I had the pleasure of meeting a new client this week. I'm an introvert by nature and usually do best when I work with people who are outgoing. Probably a majority of the time, however, people expect me to "entertain" and that requires some level of outgoing-ness. I have been learning to be better at pretending to be an extrovert, but my strength is still being introverted. This Monday I met a lady, who I would not call extroverted, but perhaps she and I managed to find a balance. As we were getting to know each other, she mentioned that she knew she was not doing well, because her daughter had asked her, "Are you ready to go to Heaven?" Although I do not think that she will die within the next month or so, it is a valid question. She discussed how she felt about this question, which lent itself well to a segue into funeral planning. She mentioned that she had a few things planned, but not the music. We talked about it, and next time I visit, in the next week or so, I'll bring her a few songs that she thought she might enjoy as funeral songs. One she thought of is "There is a Green Hill Far Away", which I posted below.
It is interesting to think about how you may want people to remember you by. I can rarely recall the homily at a memorial service, but I can usually remember the songs for a while longer. Because music has such an emotional effect, people generally will remember and recall that. So many times, I've heard people say, after hearing a hymn, "That was played at my mother's [father's, sister's, etc] funeral." The music you choose can really be remembered.
I've thought of this often as I have grown. Call it morbid, but that is something I've thought about it. At one point, I wanted "Alive" by P.O.D. [perhaps, ironically]. Now, I really have no solid ideas, but the styles of music I listen to have changed dramatically. It's interesting to think about what I will want when the time comes to plan.
As the client I talked about before and I learn new music, it will be interesting what themes emerge. Will it be a theme of forgiveness, celebration, salvation, grace, or something else? We will have to see!
Friday, March 2, 2012
Saturday, February 25, 2012
A Losing Battle?
This week, I met with the daughter of a client of mine to discuss some goals the daughter had for her mother. The hospice nurse had informed me a little of what she wanted to accomplish a little beforehand and I was slightly discouraged. The daughter would like her mother to be able to talk again. On the surface, this seems admirable. The client has a very unusual brain disease [so unusual that I am not going to mention it's name, due to HIPPA regulation] which robbed her of her speech about a year ago. This, understandably upset the daughter, but she found that her mother could sing little songs, like "You are My Sunshine", long after she had lost the ability to talk. The daughter will come in a play music and occasionally get a response from her, such as humming, smiling, or hand movement. I was able to get responses like that in my assessment, so that was normal, as far as I knew.
The daughter, however, has known her mother talking, joking, and singing for much longer than she has known her in this state. She does not like what has been happening to her mother and wants to fix it, which is completely understandable. The chances that the client will talk again, however, are quite slim. In hospice care, we look for decline. Not to sound morbid or as though we like that aspect of our jobs, but if patients improve, then they are inappropriate for hospice care and we are required to discharge them. I would call it a flaw in the system, but that's the system we work in. That being said, I was quite wary and probably did not give the daughter the attention and time she deserved in our meeting. I attempted to listened closely, be supportive, and empathetic, but if I'm being honest with myself, I was quite skeptical. We had a short music therapy session with the client afterward and we got some results, mostly some brief smirks, eye contact, and a little vocalization.
When we were done, I got back in the car and, as is my general practice, I processed the session and realized how unfair I was about our meeting. I realize that I did not give her the time or attention she deserved to express herself. I also realize that the daughter is probably in some denial about her mother's situation, but who can blame her? That's the coping mechanism that is helping her and, if or when her mother's health declines, all I can do is continue to be supportive and let her know that she always tried her best. Trying your best is worth a lot, I was reminded, even if the results will be hard to attain. Therefore, I am going on the record that I am going to try to help her regain her speech, but with a realistic view of her situation. I cannot guarantee that it will be successful, but if this will help the daughter cope or process her mother's situation, then that is the best that I can do. I am not the perfect person, and I never pretend to be, so I hope my mistake can be corrected and my apology accepted.
The daughter, however, has known her mother talking, joking, and singing for much longer than she has known her in this state. She does not like what has been happening to her mother and wants to fix it, which is completely understandable. The chances that the client will talk again, however, are quite slim. In hospice care, we look for decline. Not to sound morbid or as though we like that aspect of our jobs, but if patients improve, then they are inappropriate for hospice care and we are required to discharge them. I would call it a flaw in the system, but that's the system we work in. That being said, I was quite wary and probably did not give the daughter the attention and time she deserved in our meeting. I attempted to listened closely, be supportive, and empathetic, but if I'm being honest with myself, I was quite skeptical. We had a short music therapy session with the client afterward and we got some results, mostly some brief smirks, eye contact, and a little vocalization.
