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.

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.

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".

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.

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.

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.