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.

Bridal March

It took us a long time to understand what he wanted. He wasn't the kind of patient one would ask if he had a special request--not because of ill will, but because he just didn't seem like he was conscious enough to make a request. He looked my age, wrapped in blankets and EEG electrodes for epilepsy monitoring. Speaking was difficult for him.

"Can...you play...wedding...music."

Here comes the bride. All dressed in white.

The melody that flowed from the violin sounded more like a lullaby than a bridal march. A strangely apologetic lullaby. What was I apologetic of? I kept asking myself. For playing an inappropriate piece? No, for playing a joyous piece with sacred implications in an inappropriate setting? No, for taking so long to understand him?

No, for doubting for a second that it is possible for him to get up one day, marry the girl of his dreams and have healthy, beautiful children.

He clapped laboriously, his left hand banging against the brace that his right hand wears. He didn't know--or didn't mind--what I was thinking. What I thought didn't matter. The song was exactly what he wanted.

"He said he wanted you to play at his wedding," a nurse later told me.

It would be an honor, dear stranger. It would give me utmost joy.

Bring Love Back

I visited an elderly lady tonight. She was a tiny woman with big shining eyes. She wore a studded bandana--perhaps a gift from a grandchild, perhaps the product of a unique fashion sense. Her daughter was in the hallway, saying good-bye to a couple of visitors. My guide John told her why we were there. She was very friendly, but dementia prevented her from fully appreciating the situation. She wanted her daughter to come in. She wanted her by her side.

"Mama, the violinist is going to play you a song," the daughter said gently as she led the woman to her bed. "What would you like her to play?"

"Oh, 'Bring Love Back,'" she replied. "Mmmhmm, 'Bring Love Back.'"

The daughter and I exchanged a confused look. "How does that one go, ma'am?" I asked. She didn't hear me. She was busy looking for a spot on the bed where she wanted to sit down. "How does it go, Mama? Do you want to sing it for us?"

"Bring love back...bring love back..." she sang in a soft voice, almost like a whisper. "Back to the world..." Her daughter smiled at me, her lips quivered slightly. "She's making her own song. Aren't you, Mama?"

"Back to the world...every morning...bring love back..." her voice began to fade as she lay back, those brilliant eyes searching for something in the room. Tears started rolling down the cheeks of her daughter. I picked up where she left off and played her song again, the voice of the violin filling the room with unsung lyrics. The daughter closed her eyes and prayed in silence, her lips moving with each passing note. The elderly woman nodded with satisfaction as she listened to her song.

"Mmhmm," she said as the song came to an end. "Just bring love back."

The Island

I came across "The Island" the other day, written by Dr. Peter Selwyn of Montefiore Medical Center. It touched me profoundly, as I was struck by the similarities in our constant interactions with strangers whose paths we cross. The following sums it up perfectly:

"Each time I sit with a patient, it is as if everything in both of our lives has brought us to this exact moment, which can be an opportunity for the mundane or, at times, the almost sacred. Sometimes we connect only briefly, or perhaps miss each other’s meaning, and continue superficially through our daily routine. But sometimes, when a certain question, phrase, or gesture opens a door, we may have a glimpse into a whole new room that is suddenly open to light and understanding. Like a glance in a crowd between strangers, sometimes everything aligns, the extraneous is stripped away, and we can look deeply into someone’s soul. Random yet precise, a series of interactions, of fleeting moments that occasionally verge on timelessness. These moments can’t be forced or created; the best we can do is to learn to witness, patiently, with humility, and not let ourselves or our judgments get in the way of the process—to learn to be present, attentive, and open to the story that is waiting to be told."

Revisiting

It has been a while since I visited hospitals and played for patients. In fact, I spent the past two months being a patient myself--having had a few adventures "unit-hopping". It was an educational experience; one often learns double portion when taking a refresher course. I am now back on my feet, eyes forward, heart filled with thanksgiving for each new day given to make more music.

I visited a rehabilitation unit last night at a hospital that looked more like an airport than a health care facility. As my guide and I roamed through the lobby that resembled a long terminal, surrounded by glass panes and stepping on soft carpet with endless repetition of the same patterns, I tried to recall the feelings when I last found myself in a rehab hospital, recovering from complete paralysis. Surprisingly, the effort was not very fruitful. Time may not heal completely, as it is often said, but it does have a way of softening the edges of those memories that were once imprinted on every fiber of one's being.

As I left at the end of the night, I found a strange sense of dissatisfaction in my heart. It wasn't anything I did, but something I didn't or couldn't do--something I could not quite put my finger on. I pray that the comfort these strangers found in the music would last longer than one night, but more than that, I pray that they would be back on their feet soon, and that their dreams would still be waiting for them outside of the hospital doors.