When we were done, I got back in the car and, as is my general practice, I processed the session and realized how unfair I was about our meeting. I realize that I did not give her the time or attention she deserved to express herself. I also realize that the daughter is probably in some denial about her mother's situation, but who can blame her? That's the coping mechanism that is helping her and, if or when her mother's health declines, all I can do is continue to be supportive and let her know that she always tried her best. Trying your best is worth a lot, I was reminded, even if the results will be hard to attain. Therefore, I am going on the record that I am going to try to help her regain her speech, but with a realistic view of her situation. I cannot guarantee that it will be successful, but if this will help the daughter cope or process her mother's situation, then that is the best that I can do. I am not the perfect person, and I never pretend to be, so I hope my mistake can be corrected and my apology accepted.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
An Impromtpu Memorial
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.
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.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Story - "He Came Through Like Gangbusters"
It seems that my blog, lately, has become mainly a collection of stories from my work. I never really intended it to become so, but I don't think I mind it. I guess sometimes the best way to illustrate what I do is to see [or in this case, read] it in action. I hope that these stories do not sound vain, as I am truly not meaning to boast in myself, but to give a brief glimpse into the world of music therapy and hospice.
That being said, this story happened in my internship at CarePartners Hospice in Asheville, NC. My wife and I still miss it there and we hope to visit again soon, but no real plans. The client I was visiting was named Helen. She was fairly young by hospice standards, only in her early sixties. She and her husband were always welcoming to me, although, if I am going to be honest, they really intimidated me at first. Until that point, I could pretty much assume that the people I visited would want to hear either hymns, country, or Lawrence Welk-style tunes. Helen and her husband, however, loved music from the 60's and 70's. Learning Jim Croce, Chicago, Bob Dylan, and Pete Seeger was fun, but much different than what I had been playing. I slowly started adding them into my repertoire.
Although every session was pretty good, I vividly remember one session in particular. Helen's husband was not there, although he usually was, and I was enjoying talking with Helen. I steered the conversation to her husband, intending to get her to talk about him and process her anticipatory grief. She felt as though she was leaving him. In a segue, I played "Time in a Bottle" by Jim Croce and she broke down crying. If this were to happen now, I would feel comfortable confronting it a little more efficiently, but at that time, I was not. I finished the song and we both just sat there, staring at the floor. After what seemed like several minutes, she broke the silence. She explained that "Time in a Bottle" made her think of her husband and she began to explain her emotions. For several years, she said, she wondered whether or not she had made right decision to be with him. Just as she began to regret her decision, she was diagnosed with cancer. Helen said, through tears, that "he came through like gangbusters for me." She knew, after that event, that she had, indeed, made the absolute perfect decision.
About a week or two later, Helen had a pretty fast decline and was declared "imminent" by her nurse, which means that the rest of her life could most likely be counted in hours, not days. I visited her and it was hard. She was once very full of life, but now she was unresponsive. Her husband, as well as her daughter, were there by her side, and agreed to let me sing for her. I hesitated before leafing past Jim Croce and decided to go for it. I told Helen's husband of our conversation earlier and how much his being there meant to her. As I started to play the song, everyone in the room [myself included], began to cry. We were all going to miss Helen very much. I finished my session and left. She died an hour later.
I guess this still is a strong memory for me, because I'm on the verge of tears again while I recount this story. Tears are not always a bad thing, despite what our culture may say about them. They are not weakness, they are not evil. They are natural, as natural as the love any one person can have for another. They are an outpouring of emotions that cannot be expressed in words, although music may come close. Tears are one way that I know what I do really matters.
That being said, this story happened in my internship at CarePartners Hospice in Asheville, NC. My wife and I still miss it there and we hope to visit again soon, but no real plans. The client I was visiting was named Helen. She was fairly young by hospice standards, only in her early sixties. She and her husband were always welcoming to me, although, if I am going to be honest, they really intimidated me at first. Until that point, I could pretty much assume that the people I visited would want to hear either hymns, country, or Lawrence Welk-style tunes. Helen and her husband, however, loved music from the 60's and 70's. Learning Jim Croce, Chicago, Bob Dylan, and Pete Seeger was fun, but much different than what I had been playing. I slowly started adding them into my repertoire.
