This week's story is one that really caught me by surprise. I came to a facility just in time to see one client before it was time for lunch, so I chose who I wanted to see. I was a little disappointed when I found out that he was getting a bath right before lunch, so I was unable to visit with him. I had another person in the facility, however, so I went to visit her.
This client, who I'll call Susan, is relatively young for hospice care, in her 60's, and easily converses, which is something I don't see all the time. I started the session much the way I usually do, silently reassessing her needs as we catch up. She said she had a headache, which is common for her diagnosis, but is also a sign of stress. I also noticed that she was knitting, which is not out of the ordinary for her, but she seemed to be a little extra shaky. Without a real reason for it, I asked how her family was doing, and that question opened the door to what was really bothering her. "I got a phone call about 10 minutes ago," she told me, "and they told me that my last aunt died of pancreatic cancer last night." She went on to explain, becoming tearful as she spoke, that her family had always been close and that she had lost her parents and all their siblings in the last decade. Susan's aunt had been the last of that generation to die and the funeral was too far for her to travel.
Grief is a reaction to loss, and Susan had lost a lot in the death of her aunt. She lost the last remaining member of her parents' generation. She lost someone she loved very much. She lost a sense of hope, that is her aunt could miraculously overcome her disease, then Susan could overcome her's. I sat there and listened to Susan pour out all these emotions, this intense grief, and wanted to help her. But, what do you say? What can you do? Distraction/redirection wouldn't take away this issue, so I saw no other option than to address it directly. I quietly asked, "Would you like to have a memorial service for her right now, right now? Just the two of us?" She agreed and we started out upon this impromptu memorial. Susan is a very spiritual person, so she started off by praying, and then I played "Amazing Grace" and "As the Deer", two songs that Susan finds very meaningful. I then encouraged her to talk about her aunt, a eulogy of sorts. During all this, she was very tearful and I just sat and listened. I tried to be fully present in her grief and listen quietly. After she wanted to stop talking, I played "On Eagle's Wings" and "You Raise Me Up", which I tied in with her eulogy. After those songs were done, she prayed again. Her headache was getting worse [it was time for her medicine again] and it was time for lunch, but she thanked me profusely for visiting. She said, "I can't believe you came when you did. God really was looking out for me today. I only got the phone call 10 minutes before you came. Thank you so much." With that, we parted ways and I'm sure our minds wandered on to something else, me to my paperwork and Susan to her overwhelming grief. But, for that hour, we were both present, sharing grief and stories, together.
I usually don't have a perfect idea of what will happen in a music therapy session. I usually have to be flexible and quick-thinking. This session, however, completely blindsided me. I had no idea what I was walking into and, if I would have known, I may have done a few things differently. I think, however, that this is one time where the bulk of what I did was what I needed to do for her. I do not claim to be the perfect music therapist, but it feels really good when I get something right and can help someone like that.
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