I.V.

Occasionally when we visit a patient, something is going on in the room. We usually try to come back to the rooms where a procedure is being done, or where the doctors are speaking with the patients. But sometimes it doesn't feel like we are interrupting, so the concert becomes part of all the other small "happenings" in the room.

A lady in her 60's had arrived on the floor and was settling in. She was cheerful--almost a little too cheerful to be in an oncology unit. Her neighbor in the next bed had agreed earlier to let me serenade her, and the lady was glad for the company. She was definitely the "the more the merrier" type. A nurse was kneeling in front of her when I entered the room, trying to find a good vein in her pale arm to put in an IV. The lady looked like she was receiving a manicure in her own living room: welcoming me to her presence, nodding to her neighbor approvingly, while explaining to the nurse--who looked like he had been trying for a while to find that vein--what I had come to do.

I started improvising, and the lady immediately started to hum--an act that always amused me somewhat because the melody only began to take form in my head as I played. She tried to stay with it as long as she could, but whenever the melody took a turn, she waved her other hand to distract the nurse, whose would raise his head slightly to acknowledge her excitement. "Oh, listen, the music!" she would say. "Yeah..." he would answer politely, turning his head towards me--more to show her that he got the message than any genuine interest.

This went on for another minute and a half. By the middle of the piece, I had shifted my attention from what I was playing to what the nurse was doing on the patient's arm. I wanted to get closer and see if he found what he was looking for. The lady was the complete opposite; she was getting more and more excited about the music. Suddenly, the nurse got up, went out to the hall and got the IV, the dressing, etc. He knelt in front of the lady again.

The piece slowly approached the end.

"Now, don't move," he said.

Last note lingered. I slowly lifted the bow from the string.

"Yay! Brava!" the patient clapped ecstatically. The pillow on which her arm was resting fell on the floor.

Sorry, man. Keep trying.

Miriam

The last time I went to the children's hospital, I met 18-year-old Miriam from Egypt. Charlotte, the music therapist who usually guided me through the floors, showed me a violin that she got for the Miriam. I helped her tuned the violin, set up the bridge, and together we went to surprise Miriam with the gift. We arrived just in time, right before she was transferred to another floor. Miriam was ecstatic, to say the least. Her soft brown eyes lit up as she stretched out her hands to receive the instrument, holding it as if holding a baby. She told us that the violin was her favorite instrument and that she has had a couple of lessons in Egypt.

Under the encouragement of the music therapist, we had a little "jam session." She played the G open string rhythmically while I made up a melody in G major. Our audience--Miriam's mother and the nurses--clapped and whistled to show their appreciation. I gave her some tips on playing scales and on how make the violin stay on her shoulder. As we left her, we could still hear her playing and her mother's cheerful voice in the background.

When I returned the other day, two weeks later, I asked Charlotte how Miriam was. "Oh, you just missed her. She left yesterday," she replied.

"Did she enjoy playing the violin while on the other floor?"
"Well," Charlotte looked up from the piece of paper she was writing on and hesitated. "You know she started chemotherapy...so she wasn't feeling too well."

I didn't ask more, somewhat able to imagine, at the back of my mind, all that Charlotte did not say. I could still see Miriam's beautiful smile when she held the violin and bow in her hands, her painted fingernails slowly moving up and down the fingerboard. Wherever she is, I hope she did not lose her smile.

In sickness and in health

A typical night of serenading a hospital floor is like flipping through a picture book of life -- LIFE with its warmth and coldness, sweetness and bitterness; life with its infinite facets, manifested in each face, each spoken and unspoken word, each gesture, each breath.

There is nothing like sickness that reveals the hard reality of life, the absolute, naked truth. It strikes everything in its path with a vengeance--promises, relationships--stripping away layers and layers of niceties until the core is shown in its true state: ugly and repulsive, or beautiful and fragrant.

I once met a woman in the corridor of an oncology unit, fatigue written all over her sleep-deprived face. My guide John, a regular volunteer in the hospital, asked her how her mother was doing. "She's okay," the woman said, then let out a long sigh. "You know, she's really not that bad. With some real rest and without my dad aggravating her, she really can recover quite nicely."

I met another couple this week, also in an oncology unit, though in a different hospital. The husband invited me to go in and play for his wife, but after she makes a stop in the bathroom. My guide and I waited in the hallway, chatting about his vacation to Italy. From the corner of my eyes, I saw the wife making her way laboriously towards the bathroom, her husband standing by her, one arm around her waist, and the other wheeling the IV pole.

