-lit space with only three "rooms". The nurse explained to the others what we were doing, and as soon as they understood (which took a while, I think because the concept is a little unusual), they surrounded us with such excitement as if we were from another planet. "Come stand over here," the nurse who brought us motioned me over to the entrance of a room. "That way, Mr. Cha can see you and everyone else can hear you." Someone went and fetched Mrs. Cha, who said, "Yes, yes, the music will stimulate his brain, just like when I talk to him."
The excitement went on, and I did not bother to wait until everyone quieted down to play. Even if I did, we were never going to have a concert hall atmosphere anyway. Every two notes were interrupted by "ooh, that's nice" and "this is really going to help him" from the people around me. Mr. Cha gave me his undivided attention. His eyes shone brilliantly as his lips pressed together into a thin line, shadowed by white beard stubs. He quietly banged the railing of his bed at the end of the piece, and his wife was ecstatic. She thanked me over and over again, and as I turned around, one of the nurses gave me a kiss on the forehead.
You never know where your gifts will take you. The key is to be prepared and open for any opportunity when the Gift-giver says, "Go." Each new territory entered is a foreign territory the first time. After that, it is a place where you have left--and will hopefully continue to leave--your mark.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Common experience
People don't always get the same things. What we get or don't get depend heavily on our experiences. The sharing of certain experiences can bring us together--even if for a moment--from worlds apart. The opposite of that keep us separate indefinitely with an invisible wall in the middle: what I hear, you do not; what you see, I do not; what I feel, you do not even think exists.
This is shown even in music. There is no surprise in that, really. Music is highly subjective--if it were not so, there would not be such variety of tastes. More than tastes, however, is memory association and mentality. In college, I once did a paper on the effects of music on psychophysiology. One of the research studies I looked at used three categories of music (happy, sad, and scary) to evaluate the physiological effects on individuals. For the sad category, the researchers chose Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings. This was baffling to me because the piece is one of my favorite, and listening to it always makes me happy and satisfied, not sad. I played a segment of each piece to the class when I presented my paper. When I informed them that the Barber was supposed to be sad, there were nods across the room. Out of curiosity, I asked my classmates why the piece made them sad. One person said, "Because they play that at funerals," and the rest agreed with her. It is therefore the memory associated with the music that induces sad feelings, not necessarily the music itself.
After playing in the first room tonight, my guide asked me (in a very nice way) why I always seem to play music that's "kind of...I don't know...sad" (this is the second time we have worked together). I was slightly surprised by her comment, but quickly realized that while a healthy, energetic person like her can often take on more stimulation (hence, look for more upbeat music), she does not hear all the subtlety in a quieter music and recognize its calming effect on the patients. This is by no means a matter of musical training; it is, like I said, a matter of experience. A marathon runner does not look for benches on the street to sit down and rest. On the other hand, a frail person who has walked a little farther than usual appreciates any place that offers his tired legs a chance to recuperate from those extra steps.
There is something extra when I share music with some patients--not tastes, not memory association...something else. It may be the experience we share of physical and emotional suffering. It may be the opportunity that music provides us to breathe something other than the mixture of alcohol, urine and sweat. Whatever it is, the music that fills the rooms and the hearts touch us in a very special way. And even though I do not know them and they know me only by whatever syllables my guides choose to pronounce my name, we are--together--satisfied, not sad.
This is shown even in music. There is no surprise in that, really. Music is highly subjective--if it were not so, there would not be such variety of tastes. More than tastes, however, is memory association and mentality. In college, I once did a paper on the effects of music on psychophysiology. One of the research studies I looked at used three categories of music (happy, sad, and scary) to evaluate the physiological effects on individuals. For the sad category, the researchers chose Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings. This was baffling to me because the piece is one of my favorite, and listening to it always makes me happy and satisfied, not sad. I played a segment of each piece to the class when I presented my paper. When I informed them that the Barber was supposed to be sad, there were nods across the room. Out of curiosity, I asked my classmates why the piece made them sad. One person said, "Because they play that at funerals," and the rest agreed with her. It is therefore the memory associated with the music that induces sad feelings, not necessarily the music itself.
After playing in the first room tonight, my guide asked me (in a very nice way) why I always seem to play music that's "kind of...I don't know...sad" (this is the second time we have worked together). I was slightly surprised by her comment, but quickly realized that while a healthy, energetic person like her can often take on more stimulation (hence, look for more upbeat music), she does not hear all the subtlety in a quieter music and recognize its calming effect on the patients. This is by no means a matter of musical training; it is, like I said, a matter of experience. A marathon runner does not look for benches on the street to sit down and rest. On the other hand, a frail person who has walked a little farther than usual appreciates any place that offers his tired legs a chance to recuperate from those extra steps.
There is something extra when I share music with some patients--not tastes, not memory association...something else. It may be the experience we share of physical and emotional suffering. It may be the opportunity that music provides us to breathe something other than the mixture of alcohol, urine and sweat. Whatever it is, the music that fills the rooms and the hearts touch us in a very special way. And even though I do not know them and they know me only by whatever syllables my guides choose to pronounce my name, we are--together--satisfied, not sad.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
Circumstances
The nursing station of the adult oncology unit was busy, as usual--phones ringing, intercoms buzzing, people shuffling back and forth with overly stuffed binders in their hands and fatigue written on their expressionless faces. The little enclosed area was like a tiny island, surrounded by the ocean of shiny hospital floor. "Ships" of dinner carts sailed by, dirty trays piled one on top of another.
Outside of the overpopulated island, things were quiet. The green contact isolation signs prevented us from visiting most of the rooms. Many of the other patients were sleeping. My guide would tip-toe into a room, while I waited outside. She would then come out and mouth the word "sleeping" exaggeratedly; I would then mouth "okay" back, even though we were already in the hallway and could not wake anyone. There is something about visiting a sleeping room--the lights are dim, the flashing TV screens and the occasional beeping sounds from the monitors--everything adds up to an almost sacred atmosphere. Something extraordinary is always going on inside a sleeping patients. Healing may be taking place. Further damaging by cancer cells may be taking place. A momentary journey outside of consciousness--and consequently, pain--may be taking place.
Those whom I got to play for were glad we came. We saw it in their eyes and heard it in their voices. I went beyond my regular repertoire a little bit (hymns and improvisations), and played "Music of the Night" from Phantom of the Opera, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow", and "Beauty and the Beast". It is human nature to like what is familiar in a stressful setting. It brings a kind of comfort that nothing else can.
We finished early, covering the floor in under an hour. It has been another peaceful night...under the circumstances. Good night, all. Sweet and musical dreams to you.
Outside of the overpopulated island, things were quiet. The green contact isolation signs prevented us from visiting most of the rooms. Many of the other patients were sleeping. My guide would tip-toe into a room, while I waited outside. She would then come out and mouth the word "sleeping" exaggeratedly; I would then mouth "okay" back, even though we were already in the hallway and could not wake anyone. There is something about visiting a sleeping room--the lights are dim, the flashing TV screens and the occasional beeping sounds from the monitors--everything adds up to an almost sacred atmosphere. Something extraordinary is always going on inside a sleeping patients. Healing may be taking place. Further damaging by cancer cells may be taking place. A momentary journey outside of consciousness--and consequently, pain--may be taking place.
Those whom I got to play for were glad we came. We saw it in their eyes and heard it in their voices. I went beyond my regular repertoire a little bit (hymns and improvisations), and played "Music of the Night" from Phantom of the Opera, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow", and "Beauty and the Beast". It is human nature to like what is familiar in a stressful setting. It brings a kind of comfort that nothing else can.
We finished early, covering the floor in under an hour. It has been another peaceful night...under the circumstances. Good night, all. Sweet and musical dreams to you.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Only music
A little girl just came out from surgery and was transferred to the PICU. The staff could not find her mother. The girl, about eight years old, did not speak any English. She was crying softly to herself, eyes wide open, watching with fear all the strangers running around her. Her little hands clutched on to the blanket as if it was her only support. A doctor stood at the end of the bed, checking her monitor and jotting down some notes in the chart. He smiled at us when we came in, gently patted the little girl's feet and went out of the room.
My guide stooped down next to the little girl, talking to her softly in Spanish. She introduced ourselves and told the girl that we were all going to relax and listen to some music. The little girl continued gasping in short, sharp breaths, the way children do when recovering from crying. But my guide's gentle voice calmed her somewhat, as she turned her head and looked at me with those big eyes, both sad and expectant.
I played "Part of Your World" from The Little Mermaid. She listened attentively and nodded when my guide asked her if she recognized the song. Then an amazing thing happened, so sudden that we could hardly believe our eyes: The sweet little girl wiped her moist face with the back of her hand and closed her eyes. Before long, she pulled up her blanket, turn to one side, curled up, and fell asleep. The song came to a quiet cadence, and we tiptoed our way out.
Only music does that. I am still amazed, after being lulled by it my whole life. Hopefully when she wakes up, she will find her mother by her side, holding her hand.
My guide stooped down next to the little girl, talking to her softly in Spanish. She introduced ourselves and told the girl that we were all going to relax and listen to some music. The little girl continued gasping in short, sharp breaths, the way children do when recovering from crying. But my guide's gentle voice calmed her somewhat, as she turned her head and looked at me with those big eyes, both sad and expectant.
I played "Part of Your World" from The Little Mermaid. She listened attentively and nodded when my guide asked her if she recognized the song. Then an amazing thing happened, so sudden that we could hardly believe our eyes: The sweet little girl wiped her moist face with the back of her hand and closed her eyes. Before long, she pulled up her blanket, turn to one side, curled up, and fell asleep. The song came to a quiet cadence, and we tiptoed our way out.
Only music does that. I am still amazed, after being lulled by it my whole life. Hopefully when she wakes up, she will find her mother by her side, holding her hand.
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Same roots
I met Mrs. Li last week. My guide mistook her for the mother of another baby whom I played for. We exchanged a few words in Mandarin, but I did not get a chance to play for her baby. She said that not only was the baby asleep, he would not understand music because he was still so young. We did not insist.
As I was coming out from a room today, my guide told me that Mrs. Li and her baby were still here at the PICU, and she has agreed for me to play. "I couldn't communicate with her at first, but then I did this..." My guide raised her left arm slightly and bent her right arm at an angle, moving right and left, "and she said yes."
I went into the dimly lit room, and found Mrs. Li there, rocking the baby in her arms. Mrs. Li is a young mother in her twenties, a small woman with long, black hair. Her little baby was wrapped in a hospital blanket--his face could barely be seen, but the wheezing whine that came from the tiny body was hard to miss.
As soon as she saw me, words started spilling out as if they finally found a place to go. She told me that there was no one in the hospital who could translate for her and let her know everything that was going on. The only time an interpreting service was available was when something "really serious" happened to the baby, and even then, the communication happened over the phone. Before I could respond, she took a step closer and asked in a softer voice, "Is it true that this hospital is the best in the city? Is it really true?"
I looked at her and I saw an anxious young mother, holding the most important treasure of her life in her arms. She needed reassurance. More importantly, she needed reassurance in her native tongue, coming from someone who shares the same color of skin. I struggled for a split second in my mind. There are too many things I do not know: I don't know the ranking of the hospital, I don't know the diagnosis or the prognosis of her baby, and I don't know what the doctors have been communicating (or trying to communicate) with her. Time's up, she needs an answer--not the answer (she knows that), but an answer...from me.
"There are many great hospitals in the city. And this is one of them," I said.
A smile of relief appeared on her face. She began to rock her baby again, gently. I picked up my violin and played for them a Chinese hymn.
As I was coming out from a room today, my guide told me that Mrs. Li and her baby were still here at the PICU, and she has agreed for me to play. "I couldn't communicate with her at first, but then I did this..." My guide raised her left arm slightly and bent her right arm at an angle, moving right and left, "and she said yes."
I went into the dimly lit room, and found Mrs. Li there, rocking the baby in her arms. Mrs. Li is a young mother in her twenties, a small woman with long, black hair. Her little baby was wrapped in a hospital blanket--his face could barely be seen, but the wheezing whine that came from the tiny body was hard to miss.
As soon as she saw me, words started spilling out as if they finally found a place to go. She told me that there was no one in the hospital who could translate for her and let her know everything that was going on. The only time an interpreting service was available was when something "really serious" happened to the baby, and even then, the communication happened over the phone. Before I could respond, she took a step closer and asked in a softer voice, "Is it true that this hospital is the best in the city? Is it really true?"
I looked at her and I saw an anxious young mother, holding the most important treasure of her life in her arms. She needed reassurance. More importantly, she needed reassurance in her native tongue, coming from someone who shares the same color of skin. I struggled for a split second in my mind. There are too many things I do not know: I don't know the ranking of the hospital, I don't know the diagnosis or the prognosis of her baby, and I don't know what the doctors have been communicating (or trying to communicate) with her. Time's up, she needs an answer--not the answer (she knows that), but an answer...from me.
"There are many great hospitals in the city. And this is one of them," I said.