Although every session was pretty good, I vividly remember one session in particular. Helen's husband was not there, although he usually was, and I was enjoying talking with Helen. I steered the conversation to her husband, intending to get her to talk about him and process her anticipatory grief. She felt as though she was leaving him. In a segue, I played "Time in a Bottle" by Jim Croce and she broke down crying. If this were to happen now, I would feel comfortable confronting it a little more efficiently, but at that time, I was not. I finished the song and we both just sat there, staring at the floor. After what seemed like several minutes, she broke the silence. She explained that "Time in a Bottle" made her think of her husband and she began to explain her emotions. For several years, she said, she wondered whether or not she had made right decision to be with him. Just as she began to regret her decision, she was diagnosed with cancer. Helen said, through tears, that "he came through like gangbusters for me." She knew, after that event, that she had, indeed, made the absolute perfect decision.
About a week or two later, Helen had a pretty fast decline and was declared "imminent" by her nurse, which means that the rest of her life could most likely be counted in hours, not days. I visited her and it was hard. She was once very full of life, but now she was unresponsive. Her husband, as well as her daughter, were there by her side, and agreed to let me sing for her. I hesitated before leafing past Jim Croce and decided to go for it. I told Helen's husband of our conversation earlier and how much his being there meant to her. As I started to play the song, everyone in the room [myself included], began to cry. We were all going to miss Helen very much. I finished my session and left. She died an hour later.
I guess this still is a strong memory for me, because I'm on the verge of tears again while I recount this story. Tears are not always a bad thing, despite what our culture may say about them. They are not weakness, they are not evil. They are natural, as natural as the love any one person can have for another. They are an outpouring of emotions that cannot be expressed in words, although music may come close. Tears are one way that I know what I do really matters.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
One Profound Song
This week, I wanted to write a little about a particular song and how it affects a particular client of mine. This client is fairly young for hospice care and has an uncommon diagnosis. Due to HIPPA, I do not want to divulge too much information, but let's suffice it to say that he has been living with a developmental delay for his whole life. I've never actually gotten a word out of him. In fact, he spends a lot of time in bed, staring at the wall. Still, he deserves the same level of care, if not more, than anybody else.
He's really a sweet guy and he has a very supportive family. When I first started visiting him, the nursing staff told me, "Oh, he'll love having you visit. His favorite song is 'Jesus Loves Me'." So, I led off with "Jesus Loves Me" and he made eye contact with me, moved his head around, and occasionally made a noise, as though trying to sing along. Then I moved to some other "Sunday School"-style songs, but got no response, whatsoever. He simply stared at the wall. I played "Jesus Loves Me" again, and he reacted the same as before. I'm still not sure what it is about that song that affects him on such a base level! I just know that every time I play that song, which is every other song now, he perks up and seems to really interact with me. I don't understand it, but that's what happens.
In some ways, I envy him. Imagine having a connection to a song that was so strong, so ingrained in your being, that it was always fresh, new, and meaningful. In a time when top 40 radio is a constant blur of "old" songs being replaced by new, he is still in love with this song. And what a song to have a connection with! Regardless of your faith system, this song is empowering and validating the person singing it, even if he's singing it in his head. This song tells the singer that they are loved and important. "Jesus Loves Me" does not make stipulations on its love or ability. In fact, it says that when you are weaker, you are loved more! When you break it down, this song is very profound in our day and age. Television, radio, billboards, and music all tell us what we need to do to be better, whether that's looking better, buying nicer things, or being part of some special group. This song is simple, easy to remember, and is packed with love for the singer.
I hope that everyone reading this can find a song that really speaks to them this week. Find it and cling to it because it validates the best parts of you and doesn't care about the rest. No one is perfect, but everyone deserves to feel loved. I think music is one of the best ways to show that. I find that song, listen to it so many times you know it by heart, and live your life with the feeling it gives you.
