Musical Key

There was a time when visiting patients became a burden.  I was constantly thinking about what I was going to play so that it would "move" them.  Ooh, these women look like the kind that would like sentimental love songs.  Hey, that man looks like he is old enough to appreciate a classical piece.  Hmm, better not play anything too mushy for that young man there--he doesn't look like he would be "down" with it.

A few weeks ago, I decided that was enough.  I always feel somewhat offended when some people blurt out random Korean and Japanese phrases when I pass by them on the street just because I look east Asian--so isn't this kind of what I am doing?  I am assuming.  I am stereotyping when playing for patients.  And I really shouldn't do that.

(Sure, there are situations that call for common sense.  For example, I need to be mindful of playing something too agitated or loud when I am in a room that has all the lights turned down and the patients are in bed with the sheet pulled up to their chin.  But I cannot assume that a patient prefers a Broadway tune over a folksong or a classical piece based on his/her gender, ethnicity or age.)

The night I made that decision, I walked into a room with two gentlemen and the wife of one of them.  They were all excited about the idea of someone playing by their bedside.  The wife of the gentleman on the left quickly pulled out her phone to take a picture.  "My neighbor is from Texas," said the gentleman on the right.  "You'd better play something Texan." 

"No, this is so special," said the wife of the man on the left.  "Let's think of something really special she can play."  We waited a minute or so while she tapped on her chin, concentrating on making the perfect decision, like one poring over a menu at a fancy restaurant.  As we waited, the husband smiled at me and my guide, "She's the one with the good musical taste," he said. 

"Oh, I know!  Can you play something by Mozart?"  She asked.

I started playing the second movement of Mozart's violin concerto in G.  Time did not permit me to play the entire movement, so I took the beginning, enough to sketch out the theme; I then moved to an improvised bridge, careful to keep within the style of Mozart.  Finally finding a good chord progression to move to a cadence, I brought the segment to an end.  Someday, someone is going to find out that I haven't finished a whole movement and call me out on it, I thought to myself.  Maybe someone already has...I hope I haven't offended anyone.

I looked up and was shocked at the view before me.  The man on the left was beside himself.  He sobbed as his wife stroked his feet gently, whispering "thank you" to us.  Something happened in the last minute and a half--something I was privileged to be a part of, but will never know exactly what it was. 

Then it dawned on me.  How could I possibly know exactly what happens when the music leaves the violin and fills the corners in a room?  It is not just a collection of tones and rhythms; it is not just a tune people recognize or don't recognize.  It is a key that opens one of many doors to a person's life.  For one person, it may open a door to a particular childhood memory; for another, it may lead to the fleeting presence of a loved one; for yet another, it may open the gateway to allow a glimpse of the past--or even the future--where life happens in its full force, and sickness is not part of it.