A smile of relief appeared on her face. She began to rock her baby again, gently. I picked up my violin and played for them a Chinese hymn.
The egrets in the rice patties,
They do not lack anything;
The lilies in the valley
Give out sweet aroma in the spring.
Our Heavenly Father provides
New blessings each day;
The seeds sprout, the fruits grow,
Many are the evidences of His love.
Jehovah blesses abundantly
Like sand grains on the beach,
His Love endures forevermore;
I will raise my hands and thank Him,
Make sweet music in song,
Praise His Name forevermore.
Friday, November 2, 2007
Autumn Orchid
A wailing sound broke out, piercing the momentary silence in the pediatric intensive care unit. My guide and I jumped, startled by the cry--the kind that plucks every string in one's heart in the most unpleasant way, the kind that makes one wince instead of say "Oh, poor child." No one around us seemed bother by it. Something in the atmosphere told us that this has gone on routinely, and there was nothing to be done about it.
We slowly approached the room. My guide stuck her head in there a few times before deciding that it was appropriate for us to go in. The room was shared by two patients, and the cry came from the inside bed, which we could not see because it was blocked by the curtain. Whoever made that heart-wrenching sound was clearly in a lot of pain, because the wailing continued on and off while we were there, even during the music. On the bed next to the doorway was a little boy, about seven years old. He nodded when my guide asked if he wanted to hear some music, his eyes wide open with a hint of nervousness. His mother sat next to the bed, holding his hands in silence. It was evident that the mother and son tried to keep calm from all the commotion across the curtain, but it was not easy. We stayed for just a few minutes as more doctors started coming in, snapping latex gloves on their hands.
I will never forget the first time I heard a cry like that. It was my first day in rehab, a few weeks after the hemorrhage. I lay on a mat in the occupational therapy room, unable to even turn to my side and get a good look of the room. As I stared at the ceiling, the most unpleasant sound I have ever heard came from across the room. It was a cry of pain, distress and total disinhibition. A ball of anger rose in my chest. Aren't we all in a very bad situation? How can this person be such a baby and make noises like that?
I later found out that the person was a forty-year-old mother of three who suffered from a ruptured aneurysm. She had a beautiful name, Chiulan, meaning "Autumn Orchid" in Chinese. Her sisters (six of them) took turns taking care of her in the hospital. The moment I saw her I reproached myself for ever holding a grudge against her. She had very limited mobility, suffered from muscle spasms all over, and could not control herself from outbursts. A huge surgical scar draped across the side of her head, barely covered by her choppy hair. Her eyes--small and round on a delicate face--showed that she was no longer there in that body.
I spent everyday with Chiulan for five months, either doing exercises next to her or hearing her scream across the room. When I left the hospital and went home at the end of five months, she was still there. I still think of her sometimes. I wonder how she is.
We slowly approached the room. My guide stuck her head in there a few times before deciding that it was appropriate for us to go in. The room was shared by two patients, and the cry came from the inside bed, which we could not see because it was blocked by the curtain. Whoever made that heart-wrenching sound was clearly in a lot of pain, because the wailing continued on and off while we were there, even during the music. On the bed next to the doorway was a little boy, about seven years old. He nodded when my guide asked if he wanted to hear some music, his eyes wide open with a hint of nervousness. His mother sat next to the bed, holding his hands in silence. It was evident that the mother and son tried to keep calm from all the commotion across the curtain, but it was not easy. We stayed for just a few minutes as more doctors started coming in, snapping latex gloves on their hands.
I will never forget the first time I heard a cry like that. It was my first day in rehab, a few weeks after the hemorrhage. I lay on a mat in the occupational therapy room, unable to even turn to my side and get a good look of the room. As I stared at the ceiling, the most unpleasant sound I have ever heard came from across the room. It was a cry of pain, distress and total disinhibition. A ball of anger rose in my chest. Aren't we all in a very bad situation? How can this person be such a baby and make noises like that?
I later found out that the person was a forty-year-old mother of three who suffered from a ruptured aneurysm. She had a beautiful name, Chiulan, meaning "Autumn Orchid" in Chinese. Her sisters (six of them) took turns taking care of her in the hospital. The moment I saw her I reproached myself for ever holding a grudge against her. She had very limited mobility, suffered from muscle spasms all over, and could not control herself from outbursts. A huge surgical scar draped across the side of her head, barely covered by her choppy hair. Her eyes--small and round on a delicate face--showed that she was no longer there in that body.
I spent everyday with Chiulan for five months, either doing exercises next to her or hearing her scream across the room. When I left the hospital and went home at the end of five months, she was still there. I still think of her sometimes. I wonder how she is.
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Another night
Autumn is really here--leaves are changing color, falling, and people are wrapped in more and more layers, walking faster and faster on the street, against the growing breeze. We are officially heading toward the end of the year. Time flies.
I went to the children's hospital after work today. Halloween is my least favorite day of the year, but I keep reminding myself that this is another day that God has given us, no matter what the world makes it to be. I dusted off the fatigue from a day at the office, pumped a little cheerfulness into my steps, remembering for a second to be thankful for the ability to travel by myself and feel my violin case on my shoulders.
We visited the pediatric ICU, the epilepsy unit, and the oncology unit tonight. Part of the reason why we were able to cover so much "ground" was because many children we saw were so ill that we could not visit them. Despite all the festivities outside of the hospital and even in the corridor (the hospital really made an effort in decorating, and some of the staff even dressed up), there were rooms that were off-limit to the world outside. Some of them were so dark inside that we could hardly see the children on the bed or the parents who spent many sleepless nights on the sofa next to them. My guide, who dressed up as a pink fairy, tried to bring some "atmosphere" into each room by flapping the shiny plastic wings on her back. Some children were clearly excited to see that, but some could care less.
With every piece of music I bring, I prayed for each child. They need so much more than what we were able to bring--but maybe what we bring is part of what they need.
I went to the children's hospital after work today. Halloween is my least favorite day of the year, but I keep reminding myself that this is another day that God has given us, no matter what the world makes it to be. I dusted off the fatigue from a day at the office, pumped a little cheerfulness into my steps, remembering for a second to be thankful for the ability to travel by myself and feel my violin case on my shoulders.
We visited the pediatric ICU, the epilepsy unit, and the oncology unit tonight. Part of the reason why we were able to cover so much "ground" was because many children we saw were so ill that we could not visit them. Despite all the festivities outside of the hospital and even in the corridor (the hospital really made an effort in decorating, and some of the staff even dressed up), there were rooms that were off-limit to the world outside. Some of them were so dark inside that we could hardly see the children on the bed or the parents who spent many sleepless nights on the sofa next to them. My guide, who dressed up as a pink fairy, tried to bring some "atmosphere" into each room by flapping the shiny plastic wings on her back. Some children were clearly excited to see that, but some could care less.
With every piece of music I bring, I prayed for each child. They need so much more than what we were able to bring--but maybe what we bring is part of what they need.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Turning inward
On my way home yesterday after playing at an oncology unit, I reflected on what I could write. I could write about the middle-age daughter of an elderly patient who broke down into tears as I played "Amazing Grace"; I could write about the "picture-perfect" old couple who listened with as much enthusiasm as grandparents listen to their grandchild; I could write about the young man who wanted me to "lift" his spirits even though "they weren't really low, you know"; I could also write about the last patient I played for the night--an Asian gentleman who sat up so straight on his chair and looked so serious that I felt like I was being auditioned.
I could write about all of these. But somehow, my thoughts turned to myself as I watched the tiny spots of lit windows and passing cars reflected on the Hudson.
A chain of questions kept on repeating in my head: Did I do enough? Did I play well enough? Was there anything I could have done that I did not do? Somehow, the appreciative words, smiles and tears of the strangers could not convince me that I did something worthwhile. My mind went numb from the pounding of these questions, going on and on like a broken record.
I was then reminded of the words of my pastor, spoken a while ago in a Sunday sermon. He talked about the danger of reflecting inward. No matter what one has done, how much one has invested in it, it is always possible to find a hole somewhere in there that isn't filled (or one may think that she has found a hole). Discouragement can easily and quickly snowball to the extent of losing all motivation to keep going. Something that started as self-evaluation (if left unchecked) can not only become overly critical, but even destructive to a mission we have been given.
The "trick" is not psychological maneuver. We have all tried that, but it seldom works. The truth is, we are mere instruments of God, who puts those who belong to Him in places where they can shine the most for Him and benefit those around them. Just as the basic requirement for a violin is to stay in tune and allow the violinist to do his part, all I have to do is to continue being there for those around me. It is my lifelong aspiration to be God's violin, to make music for Him. He alone knows what He is playing and what those who listen need to hear.
I could write about all of these. But somehow, my thoughts turned to myself as I watched the tiny spots of lit windows and passing cars reflected on the Hudson.
A chain of questions kept on repeating in my head: Did I do enough? Did I play well enough? Was there anything I could have done that I did not do? Somehow, the appreciative words, smiles and tears of the strangers could not convince me that I did something worthwhile. My mind went numb from the pounding of these questions, going on and on like a broken record.
I was then reminded of the words of my pastor, spoken a while ago in a Sunday sermon. He talked about the danger of reflecting inward. No matter what one has done, how much one has invested in it, it is always possible to find a hole somewhere in there that isn't filled (or one may think that she has found a hole). Discouragement can easily and quickly snowball to the extent of losing all motivation to keep going. Something that started as self-evaluation (if left unchecked) can not only become overly critical, but even destructive to a mission we have been given.
The "trick" is not psychological maneuver. We have all tried that, but it seldom works. The truth is, we are mere instruments of God, who puts those who belong to Him in places where they can shine the most for Him and benefit those around them. Just as the basic requirement for a violin is to stay in tune and allow the violinist to do his part, all I have to do is to continue being there for those around me. It is my lifelong aspiration to be God's violin, to make music for Him. He alone knows what He is playing and what those who listen need to hear.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Making & sustaining a difference
There was quite some commotion in the hallway of the PICU. A child was screaming, and the piercing cry resonated through the entire floor. A small crowd of doctors and nurses gathered in front of the room, folding arms and scratching heads. A particular smile was found on their faces--a mixture of pity and helplessness. Nothing short of sedative seemed to be able to calm the child down, and the chuckles and sighs of the adults betrayed their frustration at the situation.
"You need to come and play in this room!" One of them saw me coming from another room and called me across the hall. The others turned around and looked at me. "Something to calm the poor kid down. Some sort of lullaby." They laughed as a nurse walked out from the room, shaking her head. "Oh, boy."
I walked in, and there he was, the little screamer. He was only three years old, sitting inside one of those PICU cribs that looked more like a cage than a bed. My heart sank when I saw him: his head was bandaged and his eyes were so incredibly swollen that they looked like two mini donuts sticking out from his face. The poor child was screaming on the top of his lungs because he could not open his eyes and therefore could not see. He was scared out of his wits. His mother was not in the room, and his grandmother sat at a corner, not knowing what to do.
I stood as close to the crib as possible and started to play "Rock-a-by Baby". The screaming immediately ceased as the little boy turned his head slightly to the music, a shadow of surprise crossed his face. Sighs of relief came from outside as the small crowd of doctors and nurses dispersed to their respective positions. The grandmother was overjoyed as she came to the crib, touching the child's arm through the railings. The little boy whimpered, grabbing her hand with both of his, trying to decide whether to stay quiet and listen or to start screaming again. My guide suggested that the grandmother help the child lie down. "Perhaps he will fall asleep." But the moment she tried, he got ready to scream again. They decided to leave him be as I kept on playing. After a few seconds, the little boy decided to lie down on his own. However, the reality soon hit him that he still could not see and did not have any control over his surrounding. He started crying again. And as much as I wanted to stay with him the whole night, it was time to move on to the other rooms.
Nothing touches a person like making an instant difference. The gratifying feeling is one of the biggest drives behind people who decide to volunteer their time and gifts. It is moments like these when we are sure of our role in this world: to not simply live for ourselves, but to also live for the benefit of others. However, there is only so much that one person can do. The real difference sustains when we all decide, in one way or the other, to care for more than "me" and "mine".
"You need to come and play in this room!" One of them saw me coming from another room and called me across the hall. The others turned around and looked at me. "Something to calm the poor kid down. Some sort of lullaby." They laughed as a nurse walked out from the room, shaking her head. "Oh, boy."
I walked in, and there he was, the little screamer. He was only three years old, sitting inside one of those PICU cribs that looked more like a cage than a bed. My heart sank when I saw him: his head was bandaged and his eyes were so incredibly swollen that they looked like two mini donuts sticking out from his face. The poor child was screaming on the top of his lungs because he could not open his eyes and therefore could not see. He was scared out of his wits. His mother was not in the room, and his grandmother sat at a corner, not knowing what to do.