He's really a sweet guy and he has a very supportive family. When I first started visiting him, the nursing staff told me, "Oh, he'll love having you visit. His favorite song is 'Jesus Loves Me'." So, I led off with "Jesus Loves Me" and he made eye contact with me, moved his head around, and occasionally made a noise, as though trying to sing along. Then I moved to some other "Sunday School"-style songs, but got no response, whatsoever. He simply stared at the wall. I played "Jesus Loves Me" again, and he reacted the same as before. I'm still not sure what it is about that song that affects him on such a base level! I just know that every time I play that song, which is every other song now, he perks up and seems to really interact with me. I don't understand it, but that's what happens.
In some ways, I envy him. Imagine having a connection to a song that was so strong, so ingrained in your being, that it was always fresh, new, and meaningful. In a time when top 40 radio is a constant blur of "old" songs being replaced by new, he is still in love with this song. And what a song to have a connection with! Regardless of your faith system, this song is empowering and validating the person singing it, even if he's singing it in his head. This song tells the singer that they are loved and important. "Jesus Loves Me" does not make stipulations on its love or ability. In fact, it says that when you are weaker, you are loved more! When you break it down, this song is very profound in our day and age. Television, radio, billboards, and music all tell us what we need to do to be better, whether that's looking better, buying nicer things, or being part of some special group. This song is simple, easy to remember, and is packed with love for the singer.
I hope that everyone reading this can find a song that really speaks to them this week. Find it and cling to it because it validates the best parts of you and doesn't care about the rest. No one is perfect, but everyone deserves to feel loved. I think music is one of the best ways to show that. I find that song, listen to it so many times you know it by heart, and live your life with the feeling it gives you.
Saturday, January 14, 2012
Choosing the positive, acknowledging the negative
This week I had two very profound experiences. One was positive and one negative. It made it hard to choose, but the negative can be summed up pretty succinctly. Dementia is a terrible disease that robs people of their personalities and humanity. A once very lovely and charming woman, who was once a patient and then was discharged, was readmitted with a dementia diagnosis and now she is a completely different person. It made me quite sad.
However easy it is to focus on the negative, it is imperative that, in hospice care, you acknowledge, but do not obsess, the bad things in life. It is much more rewarding to look for the positive, but it has to be a choice. This leads me to my next experience, just a few days later. I was called in to do a visit for a patient who was actively dying and had loved music her whole life. When I started walking to her room, I found the family in the dining area talking with the hospice nurse and she introduced me to the family. They were very nice, obviously very loving, and mentioned how much the patient loved music, even the great grandchildren who were present. I invited them to join me for a music therapy session if they wanted and they quickly joined me.
Now, here is where I should point out that music therapy sessions with imminent patients and their families are the most rewarding experiences in my experience, but they can be tricky to get into. I played a few songs that the patient received comfort from in previous sessions and everybody listened intently, but there was no sharing, no community in the room. I decided to try something else. I asked the great grandkids if they wanted to sing a few songs for the patient. Their faces, especially the little boy's, lit right up and they requested "Go Tell it on the Mountain" and "Jesus Loves Me." That resulted in a veritable deluge of reminiscing and laughing. It was really incredible to witness. No body sang with me when I sang, but between songs, the gathering talked about the patient and her influence on a great number of people. The music supported the conversation and the conversation influenced the music. It was a great sharing of love and I was honored to be a part of it.
These little "mountaintop" experiences are what we, as hospice workers, music therapists, and people in general, need to cherish and focus on. The negative is there. It will always be there. But if you look deep enough, the positive will be there too.
However easy it is to focus on the negative, it is imperative that, in hospice care, you acknowledge, but do not obsess, the bad things in life. It is much more rewarding to look for the positive, but it has to be a choice. This leads me to my next experience, just a few days later. I was called in to do a visit for a patient who was actively dying and had loved music her whole life. When I started walking to her room, I found the family in the dining area talking with the hospice nurse and she introduced me to the family. They were very nice, obviously very loving, and mentioned how much the patient loved music, even the great grandchildren who were present. I invited them to join me for a music therapy session if they wanted and they quickly joined me.
