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.
Friday, November 30, 2007
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.
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