I stood as close to the crib as possible and started to play "Rock-a-by Baby". The screaming immediately ceased as the little boy turned his head slightly to the music, a shadow of surprise crossed his face. Sighs of relief came from outside as the small crowd of doctors and nurses dispersed to their respective positions. The grandmother was overjoyed as she came to the crib, touching the child's arm through the railings. The little boy whimpered, grabbing her hand with both of his, trying to decide whether to stay quiet and listen or to start screaming again. My guide suggested that the grandmother help the child lie down. "Perhaps he will fall asleep." But the moment she tried, he got ready to scream again. They decided to leave him be as I kept on playing. After a few seconds, the little boy decided to lie down on his own. However, the reality soon hit him that he still could not see and did not have any control over his surrounding. He started crying again. And as much as I wanted to stay with him the whole night, it was time to move on to the other rooms.
Nothing touches a person like making an instant difference. The gratifying feeling is one of the biggest drives behind people who decide to volunteer their time and gifts. It is moments like these when we are sure of our role in this world: to not simply live for ourselves, but to also live for the benefit of others. However, there is only so much that one person can do. The real difference sustains when we all decide, in one way or the other, to care for more than "me" and "mine".
Encounter with a connoisseur
Playing for infants is always a special experience. It is the only time when I can decide what to play without having to worry about age-appropriateness and cultural preferences. It is almost as if infants are the wisest of all--whatever you play, they understand. One can, of course, take a cynical look at it and say that whatever you play, they do not care. They keep on sleeping, or staring, or exercising their little arms and legs in random motions. Who really knows what goes on in those tiny little heads?
I played for a little fella last night, who was about 2 months old. His eyes were closed, and his hands curled slightly before his torso, like all babies do. He had soft black hair on the top of his head, and looked like a short, goofy old man (I mean that in the most endearing way). I could not tell if he was already asleep because even though his eyes were closed, he moved his arms and legs once in a while, side to side, like a dance. It was impossible to look at this baby and not smile. He had such a comedic air about him.
I played Brahms' lullaby to him on the D string, and the violin sang softly like a mother to her child. "Mi mi sol...mi mi sol...mi sol do si-la la sol..." To my surprise and delight, those little cheeks suddenly rose slightly, the mouth extended to either side, and a toothless smile surfaced. I noted that he smiled only when the melodic line went up (when there is supposedly more excitement in the melody), and when it went down to lower notes the cheeks came back down and the sweet, satisfying smile disappeared momentarily. Wanting to make sure that my primary assessment was correct, I played the piece again, this time on a higher register. The same thing happened again. He opened his eyes lazily at some point to look at me, then shut them again. Each rise in melody still brought forth a satisfying little grin.
I will never know how many future musicians I have played for. None of them will ever remember that their first encounter with music was in a cold and lonely place called the pediatric intensive care unit.
I played for a little fella last night, who was about 2 months old. His eyes were closed, and his hands curled slightly before his torso, like all babies do. He had soft black hair on the top of his head, and looked like a short, goofy old man (I mean that in the most endearing way). I could not tell if he was already asleep because even though his eyes were closed, he moved his arms and legs once in a while, side to side, like a dance. It was impossible to look at this baby and not smile. He had such a comedic air about him.
I played Brahms' lullaby to him on the D string, and the violin sang softly like a mother to her child. "Mi mi sol...mi mi sol...mi sol do si-la la sol..." To my surprise and delight, those little cheeks suddenly rose slightly, the mouth extended to either side, and a toothless smile surfaced. I noted that he smiled only when the melodic line went up (when there is supposedly more excitement in the melody), and when it went down to lower notes the cheeks came back down and the sweet, satisfying smile disappeared momentarily. Wanting to make sure that my primary assessment was correct, I played the piece again, this time on a higher register. The same thing happened again. He opened his eyes lazily at some point to look at me, then shut them again. Each rise in melody still brought forth a satisfying little grin.
I will never know how many future musicians I have played for. None of them will ever remember that their first encounter with music was in a cold and lonely place called the pediatric intensive care unit.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Feeling appreciated
Up until recently, I have always thought that I, as a volunteer musician, was the one who brought encouragement and comfort to the hospital rooms. This did not stem from self-importance (how could it when half of the time I did not know what I was going to play until I actually started playing?), it was merely assumed from the setting and the nature of the interaction between us volunteers and the folks we meet in the hospitals. Simply put, we go to visit them, we ask if they want to hear some music, we provide the music. They are the ones who receive the gift and thank us afterward with a smile or a hug.
I met a special lady last week. My guide was particularly excited about going to her room because he told me that "she just didn't seem like she would say yes." The minute I saw her I understood what he meant. The small elderly woman lay in a dark room all by herself, attached to tubes of all sizes that were connected to machines that hummed and puffed around her. The only part of her face I could see were half-opened eyes--all other features were covered by a huge plastic mask. Next to her bed was a small radio through which two men were talking on top of each other.
She nodded her head once when my guide went in and announced me, and her frail hands moved slightly above the bed cover. I walked in cautiously, stopping further from the bed than I normally would. The room had a strange and somber loneliness to it, even with the two talk-show hosts debating and the machines giving their own two cents. The entire atmosphere was slightly intimidating, giving one the sense that if a small mistake was made, the old lady would suffer dire consequences. I gently held the violin to my chin without asking what my audience would like to hear. An idea persisted in my head: I just wanted to do what I came to do without disturbing the lady more than necessary.
She interrupted me right before the first note came through. Her frail hands trembled as she raised them to get my attention. "Yes, ma'am?" I squeaked, knowing full well that she would not be able to tell me what she needed. She pointed to her left, her hand wavered so much that it appeared as if she was outlining the wall. I was confused. I looked to the door, but my guide had already gone to the next room and there was no one else around. I quickly remembered from my hospital days how I used to hate it when some visitors would take a look at me, assumed that I was altogether incapacitated just because I lay in a hospital bed, and addressed all inquiries to the others in the room who were standing up. I moved closer to her. "What can I do for you, ma'am?" I asked and tried my best to look at where she was pointing.
Of course, the radio! I fumbled through the little black chatterbox, finally finding the button that shuts it down. Peace and quiet in the room, except for the steady whooshing noise from the machines. I returned to the end of the bed, positioned myself and started to play. I still couldn't see the expression of the lady, though I knew by the blinking of her eyes that she was wide awake and was looking straight at me. After two phrases, she made a small clapping motion. I smiled at her and kept going. She put down her hands, listened to about five more phrases, and started to clap again. This time, the clapping continued and she kind of waved at me.
I stopped, said good-night, and turned to leave. She waved again and extended her trembling left hand. Somehow knowing what it meant, I went closer to her and held her hand. Her beautiful blue eyes twinkled with a smile that could not be concealed by the plastic mask.
The smile and those labored hand gestures stayed with me. This experience reminded me of a previous encounter and added more to it. I realized that for some people it is important to not only feel normal when they lie on a sickbed, but to continue being encouraging and appreciative of others who try their best to make their pain a little more tolerable. The lady may not have liked music very much, she may have wanted to sleep through the discomfort of all the tubes in her, but she went out of her way and made me feel...well, appreciated, and that what we do is worthwhile.
I don't know how pleasant I made her night, but she sure made mine.
I met a special lady last week. My guide was particularly excited about going to her room because he told me that "she just didn't seem like she would say yes." The minute I saw her I understood what he meant. The small elderly woman lay in a dark room all by herself, attached to tubes of all sizes that were connected to machines that hummed and puffed around her. The only part of her face I could see were half-opened eyes--all other features were covered by a huge plastic mask. Next to her bed was a small radio through which two men were talking on top of each other.
She nodded her head once when my guide went in and announced me, and her frail hands moved slightly above the bed cover. I walked in cautiously, stopping further from the bed than I normally would. The room had a strange and somber loneliness to it, even with the two talk-show hosts debating and the machines giving their own two cents. The entire atmosphere was slightly intimidating, giving one the sense that if a small mistake was made, the old lady would suffer dire consequences. I gently held the violin to my chin without asking what my audience would like to hear. An idea persisted in my head: I just wanted to do what I came to do without disturbing the lady more than necessary.
She interrupted me right before the first note came through. Her frail hands trembled as she raised them to get my attention. "Yes, ma'am?" I squeaked, knowing full well that she would not be able to tell me what she needed. She pointed to her left, her hand wavered so much that it appeared as if she was outlining the wall. I was confused. I looked to the door, but my guide had already gone to the next room and there was no one else around. I quickly remembered from my hospital days how I used to hate it when some visitors would take a look at me, assumed that I was altogether incapacitated just because I lay in a hospital bed, and addressed all inquiries to the others in the room who were standing up. I moved closer to her. "What can I do for you, ma'am?" I asked and tried my best to look at where she was pointing.
Of course, the radio! I fumbled through the little black chatterbox, finally finding the button that shuts it down. Peace and quiet in the room, except for the steady whooshing noise from the machines. I returned to the end of the bed, positioned myself and started to play. I still couldn't see the expression of the lady, though I knew by the blinking of her eyes that she was wide awake and was looking straight at me. After two phrases, she made a small clapping motion. I smiled at her and kept going. She put down her hands, listened to about five more phrases, and started to clap again. This time, the clapping continued and she kind of waved at me.
I stopped, said good-night, and turned to leave. She waved again and extended her trembling left hand. Somehow knowing what it meant, I went closer to her and held her hand. Her beautiful blue eyes twinkled with a smile that could not be concealed by the plastic mask.
The smile and those labored hand gestures stayed with me. This experience reminded me of a previous encounter and added more to it. I realized that for some people it is important to not only feel normal when they lie on a sickbed, but to continue being encouraging and appreciative of others who try their best to make their pain a little more tolerable. The lady may not have liked music very much, she may have wanted to sleep through the discomfort of all the tubes in her, but she went out of her way and made me feel...well, appreciated, and that what we do is worthwhile.
I don't know how pleasant I made her night, but she sure made mine.
Beautiful constant
It's a stressful time for me: carrying a bread-winner title in my family, waiting for the much anticipated and dreaded verdict from medical schools, and trying to prove to my boss that he can trust me, a recent graduate from college, with all of his clinical research projects.
All of the above + incurable Type A Personality = dwindling sanity
This is, of course, just the beginning. I keep reminding myself that if all goes according to plan, life will only become more hectic from now on. More responsibilities will fall on my shoulders (even if they don't, I know that I'll go look for them). If nothing goes according to plan...life goes on, and new challenges will still come my way. Either way, 'tis the season for training to be a stronger person, and there's no better time than now.
Amidst the chaos, music is still the one constant in my life. One beautiful constant. Whether playing at church or in hospital rooms, the world stops spinning out of control for a few precious moment, and things are...okay. Strangely, nothing portrayed by music--be it pain, sorrow or anger--can be anything but beautiful. The psalms in the Bible (many inspired by nothing but sheer anguish) touch and comfort as powerfully today as they did the moment they were first sung. Tears break free as the heavenly sound touches every fiber of being. They are not only a sign of relief, but also of healing.
Thank God for music, His music. Few other things in this world can free a soul from her faulty body, from all the wrongs around her, and give her a small taste of what Heaven will be like.
All of the above + incurable Type A Personality = dwindling sanity
This is, of course, just the beginning. I keep reminding myself that if all goes according to plan, life will only become more hectic from now on. More responsibilities will fall on my shoulders (even if they don't, I know that I'll go look for them). If nothing goes according to plan...life goes on, and new challenges will still come my way. Either way, 'tis the season for training to be a stronger person, and there's no better time than now.
Amidst the chaos, music is still the one constant in my life. One beautiful constant. Whether playing at church or in hospital rooms, the world stops spinning out of control for a few precious moment, and things are...okay. Strangely, nothing portrayed by music--be it pain, sorrow or anger--can be anything but beautiful. The psalms in the Bible (many inspired by nothing but sheer anguish) touch and comfort as powerfully today as they did the moment they were first sung. Tears break free as the heavenly sound touches every fiber of being. They are not only a sign of relief, but also of healing.
Thank God for music, His music. Few other things in this world can free a soul from her faulty body, from all the wrongs around her, and give her a small taste of what Heaven will be like.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Mimi
It is becoming increasingly clear to me that volunteers of MOC are bringing music to friends and relatives as much as they bring it to patients. There are few things in a hospital that patients and loved ones can enjoy together, and live music is definitely welcomed by many. However, behind the smiling faces is often something more than a simple, attentive audience.
**********************************************************
"Look, Mimi, a violinist has come to play for you!" a middle-aged woman said softly to an elderly woman, who was half-propped up on the bed. Mimi opened her eyes and looked at her daughter, confused by the strangers around her.
"Yeah, you like music--don't you, Mimi?" The daughter looked down at her, speaking as if to a small child. The confusion lingered on Mimi's face. The daughter pointed at me. "Music," she said. Mimi finally saw me and opened her mouth to say a silent "Oh!" She smiled to her daughter, who was beaming from ear to ear.
I began to play a soft but joyful melody, and a fresh green meadow covered with daisies came to mind. I painted and painted the picture with more and more colorful notes, trying to fill the room with sweet musical aroma of wild flowers. A gentle breeze came in, lifting tiny yellow petals off the floor and bringing them to the bed.