Now, here is where I should point out that music therapy sessions with imminent patients and their families are the most rewarding experiences in my experience, but they can be tricky to get into. I played a few songs that the patient received comfort from in previous sessions and everybody listened intently, but there was no sharing, no community in the room. I decided to try something else. I asked the great grandkids if they wanted to sing a few songs for the patient. Their faces, especially the little boy's, lit right up and they requested "Go Tell it on the Mountain" and "Jesus Loves Me." That resulted in a veritable deluge of reminiscing and laughing. It was really incredible to witness. No body sang with me when I sang, but between songs, the gathering talked about the patient and her influence on a great number of people. The music supported the conversation and the conversation influenced the music. It was a great sharing of love and I was honored to be a part of it.
These little "mountaintop" experiences are what we, as hospice workers, music therapists, and people in general, need to cherish and focus on. The negative is there. It will always be there. But if you look deep enough, the positive will be there too.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
Story: In the Hole
I wanted to share a quick story that means a lot to me. It isn't very long or detailed, but was a very uplifting point in my week. It was really a nice way to start the week out for me.
I went to go see a couple this week that have some pretty incredible attributes. The husband is 98 years old and the wife is 102 years old. Some quick math shows that there are 200 years of experience in that one room of their nursing home. Although the wife is unable to communicate, they husband loves to talk and tell stories. Many of those stories, I have heard already from previous visits, but when a person that old is telling you something, you'd better listen! Haha.
I have been providing music therapy sessions for the wife for longer than the husband, as he was not appropriate for hospice services for a while. He would be up and talking and enjoying the session, which mainly consisted of me just playing music to provide positive sensory stimulation and a compassionate presence. There was one session, however, where I found the husband lying in bed and looking about as bad as his wife. Due to the community nature of music, when I provided music therapy for his wife, he received it as well. I sang the old hymns for her that I was told she enjoyed and left.
Flash forward to this week and you'll see the continuation of the story. When I arrived this time, he was very happy to see me. He remembered where I was from and what I was there to do, which, at 98 years old, is quite a feat. He kept telling me about how he remembered me coming to play for him when he was "in the hole." He continued to talk about the time he was "in the hole" between songs for the rest of the session. As I was starting to pack up to leave, he shook my hand and started talking more about that experience when he was "in the hole" and I played music for he and his wife. As he spoke, his eyes lightened and he said, "Your music brought me a little closer to Heaven that day. I thank you for it." It was really a touching moment, especially for an old farmer to admit something like that.
Obviously, that was a great way to start the week. It made me realize [again] that when I'm sharing music, whether in session, in passing, or in concert, that I'm not just sharing it with one person, but anyone who can hear me. The emotions and comfort that a musician puts forth is not meant to be isolated and guarded, but shared with everyone in the room. You may direct your attention to one person, but simply sharing space with someone changes their life a little bit.
I went to go see a couple this week that have some pretty incredible attributes. The husband is 98 years old and the wife is 102 years old. Some quick math shows that there are 200 years of experience in that one room of their nursing home. Although the wife is unable to communicate, they husband loves to talk and tell stories. Many of those stories, I have heard already from previous visits, but when a person that old is telling you something, you'd better listen! Haha.
I have been providing music therapy sessions for the wife for longer than the husband, as he was not appropriate for hospice services for a while. He would be up and talking and enjoying the session, which mainly consisted of me just playing music to provide positive sensory stimulation and a compassionate presence. There was one session, however, where I found the husband lying in bed and looking about as bad as his wife. Due to the community nature of music, when I provided music therapy for his wife, he received it as well. I sang the old hymns for her that I was told she enjoyed and left.
Flash forward to this week and you'll see the continuation of the story. When I arrived this time, he was very happy to see me. He remembered where I was from and what I was there to do, which, at 98 years old, is quite a feat. He kept telling me about how he remembered me coming to play for him when he was "in the hole." He continued to talk about the time he was "in the hole" between songs for the rest of the session. As I was starting to pack up to leave, he shook my hand and started talking more about that experience when he was "in the hole" and I played music for he and his wife. As he spoke, his eyes lightened and he said, "Your music brought me a little closer to Heaven that day. I thank you for it." It was really a touching moment, especially for an old farmer to admit something like that.
Obviously, that was a great way to start the week. It made me realize [again] that when I'm sharing music, whether in session, in passing, or in concert, that I'm not just sharing it with one person, but anyone who can hear me. The emotions and comfort that a musician puts forth is not meant to be isolated and guarded, but shared with everyone in the room. You may direct your attention to one person, but simply sharing space with someone changes their life a little bit.
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