The trip took awhile. When they came back, I had made up my mind to play one of my favorites, "All I Ask Of You" from "Phantom of the Opera." A few seconds into the song, the wife suddenly turned to her husband and started crying softly. The husband gently smoothed the wrinkles on the bed sheet and held her hand. "That was our wedding song," she told us through tears and sniffles. "Eighteen years ago," he said.

Love me--that's all I ask of you...so the song goes. I guess they never thought, of all things, that it would be sickness that comes to prove how strong those vows are.

Bach Partita in E

Little Brian was not a shy child, having more energy than my guide's and mine combined. "Ooh, a violin, a violin!" He jumped up and down by the door, his hands stretching out with the intention of not only touching the instrument, but also grabbing it.

"You are not going to play today," the guide Charlotte, a music therapist in the hospital, said. "We are all going to sit down to listen." Brian did not protest. His widely-opened eyes showed that he was already mesmerized by the instrument he has never seen before.

"Let's see...what do you want to listen?" Charlotte asked. "Something fast or something slow?" "Fast!" the little guy responded excitedly, his eyes still glued to the violin. "Okay...something loud or something soft?" "LOUD!!"

I groaned a little inside. Somewhat exhausted from a full work day, I was not prepared to play something "fast" and "loud", especially in a hospital setting. The ambiance simply did not help inspire what was necessary. But there was no time for excuses--the active little boy giggled and squirmed around on his mother's lap, his hands clasped together in expectation. "How about something fast and loud, then something slow?" My little music patron demanded.

I began playing the first movement of Bach's partita in E major. The continual stream of sixteenth notes delighted my young audience tremendously. "Okay, now something slow!" he cried. I put on the brake and the tempo dropped by half. His mouth dropped open as he turned around to look at his mother. She was as excited as he was. "Slow enough for ya? Ready to pick it up?" Charlotte asked him. "Okay, fast!" I stepped on the accelerator and the arms are back on speed.

We laughed so much during our brief five-minute visit. I only played about 20 measures, not even finishing on the tonic (the "home" chord on a scale). At some point I thought about what a professional classical musician would think if he or she heard my performance. I also wondered what Bach would say if he were there (I could already see his expression as I remembered from his portrait hanging in my childhood home: meticulous and stern). But none of that mattered in that gloomy hospital room. Little Brian saw the violin for the first time in his life, and he was incredibly proud of his "conducting." Most importantly, he laughed. So I guess if I did not do what a professional musician was supposed to do, I at least did what I set out to do in the first place when I decided to volunteer with Musicians On Call: to bring the healing power of music to patients, in one form or the other.

A good night

A lovely lady visited the patients with us today. She is interested in starting a chapter of Musicians on Call in her hospital down at Miami. It is wonderful to see a good idea spread. An idea that is simple, yet good.

Many enthusiastic listeners tonight, several requests, and a couple of encores. Someone also recorded me on their cell phone -- not generally welcome by a professional with perfectionist quirks, but I let it go. There were quite a few youths, so my Disney repertoire came in handy several times.

All in all, a good night -- not in the sense that I've made everyone feel better (no one can say that because then the patients would not be in the hospital) but we've done what we could, given the circumstances, given what we have.

And tomorrow is another day to do what we can, given the circumstances, giving what we have.

Kid Entertainment

Due to schedule conflicts, I have not been able to play at a children's hospital that I used to visit. I miss playing for children, though. I miss how their eyes light up when they see an instrument they don't usually encounter. I miss how they gasp and puff up their cheeks out of excitement when they hear a Disney song they recognize. I miss the expression on the parents' faces when they see their children forget the tubes on their little bodies and the pain (physical or emotional) they were crying about just a while ago--even if just for a few minutes.


As we roamed about yesterday on a general floor, we came upon a room at the end of the corridor. I stood outside as my guide went in to ask the patient if she would like to hear some music. "I already heard her next door," she said. "So it's okay." That meant no, and we respected that. As we turned around to go, a little boy came out of the room, a popsicle in his mouth. "I've never seen that before," he told me, pointing to my violin. "That's cool." His elder sister came out of the room, too, and the two of them just stood there, wide-eyed.

"Can I go with you when you play for somebody else?" he asked, a silent "pleeeeaase" in his eyes. "Me, too!" the sister chimed in. "I don't think that's such a good idea," my guide replied. "You see, we are going to another floor now." "Oh, man..."

I looked around the corridor. It was dinnertime, and there was a lot going on: nurses going from one room to another, visitors coming in in packs, and some patients taking a stroll with their I.V. poles. Nobody would mind or even notice a little concert at the end of the corridor for two little kids, who were both fascinated by a beautiful instrument, and at the same time, terribly bored.