The daughter was delighted, but a slightly confused expression remained on Mimi's face. Something in her eyes told me that she did not really understand why I was there, and she could not see the flowers or smelled them. However, whenever the daughter turned her head from me to look at her mother, Mimi's face lit up. She smiled as her daughter mouthed the words "beautiful music!" and she looked at me as though she understood. As soon as the daughter turned away, the lonely and confused expression returned. The same thing repeated several times until the daughter put her hand on her mother's forehead. Mimi closed her eyes and stretched her neck, enjoying the gentle touch of someone who loved her so dearly.
This, after all, was what she needed.
**********************************************************
"Look, Mimi, a violinist has come to play for you!" a middle-aged woman said softly to an elderly woman, who was half-propped up on the bed. Mimi opened her eyes and looked at her daughter, confused by the strangers around her.
"Yeah, you like music--don't you, Mimi?" The daughter looked down at her, speaking as if to a small child. The confusion lingered on Mimi's face. The daughter pointed at me. "Music," she said. Mimi finally saw me and opened her mouth to say a silent "Oh!" She smiled to her daughter, who was beaming from ear to ear.
I began to play a soft but joyful melody, and a fresh green meadow covered with daisies came to mind. I painted and painted the picture with more and more colorful notes, trying to fill the room with sweet musical aroma of wild flowers. A gentle breeze came in, lifting tiny yellow petals off the floor and bringing them to the bed.
The daughter was delighted, but a slightly confused expression remained on Mimi's face. Something in her eyes told me that she did not really understand why I was there, and she could not see the flowers or smelled them. However, whenever the daughter turned her head from me to look at her mother, Mimi's face lit up. She smiled as her daughter mouthed the words "beautiful music!" and she looked at me as though she understood. As soon as the daughter turned away, the lonely and confused expression returned. The same thing repeated several times until the daughter put her hand on her mother's forehead. Mimi closed her eyes and stretched her neck, enjoying the gentle touch of someone who loved her so dearly.
This, after all, was what she needed.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Giving the little I have
I gathered my things, hurriedly put them into my bag and logged out of the computer. Reaching under the desk I pulled out my violin case, which sat by my feet the whole day with all the dust balls down there (Poor baby). I briskly said goodbye to everyone, humming myself out of the office doors. This week went by especially quickly, knowing that I was scheduled to play at a hospital downtown that evening. I couldn't wait.
But wait I must. For some reason (possibly the week-long General Assembly meeting at UN that's been causing traffic restrictions), the bus took forever to come. I stood at the bus stop, watching people getting closer and closer to the central lane, mumbling and stretching their necks to catch a hopeful glimpse of the bus, ignoring the cars whooshing by. My delightful anticipation gradually turned to anxious impatience, knowing that I would be 5, 10, 30 minutes late. If there's one thing that makes me "lose it", it's being late. The guilt of being unfashionably late is just too much to bear for me.
The bus finally came waddling by, completely packed. I found a seat, and for the next 40 minutes (which naturally felt like hours) tried to move it with my mind power. It was useless. The giant bug moved a couple of inches per minute, interrupted by sudden brakes that sent those who were standing accelerating violently forward, backward and then forward, like tall lumps of human jell-o.
Two bus and one cab rides later, I finally arrived at an hour after my scheduled starting time. My guide was graciously waiting and told me that we had an almost-record number of rooms to play for that night. With no time to waste, we hurried upstairs to the oncology floor without a chance to catch my breath. I sure hope that I have some music in me that hasn't fallen out of the bus on my way over, I thought.
As soon as I started playing in the first room, the exhaustion from a day's work and the ordeals of coming over flew right out of the windows. Feeling the music flowing through my fingers and hearing the melodies that have never before entered my head, I was in awe of how much and how little God asks of us. In the Books of Mark and Luke, it was written that Jesus watched the crowd putting their money into temple treasury. Many rich people gave large amounts but it was a poor widow who caught Jesus' attention by giving two small copper coins. Jesus said to his disciples, "I tell you the truth, this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything--all she had to live on." (Mark 12:43-44)
I may not have much to give at this point in my life, but all that I can give--my time, my music, and everything else--comes from Him to whom all good things belong. God never asks for too much; He only asks for all we have. "You should have called and cancelled," my guide told me repeatedly, concerned that I would be too tired to do the entire program for the night. But I wasn't tired at all--not when I could be Christ's hand extended. The blessing one receives in the process of giving is truly beyond imagination. I have received so much more than I gave, and I wasn't going to let a couple of inconveniences take away that blessing.
But wait I must. For some reason (possibly the week-long General Assembly meeting at UN that's been causing traffic restrictions), the bus took forever to come. I stood at the bus stop, watching people getting closer and closer to the central lane, mumbling and stretching their necks to catch a hopeful glimpse of the bus, ignoring the cars whooshing by. My delightful anticipation gradually turned to anxious impatience, knowing that I would be 5, 10, 30 minutes late. If there's one thing that makes me "lose it", it's being late. The guilt of being unfashionably late is just too much to bear for me.
The bus finally came waddling by, completely packed. I found a seat, and for the next 40 minutes (which naturally felt like hours) tried to move it with my mind power. It was useless. The giant bug moved a couple of inches per minute, interrupted by sudden brakes that sent those who were standing accelerating violently forward, backward and then forward, like tall lumps of human jell-o.
Two bus and one cab rides later, I finally arrived at an hour after my scheduled starting time. My guide was graciously waiting and told me that we had an almost-record number of rooms to play for that night. With no time to waste, we hurried upstairs to the oncology floor without a chance to catch my breath. I sure hope that I have some music in me that hasn't fallen out of the bus on my way over, I thought.
As soon as I started playing in the first room, the exhaustion from a day's work and the ordeals of coming over flew right out of the windows. Feeling the music flowing through my fingers and hearing the melodies that have never before entered my head, I was in awe of how much and how little God asks of us. In the Books of Mark and Luke, it was written that Jesus watched the crowd putting their money into temple treasury. Many rich people gave large amounts but it was a poor widow who caught Jesus' attention by giving two small copper coins. Jesus said to his disciples, "I tell you the truth, this poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything--all she had to live on." (Mark 12:43-44)
I may not have much to give at this point in my life, but all that I can give--my time, my music, and everything else--comes from Him to whom all good things belong. God never asks for too much; He only asks for all we have. "You should have called and cancelled," my guide told me repeatedly, concerned that I would be too tired to do the entire program for the night. But I wasn't tired at all--not when I could be Christ's hand extended. The blessing one receives in the process of giving is truly beyond imagination. I have received so much more than I gave, and I wasn't going to let a couple of inconveniences take away that blessing.
Friday, September 21, 2007
I miss MOC
The title says it all. I am usually not one for sentimentality, but the phrase "absence makes the heart grow fonder" rings true as I reflect on this week.
It's been a crazy week at work--lots of running around (literally), digging (data), transporting (data), and brooding (over more data). Earlier this week I found some premature gray hair on the left side of my head. Either the stress is manifesting itself in a novel way, or the old woman in me is finally surfacing after all these years.
There have many, many planned and spontaneous meetings about different diseases. People are referred to by last names or simply "the guy we did today" or "the woman with the huge aneurysm". Information on blood gases, electrolyte counts, etc, are entered into spreadsheets that go on forever. Things like favorite ice-cream flavor, when they first fell in love and their greatest hope and fear are nowhere to be found in there.
Amidst all of this, I realize how much I miss MOC. I miss going into a room simply to share with someone a tune that has just arrived into my head. I miss seeing smiles (and sometimes tears) on faces like mine--two eyes, one nose, one mouth--not numbers or symbols.
I miss the human aspect of medicine, not just the chemical or biological.
Till next week, I wish you all healthy and blessed days.
It's been a crazy week at work--lots of running around (literally), digging (data), transporting (data), and brooding (over more data). Earlier this week I found some premature gray hair on the left side of my head. Either the stress is manifesting itself in a novel way, or the old woman in me is finally surfacing after all these years.
There have many, many planned and spontaneous meetings about different diseases. People are referred to by last names or simply "the guy we did today" or "the woman with the huge aneurysm". Information on blood gases, electrolyte counts, etc, are entered into spreadsheets that go on forever. Things like favorite ice-cream flavor, when they first fell in love and their greatest hope and fear are nowhere to be found in there.
Amidst all of this, I realize how much I miss MOC. I miss going into a room simply to share with someone a tune that has just arrived into my head. I miss seeing smiles (and sometimes tears) on faces like mine--two eyes, one nose, one mouth--not numbers or symbols.
I miss the human aspect of medicine, not just the chemical or biological.
Till next week, I wish you all healthy and blessed days.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Believing for more
Today I had an interesting conversation with one of the people I work with. He is a neurologist who is familiar with my condition, although during the three years we have known each other we very seldom talked about it. As everyone else left at the end of the day, only the two of us remained in the office, finishing up our work.
"Hey...uh, as you know, I know about your, uh, medical history..." he started.
I looked up from the spreadsheet in front of me, slightly amused. From experience, I had a hunch where this was heading.
"How much did it really affect your playing?"
I quickly told him the well-practiced response I have given to countless people who cared to ask and explained that playing the violin requires different combinations of strength and dexterity that vary from technique to technique. As such, it's impossible to give a straight answer to his question. But bear in mind that I have recovered thus far from complete paralysis.
"Yes, yes, that's true..." He mumbled. He then began to tell me his experiences with patients who went through similar neurological traumas. "Young people like you tend to recover faster because you are healthier, more active and have greater neuroplasticity. However, you can't really expect to recover one hundred percent. After all, you took a pretty big fall." He concluded.
(I need to take a moment here to stress that the man is a respected and amiable person who believed that he was talking to a prospective medical student who has been reviewing cases with him all day, not a patient seeking counsel.)
I smiled and kept my mouth shut. My mind wandered to years ago when doctors took turns telling me that I would be forever confined to a wheelchair, that I needed to be strong psychologically and accept my limitations. One doctor, after being asked daily when I would be able to play again, simply told me one day, "Look, can you really expect a ballerina who had a stroke to dance again? You are asking quite a lot!"
I can't say if I can expect this hypothetical ballerina to dance again, but I do know that the violinist is playing again. Some people rejoice with me, knowing full well where my healing comes from, but some others (mostly those who were not with me during this long journey of recovery) attribute it to things like "neuroplasticity" and "strong will". A grateful heart knows, no matter what others tell her, that she has been the recipient of supernatural grace, and a faithful heart knows that she can keep on believing for more because her Maker is without any conceivable limit.
"It's nice that you are playing again," my friend said, before turning back to his desk.
No, it's not just nice. It's a miracle.
"Hey...uh, as you know, I know about your, uh, medical history..." he started.
I looked up from the spreadsheet in front of me, slightly amused. From experience, I had a hunch where this was heading.
"How much did it really affect your playing?"
I quickly told him the well-practiced response I have given to countless people who cared to ask and explained that playing the violin requires different combinations of strength and dexterity that vary from technique to technique. As such, it's impossible to give a straight answer to his question. But bear in mind that I have recovered thus far from complete paralysis.
"Yes, yes, that's true..." He mumbled. He then began to tell me his experiences with patients who went through similar neurological traumas. "Young people like you tend to recover faster because you are healthier, more active and have greater neuroplasticity. However, you can't really expect to recover one hundred percent. After all, you took a pretty big fall." He concluded.
(I need to take a moment here to stress that the man is a respected and amiable person who believed that he was talking to a prospective medical student who has been reviewing cases with him all day, not a patient seeking counsel.)
I smiled and kept my mouth shut. My mind wandered to years ago when doctors took turns telling me that I would be forever confined to a wheelchair, that I needed to be strong psychologically and accept my limitations. One doctor, after being asked daily when I would be able to play again, simply told me one day, "Look, can you really expect a ballerina who had a stroke to dance again? You are asking quite a lot!"
I can't say if I can expect this hypothetical ballerina to dance again, but I do know that the violinist is playing again. Some people rejoice with me, knowing full well where my healing comes from, but some others (mostly those who were not with me during this long journey of recovery) attribute it to things like "neuroplasticity" and "strong will". A grateful heart knows, no matter what others tell her, that she has been the recipient of supernatural grace, and a faithful heart knows that she can keep on believing for more because her Maker is without any conceivable limit.
"It's nice that you are playing again," my friend said, before turning back to his desk.
No, it's not just nice. It's a miracle.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Random thoughts on community vs. teaching hospitals
Volunteering with MOC has brought me to different hospitals in New York City. These short surveys obviously do not tell me much about the hospitals themselves, but they do give me a sense of the working environment I would like to have someday as a physician. When I first started volunteering I went to a very well-funded hospital, where the grateful gifts of its many well-to-do former patients were displayed everywhere on the floor and the walls. Some floors were carpeted entirely, and many rooms were labeled with smooth memorial plaques in remembrance of certain individuals who once lived there. Walking around in semi-casual outfit, passing through visitors in suits with leather briefcases made me feel out of place, perhaps even under-dressed to bring my gift to the patients. This false impression fell apart quickly, of course, as I saw the faces of those who found some comfort in music. Those who are hurting in body are fundamentally the same everywhere (with some major differences that will not be further discussed here).
