Kid Entertainment

Due to schedule conflicts, I have not been able to play at a children's hospital that I used to visit. I miss playing for children, though. I miss how their eyes light up when they see an instrument they don't usually encounter. I miss how they gasp and puff up their cheeks out of excitement when they hear a Disney song they recognize. I miss the expression on the parents' faces when they see their children forget the tubes on their little bodies and the pain (physical or emotional) they were crying about just a while ago--even if just for a few minutes.


As we roamed about yesterday on a general floor, we came upon a room at the end of the corridor. I stood outside as my guide went in to ask the patient if she would like to hear some music. "I already heard her next door," she said. "So it's okay." That meant no, and we respected that. As we turned around to go, a little boy came out of the room, a popsicle in his mouth. "I've never seen that before," he told me, pointing to my violin. "That's cool." His elder sister came out of the room, too, and the two of them just stood there, wide-eyed.

"Can I go with you when you play for somebody else?" he asked, a silent "pleeeeaase" in his eyes. "Me, too!" the sister chimed in. "I don't think that's such a good idea," my guide replied. "You see, we are going to another floor now." "Oh, man..."

I looked around the corridor. It was dinnertime, and there was a lot going on: nurses going from one room to another, visitors coming in in packs, and some patients taking a stroll with their I.V. poles. Nobody would mind or even notice a little concert at the end of the corridor for two little kids, who were both fascinated by a beautiful instrument, and at the same time, terribly bored.

"Okay, one song, right here. How about a Disney song? Guess which movie this comes from."

"Yay!"

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An elderly lady in robe stood by the doorway; a huge smile, as well as a thin oxygen tube hung across her face. "Oh, how lovely," she pointed to my violin. "Would you like to hear something?" I asked, forgetting that my guide was the one who was supposed to ask.

The lady was a little hard of hearing, at least it seemed that way because we had to repeat our intention a few times. She finally agreed to return to her side of the room and sit down. We squished by the bed next to the door, which was completely curtained off. "Nobody is in this room, just me," she informed us. "Your neighbor isn't here?" my guide asked. "That's what I said," she replied. "Oh, how lovely, a violin!"

Standing behind her, I saw my guide catching a glimpse through the curtains. Her expression immediately changed -- "stony" is the only word that came to mind. Not wanting to startle the old lady or making her feel that something was wrong, I simply looked at the girl. I got nothing. I only knew that something disturbed her, but the nature and gravity of which were beyond guesses. I started playing, limiting my improvisation to less than a minute. The old lady interrupted me every few second with "How wonderful!" and "I feel like I am in Carnegie Hall!"

After wishing the patient a good night, we hurried out of the room. "What's wrong?" I whispered. She did not reply. We came to the nurse's station, which was just three steps from the room. "Was there someone in there?" I asked again. She nodded. "Sleeping?" No. "Awake?" Again, no. "Then what?"

"Dead," she whispered.

Mr. Schultz

Mr. Schultz, a gentleman in his 60's, was intimidating at first sight. He wore a fur hat, ear flaps draped along both sides of his thin face; below the hat brink, one bulging eyelid was shut close, making the remaining window of the soul shining extra piercingly. He was standing next to the nurse station, leaning against the counter, as we approached.

"I visited that gentleman last month," my guide Liz whispered to me. "The musician was a guitarist. As soon as the patient saw him, he said, 'No rock and roll!'" she chuckled. "But I think he enjoyed the music." She kept going for a minute, describing to me the brief exchange they shared that night. I was not listening. I looked at the man through the corner of my eyes, who, for no particular reason, nearly gave me chills.

"Are you looking for me?" A gruff voice thundered. Up close, the fierce eye was even more luminous than from afar. The man has two faces: the left side of his face (drawing an imaginary line from his forehead to his chin) is peaceful and smiling, as if asleep; but the right side is bordering on hostile. "Yes, sir," Liz said, her voice was extra gentle. "I don't know if you remember me, I visited you last month with another musician--a guitarist. We are wondering if you would like to hear some violin music tonight."

"Ah, yes. I remember," he said pensively. He gave me a quick once-over. "Well, come on in!" The two of us quickly followed.

He lived in an isolation room, with a heavy outer door, a "prep" area--equipped with a sink and soap dispenser for medical staff before entering the room--and an inner door, also quite heavy. The room was especially lonely as a droning noise from the air-conditioning filled the tiny space. "Look at that, I'm living in an isolation room even though I don't need to with my condition. Just fabulous," he said sarcastically. "At least I got a view," he pointed to the huge window next to the bed, which faced the Hudson River. I waited one more minute as he settled himself on bed. "What would you like to play for me?" The intimidating side of his face softened a little.

I started playing "Le Cigne" ("The Swan") by Camille Saint-Saen. A few measures into the piece I opened my eyes and peeked. His eyes were closed and a serene smile appeared on his whole face. I felt relieved. "Can you please play another one?" he asked as the last note lingered and finally vanished. I looked over at Liz, my timekeeper. She was enjoying it as much as he was. I gladly obliged and played "Meditation from Thais" by Massenet.

By the end of the second piece, all fierceness left his face and was replaced by an indescribable tranquility. Mr. Schultz thanked us and we bade him good night. Before Liz closed the first door, I turned around and saw that the sun was starting to set, coloring the Hudson with brilliant gold. Mr. Schultz was still smiling -- the sunset reflecting off the eye that shone so brightly.