"Okay, one song, right here. How about a Disney song? Guess which movie this comes from."

"Yay!"

Untitled

An elderly lady in robe stood by the doorway; a huge smile, as well as a thin oxygen tube hung across her face. "Oh, how lovely," she pointed to my violin. "Would you like to hear something?" I asked, forgetting that my guide was the one who was supposed to ask.

The lady was a little hard of hearing, at least it seemed that way because we had to repeat our intention a few times. She finally agreed to return to her side of the room and sit down. We squished by the bed next to the door, which was completely curtained off. "Nobody is in this room, just me," she informed us. "Your neighbor isn't here?" my guide asked. "That's what I said," she replied. "Oh, how lovely, a violin!"

Standing behind her, I saw my guide catching a glimpse through the curtains. Her expression immediately changed -- "stony" is the only word that came to mind. Not wanting to startle the old lady or making her feel that something was wrong, I simply looked at the girl. I got nothing. I only knew that something disturbed her, but the nature and gravity of which were beyond guesses. I started playing, limiting my improvisation to less than a minute. The old lady interrupted me every few second with "How wonderful!" and "I feel like I am in Carnegie Hall!"

After wishing the patient a good night, we hurried out of the room. "What's wrong?" I whispered. She did not reply. We came to the nurse's station, which was just three steps from the room. "Was there someone in there?" I asked again. She nodded. "Sleeping?" No. "Awake?" Again, no. "Then what?"

"Dead," she whispered.

Mr. Schultz

Mr. Schultz, a gentleman in his 60's, was intimidating at first sight. He wore a fur hat, ear flaps draped along both sides of his thin face; below the hat brink, one bulging eyelid was shut close, making the remaining window of the soul shining extra piercingly. He was standing next to the nurse station, leaning against the counter, as we approached.

"I visited that gentleman last month," my guide Liz whispered to me. "The musician was a guitarist. As soon as the patient saw him, he said, 'No rock and roll!'" she chuckled. "But I think he enjoyed the music." She kept going for a minute, describing to me the brief exchange they shared that night. I was not listening. I looked at the man through the corner of my eyes, who, for no particular reason, nearly gave me chills.

"Are you looking for me?" A gruff voice thundered. Up close, the fierce eye was even more luminous than from afar. The man has two faces: the left side of his face (drawing an imaginary line from his forehead to his chin) is peaceful and smiling, as if asleep; but the right side is bordering on hostile. "Yes, sir," Liz said, her voice was extra gentle. "I don't know if you remember me, I visited you last month with another musician--a guitarist. We are wondering if you would like to hear some violin music tonight."

"Ah, yes. I remember," he said pensively. He gave me a quick once-over. "Well, come on in!" The two of us quickly followed.

He lived in an isolation room, with a heavy outer door, a "prep" area--equipped with a sink and soap dispenser for medical staff before entering the room--and an inner door, also quite heavy. The room was especially lonely as a droning noise from the air-conditioning filled the tiny space. "Look at that, I'm living in an isolation room even though I don't need to with my condition. Just fabulous," he said sarcastically. "At least I got a view," he pointed to the huge window next to the bed, which faced the Hudson River. I waited one more minute as he settled himself on bed. "What would you like to play for me?" The intimidating side of his face softened a little.

I started playing "Le Cigne" ("The Swan") by Camille Saint-Saen. A few measures into the piece I opened my eyes and peeked. His eyes were closed and a serene smile appeared on his whole face. I felt relieved. "Can you please play another one?" he asked as the last note lingered and finally vanished. I looked over at Liz, my timekeeper. She was enjoying it as much as he was. I gladly obliged and played "Meditation from Thais" by Massenet.

By the end of the second piece, all fierceness left his face and was replaced by an indescribable tranquility. Mr. Schultz thanked us and we bade him good night. Before Liz closed the first door, I turned around and saw that the sun was starting to set, coloring the Hudson with brilliant gold. Mr. Schultz was still smiling -- the sunset reflecting off the eye that shone so brightly.

Brief escape

A co-worker of mine is struggling with cancer and has been hospitalized intermittently. She spent the entire last week living in the oncology section of the hospital where I work. I visited her one day during my lunch break. Sitting with her, listening to the mixture of coughing, various machines beeping and an occasional squealing wheel on carts passing by, it reminded me how lonely it was to be in a hospital room, despite all the actions around us. My boss (an interventional neuroradiologist) once told me when we were discussing my volunteer work with Musicians On Call: "Music is one of those things that you don't realize how much you miss until you hear it. 4 o'clock in the afternoon, on the oncology floor, everybody's depressed--including the staff--but there is no powerful and quick solution...until something like music comes along."