This week I went to a small community hospital that serves a neighborhood with big and diverse immigrant populations. As the car pulled in front of the hospital, I did not even realize that I have arrived because the six-story brick was so small to someone who is accustomed to gigantic teaching hospitals. There is a total of one elevator in the hospital, and when I commented to my guide on its small size, she laughed and said, "But somehow they manage to fit a stretcher in here." Despite its unimpressive appearance, there was something among the hospital staff that I have never seen elsewhere. They seemed to enjoy their job much more, and there was a genuine sense of comraderie among them. Furthermore, they seemed to have a closer relationship with their patients than those in bigger hospitals. Several nurses made sure that I visited their patients and even stayed to listen with them. There are, of course, several reasons one can imagine that contribute to this, a major one being the discrepancy in work load and perceived pressure. However, I can't help wondering whether one would actually receive better care in a small community hospital like this than in a rich teaching hospital, where the staff is overworked and overwhelmed by administration politics on the side. Something to think about.
This week I went to a small community hospital that serves a neighborhood with big and diverse immigrant populations. As the car pulled in front of the hospital, I did not even realize that I have arrived because the six-story brick was so small to someone who is accustomed to gigantic teaching hospitals. There is a total of one elevator in the hospital, and when I commented to my guide on its small size, she laughed and said, "But somehow they manage to fit a stretcher in here." Despite its unimpressive appearance, there was something among the hospital staff that I have never seen elsewhere. They seemed to enjoy their job much more, and there was a genuine sense of comraderie among them. Furthermore, they seemed to have a closer relationship with their patients than those in bigger hospitals. Several nurses made sure that I visited their patients and even stayed to listen with them. There are, of course, several reasons one can imagine that contribute to this, a major one being the discrepancy in work load and perceived pressure. However, I can't help wondering whether one would actually receive better care in a small community hospital like this than in a rich teaching hospital, where the staff is overworked and overwhelmed by administration politics on the side. Something to think about.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Untitled
I felt like an intruder standing outside the room, surrounded by people--people with bloodshot eyes, sniffling and whispering to one another. Some of them glanced my way, probably wondering why I was standing among them with violin and bow in my hands, but curiosity was quickly overtaken by grief--grief that numbed all senses, killing slowly but surely. Through the glass walls I saw a small body on the bed, unaware of all the locomotion that was going on around her. She was letting go. Her body could not take the suffering much longer.
The family requested the happy birthday song. A male representative of the family told us that her birthday is the 26th of this month, "but she is not likely to..." he stopped abruptly to look at the woman beside him, the child's mother. She was in a trance-like state, oblivious to the crowd and the quiet chaos around her. A little girl of about six years old ran to her, clinging onto her dress. She slowly stroked her hair with one hand, while resting the other hand on her pregnant belly. Beside her, another woman spoke to her softly in a foreign tongue, but she did not seem to hear. Her glance floated across the glass walls into the room and rested on the small body inside. There was no life on the mother's face, as there was none on the pale little face of her daughter. Grief has taken it from one, while death was slowly claiming it from the other.
Half a dozen pairs of eyes turned to me as I explained in Mandarin what I have been requested to play. I could have had a horn grown out of my forehead and would not arouse any more response from this group of grieving friends and relatives. I quietly put the bow on the violin.
As the quiet melody slowly flowed out, filling the deadly silence, the mother suddenly burst into the room, sobbing and speaking agitatedly. She went to her daughter's side, tears shedding on her unresponsive and tightly shut eyes. She desperately called her name, but an invisible wall separated the mother and daughter, making the few inches between them seem like a distance of increasing miles.
We could still hear the grieving mother when we visited a couple of rooms down the corridor. I thought of my own mother, who went through the same thing seven years ago at an intensive care unit. I do not remember what happened then, as I was constantly in and out of consciousness. She, however, would remember it for the rest of her life. Even though these past seven years have been difficult for both of us, more so than anyone who has not gone through similar things could understand, we carry with us a strong awareness of responsibility that keeps us going through all obstacles. It is the responsibility of being alive, the responsibility of taking breaths, the responsibility of having a pumping heart, a working brain, all the hemoglobin-carrying erythrocytes in our blood, and much more.
My heart goes out to the little girl's mother, and all mothers and fathers who have lost or are losing the precious gifts that have been entrusted them. Times like this remind us to mourn with those who mourn. Times like this also remind those of us who are still living in this world to ask ourselves what we are doing today with the life we have been so graciously given.
The family requested the happy birthday song. A male representative of the family told us that her birthday is the 26th of this month, "but she is not likely to..." he stopped abruptly to look at the woman beside him, the child's mother. She was in a trance-like state, oblivious to the crowd and the quiet chaos around her. A little girl of about six years old ran to her, clinging onto her dress. She slowly stroked her hair with one hand, while resting the other hand on her pregnant belly. Beside her, another woman spoke to her softly in a foreign tongue, but she did not seem to hear. Her glance floated across the glass walls into the room and rested on the small body inside. There was no life on the mother's face, as there was none on the pale little face of her daughter. Grief has taken it from one, while death was slowly claiming it from the other.
Half a dozen pairs of eyes turned to me as I explained in Mandarin what I have been requested to play. I could have had a horn grown out of my forehead and would not arouse any more response from this group of grieving friends and relatives. I quietly put the bow on the violin.
As the quiet melody slowly flowed out, filling the deadly silence, the mother suddenly burst into the room, sobbing and speaking agitatedly. She went to her daughter's side, tears shedding on her unresponsive and tightly shut eyes. She desperately called her name, but an invisible wall separated the mother and daughter, making the few inches between them seem like a distance of increasing miles.
We could still hear the grieving mother when we visited a couple of rooms down the corridor. I thought of my own mother, who went through the same thing seven years ago at an intensive care unit. I do not remember what happened then, as I was constantly in and out of consciousness. She, however, would remember it for the rest of her life. Even though these past seven years have been difficult for both of us, more so than anyone who has not gone through similar things could understand, we carry with us a strong awareness of responsibility that keeps us going through all obstacles. It is the responsibility of being alive, the responsibility of taking breaths, the responsibility of having a pumping heart, a working brain, all the hemoglobin-carrying erythrocytes in our blood, and much more.
My heart goes out to the little girl's mother, and all mothers and fathers who have lost or are losing the precious gifts that have been entrusted them. Times like this remind us to mourn with those who mourn. Times like this also remind those of us who are still living in this world to ask ourselves what we are doing today with the life we have been so graciously given.
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Little people
Playing for children is a completely different experience from playing for adults. Musically, it is less challenging (A couple of Disney songs and simple nursery tunes can bring down the house), but it is equally, if not more, rewarding. Those little eyes light up, a timid smile sneaks up on their faces, and chubby little hands stretch out to touch the violin. For a moment, the children's intensive care unit loses its gloom as parents and children share a few minutes of musical bliss.
*****************************************************************
Mommy holds a camcorder in her hand, waiting to record the "concert" to show Daddy, Grandma, Aunt Annie and cousins at home. Everybody is ready. Jack's sisters sit on each side of the bed, waiting. Even Dr. Scruffy (a stuffed toy cat in scrubs), lying by Jack's side, is ready.
"What's that?" Jack points my way.
"That's a bow. You put it on the violin to make the sound."
"What's that?" The little finger shifted slightly to the left.
"That's...the violin. It's where the music will come from."
"No," the finger persists. "What is...that?"
Everyone turned around. There it was--the object of much fascination to every child I encounter, hanging by the sink.
"That's my cane. It helps me walk."
My little audience was satisfied. Now the concert may begin.
*****************************************************************
Sleeping Beauty was on TV. As I entered, she had just met Prince Philip in the enchanted forest, and was now dancing and singing to the birds. A very comical owl batted his eye lashes.
"How about a song from Sleeping Beauty?" I asked. A little boy of six on the bed nodded his head. Next to him, his mommy held his younger sister on her lap, who fidgeted around and whispered excitedly, "A violin! A violin!"
It has been a while. Good thing the melody quickly came to my head. Amazing.
"I'm going to be a rock star!" The boy announced as the song ended. He stuck out his tongue, the way little kids do when they tell you something of great importance and wait for your shocked response. "You are?! Wow!"
"I am going to be a rock star, too!" The little sister shouted.
******************************************************************
Last night was the first time that I met families who spoke Chinese. When my guide tried to explain to a young couple who was staying with their baby about Musicians On Call, they quickly waved their hands at her, saying, "No! No!" (Hand-waving in Chinese culture means no and/or good-bye).
Thinking that they might not have understood her, my guide pulled back the curtain to show me in the doorway. "Wait! Wait!" she said.
When they saw me and my violin, they suddenly understood. "Bao bao yao bu yao ting ying yue? ('Would the baby like to hear some music?')" I asked. "How ah ('Okay')!" they smiled, taking the baby from the crib, who fussed a little bit.
I played a couple of Chinese nursery tunes that I remembered from childhood. Most American children would not have recognized them, but the young parents were ecstatic and sang along while their baby moved to the music.
*****************************************************************
We came to a room where a little Mexican girl stayed. My guide quickly explained in Spanish to the family what was going on.
"Tienes una canción favorita?" I asked. Three semesters of Spanish in college are really paying off.
"Um..." The girl thought for a moment, tapping her finger on her chin. "Um...Do you know?"
"Do I know what?"
"Do You Know?"
"Do I know...what?" I was confused. Her mother started laughing. The light bulb in my head suddenly went on.
"Oh, that's the name of the song! No, I'm sorry, I don't." I ended up playing something else for her, but we all had quite a good laugh from that short exchange. (I just googled "Do you know", which turns out to be a popular song by Enrique Iglesias. What can I say? I am the slowest person on earth when it comes to pop culture, including music.)
*****************************************************************
The night ended with a little boy in a dark room, who was not in the best of moods. My guide, a music therapist in the hospital who is excellent with kids, told him, "This is a really, really special night tonight. You know why? Because our violinist here has toured the whole hospital, and you are the special boy who gets to hear the last concert of the night. She is here now, playing just for you."
The little face lighted up.
That moment, I was reminded again of exactly what makes Musicians On Call special. That little smile makes it all worthwhile.
*****************************************************************
Mommy holds a camcorder in her hand, waiting to record the "concert" to show Daddy, Grandma, Aunt Annie and cousins at home. Everybody is ready. Jack's sisters sit on each side of the bed, waiting. Even Dr. Scruffy (a stuffed toy cat in scrubs), lying by Jack's side, is ready.
"What's that?" Jack points my way.
"That's a bow. You put it on the violin to make the sound."
"What's that?" The little finger shifted slightly to the left.
"That's...the violin. It's where the music will come from."
"No," the finger persists. "What is...that?"
Everyone turned around. There it was--the object of much fascination to every child I encounter, hanging by the sink.
"That's my cane. It helps me walk."
My little audience was satisfied. Now the concert may begin.
*****************************************************************
Sleeping Beauty was on TV. As I entered, she had just met Prince Philip in the enchanted forest, and was now dancing and singing to the birds. A very comical owl batted his eye lashes.
"How about a song from Sleeping Beauty?" I asked. A little boy of six on the bed nodded his head. Next to him, his mommy held his younger sister on her lap, who fidgeted around and whispered excitedly, "A violin! A violin!"
It has been a while. Good thing the melody quickly came to my head. Amazing.
"I'm going to be a rock star!" The boy announced as the song ended. He stuck out his tongue, the way little kids do when they tell you something of great importance and wait for your shocked response. "You are?! Wow!"
"I am going to be a rock star, too!" The little sister shouted.
******************************************************************
Last night was the first time that I met families who spoke Chinese. When my guide tried to explain to a young couple who was staying with their baby about Musicians On Call, they quickly waved their hands at her, saying, "No! No!" (Hand-waving in Chinese culture means no and/or good-bye).
Thinking that they might not have understood her, my guide pulled back the curtain to show me in the doorway. "Wait! Wait!" she said.
When they saw me and my violin, they suddenly understood. "Bao bao yao bu yao ting ying yue? ('Would the baby like to hear some music?')" I asked. "How ah ('Okay')!" they smiled, taking the baby from the crib, who fussed a little bit.
I played a couple of Chinese nursery tunes that I remembered from childhood. Most American children would not have recognized them, but the young parents were ecstatic and sang along while their baby moved to the music.
*****************************************************************
We came to a room where a little Mexican girl stayed. My guide quickly explained in Spanish to the family what was going on.
"Tienes una canción favorita?" I asked. Three semesters of Spanish in college are really paying off.
"Um..." The girl thought for a moment, tapping her finger on her chin. "Um...Do you know?"
"Do I know what?"
"Do You Know?"
"Do I know...what?" I was confused. Her mother started laughing. The light bulb in my head suddenly went on.
"Oh, that's the name of the song! No, I'm sorry, I don't." I ended up playing something else for her, but we all had quite a good laugh from that short exchange. (I just googled "Do you know", which turns out to be a popular song by Enrique Iglesias. What can I say? I am the slowest person on earth when it comes to pop culture, including music.)
