Circumstances

The nursing station of the adult oncology unit was busy, as usual--phones ringing, intercoms buzzing, people shuffling back and forth with overly stuffed binders in their hands and fatigue written on their expressionless faces. The little enclosed area was like a tiny island, surrounded by the ocean of shiny hospital floor. "Ships" of dinner carts sailed by, dirty trays piled one on top of another.

Outside of the overpopulated island, things were quiet. The green contact isolation signs prevented us from visiting most of the rooms. Many of the other patients were sleeping. My guide would tip-toe into a room, while I waited outside. She would then come out and mouth the word "sleeping" exaggeratedly; I would then mouth "okay" back, even though we were already in the hallway and could not wake anyone. There is something about visiting a sleeping room--the lights are dim, the flashing TV screens and the occasional beeping sounds from the monitors--everything adds up to an almost sacred atmosphere. Something extraordinary is always going on inside a sleeping patients. Healing may be taking place. Further damaging by cancer cells may be taking place. A momentary journey outside of consciousness--and consequently, pain--may be taking place.

Those whom I got to play for were glad we came. We saw it in their eyes and heard it in their voices. I went beyond my regular repertoire a little bit (hymns and improvisations), and played "Music of the Night" from Phantom of the Opera, "Somewhere Over the Rainbow", and "Beauty and the Beast". It is human nature to like what is familiar in a stressful setting. It brings a kind of comfort that nothing else can.

We finished early, covering the floor in under an hour. It has been another peaceful night...under the circumstances. Good night, all. Sweet and musical dreams to you.