A Surprise Re-encounter

I was on my way to church the other day. As I waited to cross the street, a woman standing next to me asked, "Excuse me, do you play the violin?"

I responded affirmatively, thinking that she probably remembered me from visiting the church, where I play every week.

"You played for my mother when she was in XXX Hospital! She was humming a song that none of us recognized, and you just picked up and played what she sang," she said excitedly. "Oh man, every time I tell someone that, they all said 'No way! She did that?' And I said 'Pshh, yeah!'"

I almost jumped out of delight. I remember the lady well and actually wrote about her in an earlier post. I could still see her little body, leaning against the pillow as she sang, her big eyes shining brilliantly.

Before we parted, the daughter informed me that her mother is doing well, resting at home. She promised to come hear me play at church with her mother. How I look forward to seeing them again--this time not in a hospital room.

Fellow Volunteer Musicians

Surfing YouTube tonight, I was pleased to find videos posted by Musicians On Call of two fellow volunteer musicians. I have visited the same hospital several times, and it was featured in some of my own posts.

Losing & Regaining My Voice

It has been six weeks since the last time I visited a hospital with MOC. I had a procedure done on my left arm, which is taking a long time to recover. Despite pain (but not against medical advice) I played at church today for the second time since the procedure.

"So glad to have you back with us," our drummer leaned over and whispered during the sermon. "How are you feeling, really?"

Not great, really. But I miss playing too much, like someone misses speaking after staying silent for weeks. I don't just miss my violin voice, I miss the reaction of people who listen: the look of understanding, a simple sign of acknowledging a heartfelt message received.

Soon. I will return soon to the bedsides. And oh, thank you, MOC, for the lovely get-well card you sent me.

Happy Birthday, MOC

MOC celebrates its 10th anniversary this week! Click here for an official MOC letter that details where this amazing organization has been and where it is going.

Happy birthday, MOC! May there be many, many more to come.

Bridal March

It took us a long time to understand what he wanted. He wasn't the kind of patient one would ask if he had a special request--not because of ill will, but because he just didn't seem like he was conscious enough to make a request. He looked my age, wrapped in blankets and EEG electrodes for epilepsy monitoring. Speaking was difficult for him.

"Can...you play...wedding...music."

Here comes the bride. All dressed in white.

The melody that flowed from the violin sounded more like a lullaby than a bridal march. A strangely apologetic lullaby. What was I apologetic of? I kept asking myself. For playing an inappropriate piece? No, for playing a joyous piece with sacred implications in an inappropriate setting? No, for taking so long to understand him?

No, for doubting for a second that it is possible for him to get up one day, marry the girl of his dreams and have healthy, beautiful children.

He clapped laboriously, his left hand banging against the brace that his right hand wears. He didn't know--or didn't mind--what I was thinking. What I thought didn't matter. The song was exactly what he wanted.

"He said he wanted you to play at his wedding," a nurse later told me.

It would be an honor, dear stranger. It would give me utmost joy.

Bring Love Back

I visited an elderly lady tonight. She was a tiny woman with big shining eyes. She wore a studded bandana--perhaps a gift from a grandchild, perhaps the product of a unique fashion sense. Her daughter was in the hallway, saying good-bye to a couple of visitors. My guide John told her why we were there. She was very friendly, but dementia prevented her from fully appreciating the situation. She wanted her daughter to come in. She wanted her by her side.

"Mama, the violinist is going to play you a song," the daughter said gently as she led the woman to her bed. "What would you like her to play?"

"Oh, 'Bring Love Back,'" she replied. "Mmmhmm, 'Bring Love Back.'"

The daughter and I exchanged a confused look. "How does that one go, ma'am?" I asked. She didn't hear me. She was busy looking for a spot on the bed where she wanted to sit down. "How does it go, Mama? Do you want to sing it for us?"

"Bring love back...bring love back..." she sang in a soft voice, almost like a whisper. "Back to the world..." Her daughter smiled at me, her lips quivered slightly. "She's making her own song. Aren't you, Mama?"

"Back to the world...every morning...bring love back..." her voice began to fade as she lay back, those brilliant eyes searching for something in the room. Tears started rolling down the cheeks of her daughter. I picked up where she left off and played her song again, the voice of the violin filling the room with unsung lyrics. The daughter closed her eyes and prayed in silence, her lips moving with each passing note. The elderly woman nodded with satisfaction as she listened to her song.

"Mmhmm," she said as the song came to an end. "Just bring love back."