*****************************************************************
The night ended with a little boy in a dark room, who was not in the best of moods. My guide, a music therapist in the hospital who is excellent with kids, told him, "This is a really, really special night tonight. You know why? Because our violinist here has toured the whole hospital, and you are the special boy who gets to hear the last concert of the night. She is here now, playing just for you."
The little face lighted up.
That moment, I was reminded again of exactly what makes Musicians On Call special. That little smile makes it all worthwhile.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
Little things that matter
As sand grains sparkle under the moonlight, so do little things add together to compose life's blissful moments. It may not be possible to identify every individual thing that makes us happy because there often exist more than we are aware. One way to know is through loss and, hopefully, regain.
We know that music provides comfort to people. We operate under that assumption, and its truth is constantly being confirmed. But this week I learned that there is something more that makes a listener happy. A listener is not merely a passive recipient of what the musician provides--a listener is an active participant in a communication between two souls.
A son was caring for his elderly mother as I entered the room, whose face was half-covered by a breathing mask. The son asked me to play something by Kreisler. "How about Liebeslied?" I asked. "How about that! You like that piece, don't you?" He smiled at his mother, who wheezed under the mask, without expression. "She'd like that. Please go ahead."
As I played, mother and son listened attentively, as if I was telling a story that they have both heard many times but still enjoyed its familiarity. When the piece ended, the son grinned. "Wonderful!" he clapped. "Thank you, glad you enjoyed it," I picked up my cane and started to turn toward the door. "Good night!"
"Don't you think that's wonderful?" The son asked his mother, who continued wheezing softly, expressionless. "Would you like to clap?"
Her face suddenly changed. She turned her head slightly toward her son, her gaze quickly shifted between the two of us. I suddenly understood that look meant. How insensitive of me! I put down my cane and moved a little closer to the bed, waiting.
The son gently brought her two hands together, which hung lifelessly on either side of her body. She slowly raised her hands, palms touching, then separating. Once, twice. "Great!" the son beamed, even more excited than before. "You enjoyed the music, too!"
And then there it was, a smile on the mother's face. Not just any smile--it was a smile with a little satisfaction in it.
We know that music provides comfort to people. We operate under that assumption, and its truth is constantly being confirmed. But this week I learned that there is something more that makes a listener happy. A listener is not merely a passive recipient of what the musician provides--a listener is an active participant in a communication between two souls.
A son was caring for his elderly mother as I entered the room, whose face was half-covered by a breathing mask. The son asked me to play something by Kreisler. "How about Liebeslied?" I asked. "How about that! You like that piece, don't you?" He smiled at his mother, who wheezed under the mask, without expression. "She'd like that. Please go ahead."
As I played, mother and son listened attentively, as if I was telling a story that they have both heard many times but still enjoyed its familiarity. When the piece ended, the son grinned. "Wonderful!" he clapped. "Thank you, glad you enjoyed it," I picked up my cane and started to turn toward the door. "Good night!"
"Don't you think that's wonderful?" The son asked his mother, who continued wheezing softly, expressionless. "Would you like to clap?"
Her face suddenly changed. She turned her head slightly toward her son, her gaze quickly shifted between the two of us. I suddenly understood that look meant. How insensitive of me! I put down my cane and moved a little closer to the bed, waiting.
The son gently brought her two hands together, which hung lifelessly on either side of her body. She slowly raised her hands, palms touching, then separating. Once, twice. "Great!" the son beamed, even more excited than before. "You enjoyed the music, too!"
And then there it was, a smile on the mother's face. Not just any smile--it was a smile with a little satisfaction in it.
Friday, August 31, 2007
The blessing of giving
It has been a crazy week, and I am spent in every aspect, physically and emotionally. I had my semiannual cold, with fever, coughs, runny nose...the whole package. Other unpleasant things also came up, and I am, truly, tired. Those who know me well know that it takes a lot to wear me out, or at least to make me admit that I am tired.
Correction: I was tired. Not anymore.
On Wednesday, the day before my weekly program with Musicians On Call, I debated on whether to cancel it this week. The most obvious reason was that I should not go to the hospital with a cold. The last thing these folks need is to receive a gift of germs from me along with the music. Another reason for not going is that I was tired, irritable, and altogether not in the best of mood to do anything but to stay home and have a pity party with me and myself.
But I hate not doing something I had promised to do--"eat my words", as the Chinese say. More than that, I knew that pity parties never solve anything, as I have had quite a few in the past. The problems always grow bigger, the reasonable part of the brain becomes smaller, until at some point the former completely beat up the latter. The real solution--I have learned--is to turn the spotlight away from my own life and its imperfections and ask, "To whom can I be a blessing today?"
It is amazing the things God can do when we ask for something not for our sake, but for others'. I woke up yesterday refreshed, with a lovely, clear sinus. No more coughing, no more germy nastiness, I was simply ready to roll. There weren't many patients at the hospital last night, but I hope that for the few I was able to play for, their evening was made a little more pleasant. An elderly lady had "a terrible, terrible day", and the music squeezed a little smile from her. A gentleman whose daughter told the guide "good luck, he might bite your head off" when he asked whether her father would like to hear some music sat cheerfully in his wheelchair while I played for him in the hallway.
And my problems? They didn't quite go away...but they were so wimpy when I came home last night that they have been hiding in the closet since then.
Correction: I was tired. Not anymore.
On Wednesday, the day before my weekly program with Musicians On Call, I debated on whether to cancel it this week. The most obvious reason was that I should not go to the hospital with a cold. The last thing these folks need is to receive a gift of germs from me along with the music. Another reason for not going is that I was tired, irritable, and altogether not in the best of mood to do anything but to stay home and have a pity party with me and myself.
But I hate not doing something I had promised to do--"eat my words", as the Chinese say. More than that, I knew that pity parties never solve anything, as I have had quite a few in the past. The problems always grow bigger, the reasonable part of the brain becomes smaller, until at some point the former completely beat up the latter. The real solution--I have learned--is to turn the spotlight away from my own life and its imperfections and ask, "To whom can I be a blessing today?"
It is amazing the things God can do when we ask for something not for our sake, but for others'. I woke up yesterday refreshed, with a lovely, clear sinus. No more coughing, no more germy nastiness, I was simply ready to roll. There weren't many patients at the hospital last night, but I hope that for the few I was able to play for, their evening was made a little more pleasant. An elderly lady had "a terrible, terrible day", and the music squeezed a little smile from her. A gentleman whose daughter told the guide "good luck, he might bite your head off" when he asked whether her father would like to hear some music sat cheerfully in his wheelchair while I played for him in the hallway.
And my problems? They didn't quite go away...but they were so wimpy when I came home last night that they have been hiding in the closet since then.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Thoughts on my seventh anniversary
On August 27th, 2000, at five o'clock in the afternoon, I was taken from one life to begin another. Today marks the seventh anniversary.
I once had a dream, not long after the hemorrhage, that I was living in an ugly, gray concrete house. I was content to be in it, though there was nothing inside the house and I could not see or hear anything that was happening outside of it. One day came a storm, so strong that the four concrete walls crumbled down, and I was left without shelter. Desperate and homeless, I began a journey to find my real home. The journey was long and difficult. I could not see more than a few inches before me, and I was all alone. Each step was heavier than the last, and I was tired physically and emotionally. At times I thought of my old concrete house, "If only the storm didn't bring it down!" But it did. Deep down in me I knew it wasn't my real home anyway.
Just as I was about to collapse from exhaustion, I arrived. Before me was the most breathtakingly scenery, too beautiful for human imagination. It was a city of golden luminescence: everything was golden, including the sky and the path beneath my feet. On the distant horizon, a castle of gold stood majestically. Tears of joy poured down like rain, washing away all the sorrows, disappointments and doubts that clung on me during the journey. I started running, faster than I have ever ran, my feet felt as light as clouds. "I am home! I am finally home!"
Days before this seventh anniversary, I thought of the possibility that I would finally be "home"--as in the dream--when I wake up this morning. Perhaps I would finally be completely freed from this bodily prison, and that I can, from now on, run with feet of cloud. I can stand before the world, shouting on the top of my lungs, "I am freed! My difficult journey has ended! Celebrate with me!"
Last night I played and gave my testimony at Crossroads Tabernacle during its monthly "Audience of One" service. I talked about how God has healed me thus far, and that I was a walking miracle, alive and playing. Afterward the service, a member of the congregation asked me, "When did your healing take place?" I knew she meant: "When did you go to bed with complete paralysis, and woke up the next morning to find yourself suddenly able to walk with a cane and play the violin?"
We all love miracles, whether one believes in an almighty Creator or not. There is something amazingly pleasing to the human hearts to see something that requires an incredible amount of work to suddenly appear in thin air. The best part of it is that there is no waiting involved, an ability that I believe all humans are born without. That's why we all wish we have our own personal genie in a lamp to to say "your wish is my command" and to execute that command right away. I am not saying this to belittle human nature in anyway. I still wish, to this day, that I can receive complete healing right here, right now. Needless to say, this longing occupied a large part of my mind (sometimes all of it) during these past seven years.
But would I know what longing means if God would have completely healed me one day years ago? Would I know what to say (and what not to say) to someone else who is hurting, who is disappointed, who is trying to live a day at a time? Would I know what hope means without having to completely rely on it to make each day worthwhile? Would I know what love means without seeing it in its purest forms, without self-interest, without immediate reward and gratification?
It is my seventh anniversary today. And I am celebrating.
I once had a dream, not long after the hemorrhage, that I was living in an ugly, gray concrete house. I was content to be in it, though there was nothing inside the house and I could not see or hear anything that was happening outside of it. One day came a storm, so strong that the four concrete walls crumbled down, and I was left without shelter. Desperate and homeless, I began a journey to find my real home. The journey was long and difficult. I could not see more than a few inches before me, and I was all alone. Each step was heavier than the last, and I was tired physically and emotionally. At times I thought of my old concrete house, "If only the storm didn't bring it down!" But it did. Deep down in me I knew it wasn't my real home anyway.
Just as I was about to collapse from exhaustion, I arrived. Before me was the most breathtakingly scenery, too beautiful for human imagination. It was a city of golden luminescence: everything was golden, including the sky and the path beneath my feet. On the distant horizon, a castle of gold stood majestically. Tears of joy poured down like rain, washing away all the sorrows, disappointments and doubts that clung on me during the journey. I started running, faster than I have ever ran, my feet felt as light as clouds. "I am home! I am finally home!"
Days before this seventh anniversary, I thought of the possibility that I would finally be "home"--as in the dream--when I wake up this morning. Perhaps I would finally be completely freed from this bodily prison, and that I can, from now on, run with feet of cloud. I can stand before the world, shouting on the top of my lungs, "I am freed! My difficult journey has ended! Celebrate with me!"
Last night I played and gave my testimony at Crossroads Tabernacle during its monthly "Audience of One" service. I talked about how God has healed me thus far, and that I was a walking miracle, alive and playing. Afterward the service, a member of the congregation asked me, "When did your healing take place?" I knew she meant: "When did you go to bed with complete paralysis, and woke up the next morning to find yourself suddenly able to walk with a cane and play the violin?"
We all love miracles, whether one believes in an almighty Creator or not. There is something amazingly pleasing to the human hearts to see something that requires an incredible amount of work to suddenly appear in thin air. The best part of it is that there is no waiting involved, an ability that I believe all humans are born without. That's why we all wish we have our own personal genie in a lamp to to say "your wish is my command" and to execute that command right away. I am not saying this to belittle human nature in anyway. I still wish, to this day, that I can receive complete healing right here, right now. Needless to say, this longing occupied a large part of my mind (sometimes all of it) during these past seven years.
But would I know what longing means if God would have completely healed me one day years ago? Would I know what to say (and what not to say) to someone else who is hurting, who is disappointed, who is trying to live a day at a time? Would I know what hope means without having to completely rely on it to make each day worthwhile? Would I know what love means without seeing it in its purest forms, without self-interest, without immediate reward and gratification?
It is my seventh anniversary today. And I am celebrating.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Love begins
Tonight I met the first real challenge of volunteering for MOC. My mother tried to warn me about it two weeks ago, but I did not think it would come. At least not yet.
Tonight is the first night when I do not feel anything.
"Oh, yeah," you may be thinking, "That's a quick shift from the post you wrote the other day about the burden of too much feeling." True. I don't know what's worse: too much or too little. It's a constant debate.
Sixteen rooms requested music tonight, which is a relatively big number according to my guide. There weren't any less bravos than all the other nights, everyone was appreciative, and a few people were even so chatty that my guide had to come into the room and rescue me. But by the time we finished, I didn't feel like I really played for anyone. My mind was blank.
This was exactly what my mother tried to warn me. "There is going to be progressively less applause, and as the excitement of 'making someone's day' wears off, all of this will feel like routine," she said. "Then you need love to keep going."
