Coincidence?

"So what are you going to play for us?" A lady asked me as I stood between her and her neighbor's bed.

I thought for a second. "How about a love song?" I said. The suggestion was received with warmly received by a room of women.

"All I Ask Of You" from Phantom of the Opera entered my head, and a sweet conversation between two lovers flowed from the violin. As soon as the song started, I noticed the lady who had spoken to me exchanging looks with her visitor.

"What was that song?" She asked eagerly, hardly waiting for the bow to take off from the strings. I told her the name of the song.

"I knew it! I knew it!" Her eyes shone brightly as she tapped her visitor. "That's the song my granddaughter is singing tonight at her school play! Oh boy..." she held her hand on her chest. "I was a little depressed that I would miss her play, and now, to hear it here..." she stopped for a second, looking for words but couldn't find any other than a soft "Thank you."

Of all the songs, of the rooms to play them in--how does one explain something like that? I love moments like this.

New Year, New Challenges

Towards the end of 2007, volunteering with MOC started to become routine. There was still joy in playing for patients, especially during Christmas season with the familiar carols. I still looked forward to playing each week and meeting each new face. But a part of me was starting to yawn, and more so with each coming week. I wanted to shake myself, step out of the comfort zone and reawaken the excitement I felt when I first started volunteering half a year ago. I wanted to breathe in all the tiny little things that were happening around me and learn something new each time.

God knows what I needed--after nearly a month of holiday festivities and inner yawning, He took me to new territory tonight.

I played for the first time at a children's residential home in downtown Manhattan. Unlike the teaching hospitals where I usually played, all the patients I met tonight have lived there for an extensive period of time, and for some, their whole lives. All night I did everything I've always done in a pediatric program, playing age-appropriate songs, tailoring volume and style to suit each room--but inside I was more frustrated than ever. All of the children I played for suffered from cerebral palsy, and none of them had normal speech capacity. Standing in the big rooms with two or three children propped up in heavy-duty wheelchairs who seemed to stare at more than one direction at a time, I felt like I have entered another world. An invisible wall existed between us, so thick and impenetrable that the melodies crowded about me, unable to spread their wings and fly to their intended recipients.

One particular boy was whimpering when we entered the room. His young roommates all sat in their wheelchairs, some sound asleep, others staring at a flickering TV screen that illuminated the spacious room they shared. He calmed down at some point when I played, fixing his eyes on the moving bow. But just as I gave myself a pat in the back for "comforting" him, he suddenly started wailing. The music stopped and the anguished crying filled the room. Tear drops rolled down his cheeks, some into his wide open mouth. Something in his crying grabbed me. The child cried not because he was denied what he wanted. No, the pain he suffered was much more profound than that. It was a mixture of loneliness and hopelessness, like a blind man who knows to expect the vastness of the world, but cannot see any of it.

At that moment I wanted to break down and cry with him. I wanted to hug him, squeeze him as hard as I possibly can. I wanted to strip away all the pain that is so evident but so intangible, weighing down on such a small body. I wanted to ask why, but I know I will not understand the answer, even if it was given to me.

I also wanted to throw away my violin and bow, which hung on either side of my body, powerless.

This is a new year, and with it comes new challenges. I pray for courage and strength to face them; but above all, I pray for love. Only love reaches the deepest pain and comforts it.

The most wonderful time of the year

Christmas season started a little earlier this month with a visit to a children's hospital. Coincidentally wearing a red sweater and a pink scarf (I didn't intend to add to the holiday spirit with my clothes), I was reminded again of how much these little things matter when a child life therapist pointed to me on the hallway and exclaimed, "Oh wow, you look so...perfect with the whole holiday season and...everything!"

My repertoire for the night consisted solely of holiday songs. I "jingled all the way" through the rooms of four and five-year-olds, immersing myself in the joy of hearing "jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle all the waaaayyyy" in semi-yelling by the little people. Flakes of snow flied into the PICU with "Let It Snow" as a dad sang along to his daughter, who listened with utmost attentiveness and admiration even though her hero forgot half of the lyrics. Through "Silent Night" I shared sacred moments of peace with a couple of mothers and their babies--the pure sound that gently caressed our souls reminded us once again of what Christmas is all about.

The "No" Moments

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.

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.

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.

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.