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.

It Started Here

The moment the set of automated double doors opened, a flood of familiarity washed over me. Could it be? The exact same layout, the same curtains. The same nursing station, but different faces. Did the floor look like that? I don't remember. One glance above confirmed everything: yes, the same train tracks on the ceiling--the train tracks that was going nowhere, repeating every half dozen of ceiling tiles.

This was where it all began, my destined life in hospital. This was the pediatric ICU I stayed in 13 years ago.

Holding the violin and bow in one hand, cane in the other, I was bursting inside as I followed the child life specialist who led the way. I remember staying in this corner after the first procedure, then they moved me to this one across from it. Then there were the second and third procedures, and I came to this side of the ICU. I remember the clowns that came one afternoon, and I begged my mother to close the curtains so they would not come visit me. I remember the way morphine made me feel. I remember the markers and the brown bear brought to me by a volunteer. I named the bear after my doctor, and did neurological exams on it. I remember the pediatric psychiatrist who came and asked me if I disliked playing the violin when I told her my symptoms persisted, and if my brothers were a pain in the butt (that was the first time I ever heard that expression--pain in the butt. I was mad at her for suggesting such a thing.)

I remember my mother, who just came to the States two months ago and spoke very limited English. We didn't have any other family in this country. I remember how she stayed with me the entire time. The nurses brought her a blue armchair so she could be more comfortable, after they realized that they could never convince her to leave my side. I would translate what the doctors said, skipping over the things I did not understand myself, and she would ask questions that I knew and she knew they couldn't answer. She would get pork chop noodle soup from the Chinese restaurant a few blocks from the hospital and make the nurses drool when they came in to check on me. They called her mommy and she never complained about anything. We got hysterical over the silliest jokes. She cried once, but I didn't see it. She told me years later.

I played for a child and her grandmother. I could not focus on what I was playing as memories surrounded me, as clear and strong as if they happened yesterday. As I turned to leave, the grandmother asked, "Excuse me, what was that piece you just played?"

"One of my own improvisations, ma'am."

Isn't that what life is? A constant improvisation composed of the present, hopes for the future, and a past that sneaks up on you when you least expect it.

Music as Medicine

Volunteering with MOC for 2 1/2 years now, my perception of the role of music in medicine changes periodically. Or, rather than change, it has become more complex. At times, music is a distraction. At times, it is an entertainment. It can be a melodious commemoration of a moment in a patient's life--perhaps a psychological keepsake for the hospital experience and everything it entails. Sometimes, it is simply a dialogue between me and the listener.

And sometimes, it can be a kind of medicine.

I have played for many patients who are either unconscious or too weak to respond physically, but I have never played for someone who was in pain. That's why it took me by surprise when a 40-something woman asked me to play for her as she wrapped her arms around her abdomen, bending forward in her armchair and rocking slightly.

"What would you like to hear?" I whispered, fearing that even an extra decibel would add to her apparent discomfort.

"Something to take the pain away," replied the hoarse voice.

I started on the G-String, painting long and steady lines. She closed her eyes as her laborious breathing went into a deliberate rhythm. The notes followed her breaths faithfully; like a string that reins a kite on a windy day, the notes tugged gently when her breaths sped up and glided when they slowed down. Over time, her head began to sink to her chest, and the sound of her breathing became softer.

I brought the last line to a cadence when suddenly, an abrupt applause broke out in the hallway (Darn groupies...). It startled her a little, and with her gasp I felt another wave of pain coming. I moved closer to her. "Another one?" I whispered. She nodded.

So the flight began again (I don't know what else to call it). This time, I was able to use lighter colors on a slightly higher register, as it did not take as much effort to follow and guide her breathing the second time. As I left the room, she remained sitting in the dark with her head now bent back against the wall and her eyes closed.

I prayed for a peaceful night and sweet slumber.

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.