"Love is patient, love is kind...it does not boast, it is not proud...it is not self-seeking." (1 Corinthians 13: 4-5) I once knew a girl who loved her spotlight. She would not admit it, but boy, did she love attention! The highlight of her life was to dress in a beautiful evening gown, walk briskly onto a stage with overwhelming applause, enjoying everyone's gaze and hearing "bravo" over and over again. She secretly took pride in knowing that all the little boys and girls who asked for her autograph wanted to be like her, and that no one dared make a sound in her concert because she was "that good".
That girl died seven years ago with a hemorrhage. Today, I walk with a cane in one hand and my violin and bow in the other. Instead of walking onto a stage lit up by spotlights, I walk into dark hospital rooms. Instead of showcasing months of practice to a well-dressed and admiring audience, I try to serve those who never expected to hear anything pleasant in a hospital except for "everything is fine, you are perfect...you can go home now".
Yet I am happier now than I was back in my performing days. I know that I am not playing for my own glorification, and I know that in a small way, my music is making a difference. Love keeps going when reward ceases and applause ends. It does not matter that I did not feel excitement tonight. That is not the reason why I play.
God is giving me a love for those I have never met and whom I will likely never meet again. When the time comes, I pray that He would let me do much more.
Tonight is the first night when I do not feel anything.
"Oh, yeah," you may be thinking, "That's a quick shift from the post you wrote the other day about the burden of too much feeling." True. I don't know what's worse: too much or too little. It's a constant debate.
Sixteen rooms requested music tonight, which is a relatively big number according to my guide. There weren't any less bravos than all the other nights, everyone was appreciative, and a few people were even so chatty that my guide had to come into the room and rescue me. But by the time we finished, I didn't feel like I really played for anyone. My mind was blank.
This was exactly what my mother tried to warn me. "There is going to be progressively less applause, and as the excitement of 'making someone's day' wears off, all of this will feel like routine," she said. "Then you need love to keep going."
"Love is patient, love is kind...it does not boast, it is not proud...it is not self-seeking." (1 Corinthians 13: 4-5) I once knew a girl who loved her spotlight. She would not admit it, but boy, did she love attention! The highlight of her life was to dress in a beautiful evening gown, walk briskly onto a stage with overwhelming applause, enjoying everyone's gaze and hearing "bravo" over and over again. She secretly took pride in knowing that all the little boys and girls who asked for her autograph wanted to be like her, and that no one dared make a sound in her concert because she was "that good".
That girl died seven years ago with a hemorrhage. Today, I walk with a cane in one hand and my violin and bow in the other. Instead of walking onto a stage lit up by spotlights, I walk into dark hospital rooms. Instead of showcasing months of practice to a well-dressed and admiring audience, I try to serve those who never expected to hear anything pleasant in a hospital except for "everything is fine, you are perfect...you can go home now".
Yet I am happier now than I was back in my performing days. I know that I am not playing for my own glorification, and I know that in a small way, my music is making a difference. Love keeps going when reward ceases and applause ends. It does not matter that I did not feel excitement tonight. That is not the reason why I play.
God is giving me a love for those I have never met and whom I will likely never meet again. When the time comes, I pray that He would let me do much more.
Who needs healing?
It is sometimes easy to forget that the medical staff is human, just like the patients. Behind the scrubs and white robes are people of flesh and blood, of strengths and weaknesses, of feelings and secrets. As naked and exposed as the patients sometimes seem, so do the medical professional appear shielded and "protected" behind their roles.
Or so it seems.
I have had the pleasure of playing for the staff on several occasions. It feels very different from playing for patients. Some listen with a huge grin on their faces, some chatted with one another and giggled (like school children, I might add), and some sway side-to-side on their revolving chairs, absent-mindedly. Playing for the staff often feels like administering pure entertainment. These lovely ladies and gentlemen take a small break from their hectic routines and enjoy some good 'ol music, and once the tune stops, the phone goes back on ringing and the intercom back on buzzing. "That was beautiful!" really means "That was fun, thanks. Now where's that chart and what does Mr. Smith want now?"
One time, before heading upstairs to the rooms my guide asked me if I knew "His Eye Is On The Sparrow". I said of course, thinking that a patient had requested it. It turned out to be a nurse, who clapped excitedly when my guide told her that I could play it for her. I must admit, I was never as eager to play for the staff as I was for the patients. In my limited understanding I did not think that they would benefit as much as the patients would. After all, there's nothing really wrong with them, right? And I don't particularly enjoy being a source of "entertainment".
I started playing the hymn, enjoying hearing the music more than playing it, wrapped up in my own world. "Let me just play this once, before the phone starts ringing or before these people become bored," I thought to myself.
Suddenly I heard a gasp. I looked up and the nurse who requested the hymn turned red. Tears filled up her eyes as she covered her nose and mouth with her hand. None of her colleagues seemed to notice her reaction as their gaze started to wander around the nursing station, remembering that there was something that they had forgotten to do. The woman whispered a soft "thank you" when I finished, turned around and started walking quickly towards the back of the station. I saw her wiping her tears as all the actions resumed in the busy station.
When I least expected it, the Holy Spirit graciously ministered, and I am thankful to be a part of it.
Or so it seems.
I have had the pleasure of playing for the staff on several occasions. It feels very different from playing for patients. Some listen with a huge grin on their faces, some chatted with one another and giggled (like school children, I might add), and some sway side-to-side on their revolving chairs, absent-mindedly. Playing for the staff often feels like administering pure entertainment. These lovely ladies and gentlemen take a small break from their hectic routines and enjoy some good 'ol music, and once the tune stops, the phone goes back on ringing and the intercom back on buzzing. "That was beautiful!" really means "That was fun, thanks. Now where's that chart and what does Mr. Smith want now?"
One time, before heading upstairs to the rooms my guide asked me if I knew "His Eye Is On The Sparrow". I said of course, thinking that a patient had requested it. It turned out to be a nurse, who clapped excitedly when my guide told her that I could play it for her. I must admit, I was never as eager to play for the staff as I was for the patients. In my limited understanding I did not think that they would benefit as much as the patients would. After all, there's nothing really wrong with them, right? And I don't particularly enjoy being a source of "entertainment".
I started playing the hymn, enjoying hearing the music more than playing it, wrapped up in my own world. "Let me just play this once, before the phone starts ringing or before these people become bored," I thought to myself.
Suddenly I heard a gasp. I looked up and the nurse who requested the hymn turned red. Tears filled up her eyes as she covered her nose and mouth with her hand. None of her colleagues seemed to notice her reaction as their gaze started to wander around the nursing station, remembering that there was something that they had forgotten to do. The woman whispered a soft "thank you" when I finished, turned around and started walking quickly towards the back of the station. I saw her wiping her tears as all the actions resumed in the busy station.
When I least expected it, the Holy Spirit graciously ministered, and I am thankful to be a part of it.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Not I, but Christ in me
When I began writing about my experiences with MOC, I overlooked the possibility of a small side-effect.
I forgot to consider my own feelings about my past as I wrote about others' present.
It is impossible to be objective, to detach oneself completely from what one does. We are, today, the collection of our yesterdays. More than that, we are designed to feel--one of the most beautiful features our Creator has installed in us. Without feeling, life is nothing but the passing of days, counting off hours and events until we breathe our last. However, some feelings can become burdens, weighing down on souls that are constantly struggling to carry nothing but pleasant sentiments and memories.
As I wrote, contemplating on what I have seen in the past months, my past sneaked up on me silently. I remember the despair, the frustration, the loneliness in a tiny hospital room. I remember being imprisoned in my own body, surrounded by the smell of air-conditioning and alcohol. I remember having no control over the simplest things, needing to ask for help for the smallest, silliest tasks.
What have I gotten myself into? Worn out and tired at heart, I wanted to escape from the firm grip of hopelessness, the monster that has come back to life from memory. I was torn between the fear of pain (mine and others') and the burning, insatiable desire in my heart to help and to comfort those in need.
I forgot to consider my own feelings about my past as I wrote about others' present.
It is impossible to be objective, to detach oneself completely from what one does. We are, today, the collection of our yesterdays. More than that, we are designed to feel--one of the most beautiful features our Creator has installed in us. Without feeling, life is nothing but the passing of days, counting off hours and events until we breathe our last. However, some feelings can become burdens, weighing down on souls that are constantly struggling to carry nothing but pleasant sentiments and memories.
As I wrote, contemplating on what I have seen in the past months, my past sneaked up on me silently. I remember the despair, the frustration, the loneliness in a tiny hospital room. I remember being imprisoned in my own body, surrounded by the smell of air-conditioning and alcohol. I remember having no control over the simplest things, needing to ask for help for the smallest, silliest tasks.
What have I gotten myself into? Worn out and tired at heart, I wanted to escape from the firm grip of hopelessness, the monster that has come back to life from memory. I was torn between the fear of pain (mine and others') and the burning, insatiable desire in my heart to help and to comfort those in need.
I did the one thing that has never failed me. I went to the Creator of my heart, who has all the answers. Sweet assurance came down from above, gently lifting my heart from the web of dilemma it has spun for itself.
Lovingly He reminded me that it was He who saved me from depression when I had every reason to be sad. It was He who gave me courage to get up again from where I fell and keep going. It was He who made me play again even though no doctor could ever promise me.
Today, it is He who gives me new music to play. It is He who plays through me beside each and every sickbed. It is He who bears all of my burdens, including these new ones. As the Apostle Paul said, "Not I, but Christ who lives in me."
So I rejoice and am once again thankful to be used as His violin. There's nothing I want more for my life. Let me cry, let me laugh, and let me play for those whose paths cross with mine, because God made me this way.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
The Gift of Time
In his best-selling devotional, The Purpose Driven Life, Rick Warren wrote that the best gift one can give is time. His reasoning is as followed: It is possible to regain some things that one gives, such as material wealth; time, on the other hand, can never be recovered. Therefore, when we give our time to others, we are in fact giving them a piece of our life--a piece that is forever shared with them.
Before one can give, however, she must first receive. This is true for all manners of giving, but it is especially true when it comes to time. None of us decides how long we spend in this world (with the exception of suicide, of course, which is a whole other issue). Even with the age long obsession for longevity, Tomorrow is never promised to anyone.
But few realizes this simple fact. Many people live recklessly, irresponsibly and insensibly, wasting away a gift that they have been so graciously given. Some people, having had a close encounter with death or having walked very close to it, come to appreciate each new day as the precious gift it is. These people carry with them a blessing that makes each day exciting and worth living. They, in turn, give with a thankful heart.
I met a lovely family one evening when I played at a cancer ward. The mother, a beautiful blond woman in her mid-40's, was the patient. Her 20-something-year-old daughter lay beside her on the bed, while the father, a stout man with a bushy mustache, sat on a small couch across from the bed. The family of three did not seemed like they were in a hospital. In fact, as I entered I felt as if I have been invited into their living room at home.
"Any request?" I asked, as I sometimes do.
"Do you know any of the Disney songs?" The mother asked eagerly. She looked at her daughter and the two exchanged a smile.
As soon as I started playing the familiar melody, tears began streaming down the mother's cheeks. She put her arms around her daughter, who rested her head on her mother's chest. The mother kissed her daughter's forehead, sniffling and chuckling at the same time. The setting sun shone through a large window, reflecting golden rays on a sweet moment of bliss. Mother and daughter rocked back and forth, lost in memories triggered by the song.
"Five years ago, the doctors told me that I wouldn't make it," The mother told me, still holding on to her daughter, eyes shining brightly with tears. "But I did, and I was able to see my daughter graduate from college. It's going to be her twenty-sixth birthday this weekend...and to think that I never thought I would make it this far!"
Thankfulness filled the room as all of us were in tears. No pain, no discomfort was too much for the mother to bear as she thought of each new day that she was given to share with her daughter. As for the daughter, resting in her mother's warm embrace like a small child, I guess there's nothing she wanted more from her mom.
Before one can give, however, she must first receive. This is true for all manners of giving, but it is especially true when it comes to time. None of us decides how long we spend in this world (with the exception of suicide, of course, which is a whole other issue). Even with the age long obsession for longevity, Tomorrow is never promised to anyone.
But few realizes this simple fact. Many people live recklessly, irresponsibly and insensibly, wasting away a gift that they have been so graciously given. Some people, having had a close encounter with death or having walked very close to it, come to appreciate each new day as the precious gift it is. These people carry with them a blessing that makes each day exciting and worth living. They, in turn, give with a thankful heart.
I met a lovely family one evening when I played at a cancer ward. The mother, a beautiful blond woman in her mid-40's, was the patient. Her 20-something-year-old daughter lay beside her on the bed, while the father, a stout man with a bushy mustache, sat on a small couch across from the bed. The family of three did not seemed like they were in a hospital. In fact, as I entered I felt as if I have been invited into their living room at home.
"Any request?" I asked, as I sometimes do.
"Do you know any of the Disney songs?" The mother asked eagerly. She looked at her daughter and the two exchanged a smile.
