Feeling appreciated

Up until recently, I have always thought that I, as a volunteer musician, was the one who brought encouragement and comfort to the hospital rooms. This did not stem from self-importance (how could it when half of the time I did not know what I was going to play until I actually started playing?), it was merely assumed from the setting and the nature of the interaction between us volunteers and the folks we meet in the hospitals. Simply put, we go to visit them, we ask if they want to hear some music, we provide the music. They are the ones who receive the gift and thank us afterward with a smile or a hug.

I met a special lady last week. My guide was particularly excited about going to her room because he told me that "she just didn't seem like she would say yes." The minute I saw her I understood what he meant. The small elderly woman lay in a dark room all by herself, attached to tubes of all sizes that were connected to machines that hummed and puffed around her. The only part of her face I could see were half-opened eyes--all other features were covered by a huge plastic mask. Next to her bed was a small radio through which two men were talking on top of each other.

She nodded her head once when my guide went in and announced me, and her frail hands moved slightly above the bed cover. I walked in cautiously, stopping further from the bed than I normally would. The room had a strange and somber loneliness to it, even with the two talk-show hosts debating and the machines giving their own two cents. The entire atmosphere was slightly intimidating, giving one the sense that if a small mistake was made, the old lady would suffer dire consequences. I gently held the violin to my chin without asking what my audience would like to hear. An idea persisted in my head: I just wanted to do what I came to do without disturbing the lady more than necessary.

She interrupted me right before the first note came through. Her frail hands trembled as she raised them to get my attention. "Yes, ma'am?" I squeaked, knowing full well that she would not be able to tell me what she needed. She pointed to her left, her hand wavered so much that it appeared as if she was outlining the wall. I was confused. I looked to the door, but my guide had already gone to the next room and there was no one else around. I quickly remembered from my hospital days how I used to hate it when some visitors would take a look at me, assumed that I was altogether incapacitated just because I lay in a hospital bed, and addressed all inquiries to the others in the room who were standing up. I moved closer to her. "What can I do for you, ma'am?" I asked and tried my best to look at where she was pointing.

Of course, the radio! I fumbled through the little black chatterbox, finally finding the button that shuts it down. Peace and quiet in the room, except for the steady whooshing noise from the machines. I returned to the end of the bed, positioned myself and started to play. I still couldn't see the expression of the lady, though I knew by the blinking of her eyes that she was wide awake and was looking straight at me. After two phrases, she made a small clapping motion. I smiled at her and kept going. She put down her hands, listened to about five more phrases, and started to clap again. This time, the clapping continued and she kind of waved at me.

I stopped, said good-night, and turned to leave. She waved again and extended her trembling left hand. Somehow knowing what it meant, I went closer to her and held her hand. Her beautiful blue eyes twinkled with a smile that could not be concealed by the plastic mask.

The smile and those labored hand gestures stayed with me. This experience reminded me of a previous encounter and added more to it. I realized that for some people it is important to not only feel normal when they lie on a sickbed, but to continue being encouraging and appreciative of others who try their best to make their pain a little more tolerable. The lady may not have liked music very much, she may have wanted to sleep through the discomfort of all the tubes in her, but she went out of her way and made me feel...well, appreciated, and that what we do is worthwhile.

I don't know how pleasant I made her night, but she sure made mine.