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.

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"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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.

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.)

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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.

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.