As soon as I started playing the familiar melody, tears began streaming down the mother's cheeks. She put her arms around her daughter, who rested her head on her mother's chest. The mother kissed her daughter's forehead, sniffling and chuckling at the same time. The setting sun shone through a large window, reflecting golden rays on a sweet moment of bliss. Mother and daughter rocked back and forth, lost in memories triggered by the song.
"Five years ago, the doctors told me that I wouldn't make it," The mother told me, still holding on to her daughter, eyes shining brightly with tears. "But I did, and I was able to see my daughter graduate from college. It's going to be her twenty-sixth birthday this weekend...and to think that I never thought I would make it this far!"
Thankfulness filled the room as all of us were in tears. No pain, no discomfort was too much for the mother to bear as she thought of each new day that she was given to share with her daughter. As for the daughter, resting in her mother's warm embrace like a small child, I guess there's nothing she wanted more from her mom.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Being normal
It's always about feeling normal again. That you are not living in a place specifically designated for people who have "something wrong" with them. That instead of being "taken care" of or "fixed" by the medical staff, you are buddies who just happen to see each other every day.
It's about taking control, however much you can.
I've visited Jerry twice. Before seeing him, I knew he was special. Something in the eyes of my guide and Jerry's nurse tells me that I should be expecting something a little different from this gentleman than from the others. My guide, who spends a great deal of time volunteering in the hospital, knew him by name. The nurse simply called him "my boy".
The "boy" is a skinny, middle-age man with silver hair. As soon as he saw me step into the room, he quickly got up from his bed and turned to the rolling meal stand next to the bed. He picked up a pitcher with one hand, and searched for a clean paper cup from a stack with the other. His hands trembled with excitement (or because of medication) as he repeated to himself and everyone else in the room (me, my guide, and his nurse): "I want to to give the girl some water, I want to give her some water to drink..."
The nurse, handling his IV monitor, said absent-mindedly, "Just lie down and relax, Jerry. The girl is here to play some music for you." She turned around and smiled at me.
"No, I want to give her some water..." The man continued to mumble to himself, not once raising his eyes to look at me.
"The girl don't want no water! Just lie down and relax. She just wants to play something to make you feel better. Come on now..." The nurse stood between us as she tried to calm the man, who has now poured some water into the cup and made a small puddle on the meal stand. He extended the cup to me with a trembling hand while the well-intentioned woman attempted to fend him off. His excited behavior has probably startled some visitors in the past.
"That's very nice of you, sir," I stepped toward him, accepting the cup. "I will enjoy this water later. Will you hold on to this for me for now?" I handed the cup to my guide, who was standing at the doorway.
Jerry suddenly quieted down. He turned to his bed and lay down with the assistance of the nurse. I began to play a soothing melody that had just then came into my head. Jerry lay motionless for a couple of seconds, then he suddenly got up and started pouring water again. "Come sit down," he called out to my guide, who was still standing at the doorway, as he always does so as not to crowd the already small room. The same scene began again, with people telling him to just lie down, relax and listen.
As we left with cups in our hands, I could still hear the nurse promising the excited man that we would come and visit again. The second time I saw Jerry a few weeks later, he was eating his dinner with the assistance of a nurse, completely oblivious to our presence in the room. His was in his own world, withdrawn from the surrounding. No more being an enthusiastic host to his visitors and no listening to music either. He simply sat there. Recovering to normal? Who knows.
It's about taking control, however much you can.
I've visited Jerry twice. Before seeing him, I knew he was special. Something in the eyes of my guide and Jerry's nurse tells me that I should be expecting something a little different from this gentleman than from the others. My guide, who spends a great deal of time volunteering in the hospital, knew him by name. The nurse simply called him "my boy".
The "boy" is a skinny, middle-age man with silver hair. As soon as he saw me step into the room, he quickly got up from his bed and turned to the rolling meal stand next to the bed. He picked up a pitcher with one hand, and searched for a clean paper cup from a stack with the other. His hands trembled with excitement (or because of medication) as he repeated to himself and everyone else in the room (me, my guide, and his nurse): "I want to to give the girl some water, I want to give her some water to drink..."
The nurse, handling his IV monitor, said absent-mindedly, "Just lie down and relax, Jerry. The girl is here to play some music for you." She turned around and smiled at me.
"No, I want to give her some water..." The man continued to mumble to himself, not once raising his eyes to look at me.
"The girl don't want no water! Just lie down and relax. She just wants to play something to make you feel better. Come on now..." The nurse stood between us as she tried to calm the man, who has now poured some water into the cup and made a small puddle on the meal stand. He extended the cup to me with a trembling hand while the well-intentioned woman attempted to fend him off. His excited behavior has probably startled some visitors in the past.
"That's very nice of you, sir," I stepped toward him, accepting the cup. "I will enjoy this water later. Will you hold on to this for me for now?" I handed the cup to my guide, who was standing at the doorway.
Jerry suddenly quieted down. He turned to his bed and lay down with the assistance of the nurse. I began to play a soothing melody that had just then came into my head. Jerry lay motionless for a couple of seconds, then he suddenly got up and started pouring water again. "Come sit down," he called out to my guide, who was still standing at the doorway, as he always does so as not to crowd the already small room. The same scene began again, with people telling him to just lie down, relax and listen.
As we left with cups in our hands, I could still hear the nurse promising the excited man that we would come and visit again. The second time I saw Jerry a few weeks later, he was eating his dinner with the assistance of a nurse, completely oblivious to our presence in the room. His was in his own world, withdrawn from the surrounding. No more being an enthusiastic host to his visitors and no listening to music either. He simply sat there. Recovering to normal? Who knows.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
The Sound of Healing
Yesterday I played for a woman at the request of her sister, who was her caretaker. As I entered the room, I saw the elderly woman lying in bed, her pale face turned toward the window, eyes shut tight. A breathing tube hung across her face, and she was motionless. The sister had heard me next door and wanted me to play "anything" for her elder sister. There was a sense of urgency in her voice, which I have never detected before from encounters with others. She quickly cleared a space in front of the woman so that the woman could "see" me when I played.
I began on the G-string, long notes immediately filled the room with sweet tranquility. I kept my eyes on the frail woman, praying that no note would come out too strong to hurt her. Melodies flow from my violin as I backed away from all control, letting God's healing take its course. Her eyelids moved slightly and involuntarily as her body remained still.
The sister gasped as soon as I started playing, murmuring to herself and shushing the other visitors, who began to talk amongst themselves. She went to the woman's side and held on to her fingers (to avoid touching the IV line), gently brushing away streaks of white hair from her wrinkled forehead. Softly, she called the woman as a mother waking her child, asking repeatedly, "Can you hear the music? Do you see the violinist?"
The melodies lingered on, apparently touching every soul in the room except for the one they were intended for. I woke up from reverie as the last note evaporated in the air and a brief silence ensued. "Beautiful!" The visitors immediately showed their appreciation of the "show". The sister quickly smiled at me and turned to the unconscious woman. "Wasn't that beautiful? Can you say 'beautiful'? Hmm?" Her voice started trembling, "Give me something, please...I'll take anything..."
My guide and I silently exited the room. Perhaps somewhere where none of us can yet go, the woman is already making her own beautiful music. I can almost see her eyes shining brightly with joy.
I began on the G-string, long notes immediately filled the room with sweet tranquility. I kept my eyes on the frail woman, praying that no note would come out too strong to hurt her. Melodies flow from my violin as I backed away from all control, letting God's healing take its course. Her eyelids moved slightly and involuntarily as her body remained still.
The sister gasped as soon as I started playing, murmuring to herself and shushing the other visitors, who began to talk amongst themselves. She went to the woman's side and held on to her fingers (to avoid touching the IV line), gently brushing away streaks of white hair from her wrinkled forehead. Softly, she called the woman as a mother waking her child, asking repeatedly, "Can you hear the music? Do you see the violinist?"
The melodies lingered on, apparently touching every soul in the room except for the one they were intended for. I woke up from reverie as the last note evaporated in the air and a brief silence ensued. "Beautiful!" The visitors immediately showed their appreciation of the "show". The sister quickly smiled at me and turned to the unconscious woman. "Wasn't that beautiful? Can you say 'beautiful'? Hmm?" Her voice started trembling, "Give me something, please...I'll take anything..."
My guide and I silently exited the room. Perhaps somewhere where none of us can yet go, the woman is already making her own beautiful music. I can almost see her eyes shining brightly with joy.
The Identity in Why
It has been a little more than two months since I began volunteering for MOC. I have become friends with the guides who introduce me to the patients, and through the short conversations we have between rooms, we get to know one another little by little. Yesterday, for the first time, the question of why I volunteer with MOC came up.
"Is it because you identify yourself with the patients?" My guide asked.
No, not quite. The fact is, I cannot understand how anyone can ever identify herself as a victim just because she has been hurt or because she has lost something dear to her. It is simply a category that a person would never (I don't think) willingly put herself in. However, whether we like it or not, life is bound to have a few bumps in it, big or small, and some of us find ourselves in situations where everyone else cannot but see us as "victims". Or in this case, patients.
I remember when I first became paralyzed, flocks of visitors came to my bedside, each prepared with a "ya gotta be strong" speech. They bring me books, cassettes and video tapes of individuals who have lost their legs, their hands and other vital body parts. "Look on the bright side, you still have everything attached to your body, they just don't work now", "Disability is nothing to be ashamed of", and my personal favorite, "You really should become friends with the guy next door because he's also in a wheelchair", as if the fact that we both travel on wheels should bring about a camaraderie that surpasses all else. To some of them, I was no longer who I was before the hemorrhage. I was now a patient.
So, speaking from an ex-patient's point of view (one who was proud, almost stubborn), I did not and do not identify myself in the rigid category of "patients", and I don't think anyone I play for sees themselves that way. They are who they are, in a situation they don't enjoy, with a few needs they did not have when they were up and running about. Having gone through similar circumstances once, I come to their beds with nothing but a prayer to give them a little of what I have been graciously blessed with to complement the healing process. I want to help, to the best of my current abilities, and I have the responsibility to do so.
"Is it because you identify yourself with the patients?" My guide asked.
No, not quite. The fact is, I cannot understand how anyone can ever identify herself as a victim just because she has been hurt or because she has lost something dear to her. It is simply a category that a person would never (I don't think) willingly put herself in. However, whether we like it or not, life is bound to have a few bumps in it, big or small, and some of us find ourselves in situations where everyone else cannot but see us as "victims". Or in this case, patients.
I remember when I first became paralyzed, flocks of visitors came to my bedside, each prepared with a "ya gotta be strong" speech. They bring me books, cassettes and video tapes of individuals who have lost their legs, their hands and other vital body parts. "Look on the bright side, you still have everything attached to your body, they just don't work now", "Disability is nothing to be ashamed of", and my personal favorite, "You really should become friends with the guy next door because he's also in a wheelchair", as if the fact that we both travel on wheels should bring about a camaraderie that surpasses all else. To some of them, I was no longer who I was before the hemorrhage. I was now a patient.
So, speaking from an ex-patient's point of view (one who was proud, almost stubborn), I did not and do not identify myself in the rigid category of "patients", and I don't think anyone I play for sees themselves that way. They are who they are, in a situation they don't enjoy, with a few needs they did not have when they were up and running about. Having gone through similar circumstances once, I come to their beds with nothing but a prayer to give them a little of what I have been graciously blessed with to complement the healing process. I want to help, to the best of my current abilities, and I have the responsibility to do so.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Introduction
A few weeks after graduation I went online to look for volunteering opportunities in a clinical setting. Nothing looked particularly interesting to me. The issue, of course, is not whether a position interests me, but whether I will be of real help to the people I wish to volunteer for. Looking back at my own hospital experiences (where else would I draw my information from?) I recall some not-so-pleasant memories of zealous and eager volunteers who refuse to leave my room until I "feel better". How can anyone be expected to cheer up in a place that is the very manifestation of pain, anxiety and despair? The only relief one can hope for is a moment of escape--a fraction of time where she is free from her bodily prison, free from the reason of her confinement.
I came upon an organization called Musicians On Call. Once a week, I visit a local hospital with my violin, accompanied by a volunteer guide who goes to each room to see if patients would like to hear some live music. I am then introduced to them and play a few minutes by their bedside. Their visitors are part of the audience, and on less busy days I play for the staff as well.
It has been a little more than two months now, and I am most thankful for this opportunity to serve with my music. I have seen so much, learned so much, and I wish to share the experience and some of my thoughts here. I pray that this will be the beginning of a ministry that brings comfort and encouragement to many.
I came upon an organization called Musicians On Call. Once a week, I visit a local hospital with my violin, accompanied by a volunteer guide who goes to each room to see if patients would like to hear some live music. I am then introduced to them and play a few minutes by their bedside. Their visitors are part of the audience, and on less busy days I play for the staff as well.
It has been a little more than two months now, and I am most thankful for this opportunity to serve with my music. I have seen so much, learned so much, and I wish to share the experience and some of my thoughts here. I pray that this will be the beginning of a ministry that brings comfort and encouragement to many.
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