On an ordinary day, in a dreary hospital room, I experienced the great extent to which music and/or a small gesture can make a meaningful impact. The experience actually spanned across a number of rooms and showed me many things.
A year ago I joined Musicians on Call. Musicians on Call is an organization that sets up volunteer musicians and guides to offer bedside performances to hospital patients. I had learned a few things during my first session that I hoped would improve my next one. I realized that it would be good for me to have more songs prepared. Although I typically played a single song for each patient, it was nice to be able to offer more than a couple of options. My guide (who goes with me from room to room and does pretty much all the talking - a brave task really) might also benefit from some variety since she was with me for every iteration of the same couple of songs. I realized that I would need a bit more boldness to be heard by patients who might be hard of hearing and to really connect with patients by maintaining eye contact, even when it grew to be a little more intense than I imagined. Performing for an audience of one is uniquely intimate. I realized that I would need an extra measure of discernment to know how to handle patients’ tears - sometimes the emotion was too great to bear, and I would stop, and wish them well, and leave the song unfinished. Other times, they would insist that I keep going - that it was okay that they were crying. I felt like I was growing up a little in those moments of understanding. One of the most simple things I noticed and felt as though I had relative power to act upon was the fact that many patients were not native English speakers. A number of cultures were represented among the patients, and many appeared to be Spanish speakers. I decided then that the next time I came, I would have a Spanish song.
The next time came quickly, almost out of nowhere. For a period of time, I had been consistently practicing a few songs that I really liked for my little ukulele: “Vincent”, “The Wonder of You”, “Oh My Darling”, “Daisy”, “Love is Endless” (these are all real songs). I had not forgotten my Spanish song vow, but I had not encountered anything that felt quite manageable for someone who lacked a gift for language. One day as I listened to my Discovery playlist on Spotify (I am constantly amazed at how those magical algorithms conjure up a collection of songs I love every week), I heard a song that I immediately fell in love with. I clicked the little heart near the song and added it to my library, then proceeded to listen to it endlessly for the next couple of days. The song was called “A Letter to My Younger Self”, by Ambar Lucid. It carried out the strumming of a few sweet chords and a lovely voice that sang in a tone of almost forlorn wistfulness, even as it conveyed a message of hope. The lines of the song were mostly in English, but a few Spanish verses rang out with the most heartfelt plea, and although I did not understand the words, I could feel the weight of that plea. I felt compelled to understand the words and to learn the song. After a while, I let my practice fall on the back burner and the time came suddenly for me to play my session. Because my Spanish song had the simplest chords, I leaned on it quickly that night. I felt a bit ashamed of that, but throughout the night I found that the song connected with many patients on a base level - regardless of age or language.
“Ya no quiero que llores (I don’t want you to cry anymore)
The universe is gonna give you muchas flores (lots of flowers)
Quítate ese miedo (take off that fear)
You'll be a lot more trust me, yo te entiendo (I understand you)”
The words were simple enough, but they resonated so deeply. The song also spoke of regrets, expectations, love, parents, hopes, and dreams. One woman cried at a verse about a daughter not becoming what her mother thought she would be. The patient shared that she had not spoken to her daughter for many years. I imagined how difficult that must be under ordinary circumstances, and how much more so as she laid in her hospital bed. Another woman told me that I had come on the right day, her heart had been so heavy with sadness and discouragement at the state in which she found her health. With tears falling down her cheeks, she beckoned me to come near, took my hand and kissed it, and told me that God would bless me for what I had done. I stood there with her frail hand in mine and wondered what I had done indeed. I was unprepared for such immense gratitude. It was a moment unlike any other that I had experienced. The night went on much like that. One man asked me to come back again when his wife came by because he wanted her to hear it too. (She didn’t get there in time, so he had me sing it for the nurse instead). Likewise, another man had asked that we wait for his wife to hear the song, and another for his daughters to hear it. I marveled at how patients who had heard the song or even had yet to hear it had a desire to share it with others. The music seemed to be like gospel - good news that could not be kept to oneself, and I had the great privilege to be a messenger. Wasn’t that something?
On one occasion, I had a younger patient with such an immediate bright disposition, I thought that he might sing along. So I chose a song I thought he might know, Vance Joy’s “Riptide”. I encouraged him to sing along, and he told me that he wasn’t much of a singer, but soon after the song began I could hear him humming along, and it lifted my spirit. I thought - this is what music is - an antidote to lift the spirit, and in so doing ease one’s pain.
That night I played for just a few patients, but I learned and experienced so much. The evening reminded me that music transcends differences like language or age. It showed me that the simplest song is by no means the lesser one. It showed me that even though I am a no one with hardly any talent at all, maybe I could help to heal someone’s pain just a little bit by the grace of God. It showed me that a little Spanish goes a long way.
