Am I Really That Far Removed?

After music therapy sessions with two gentleman who are my age, a reflection…

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On any given week I generally see more women than men for music therapy sessions in the hospital. Perhaps women are more open to ‘help’, but this has been consistent. Like all things, there are outliers. This past week it was more about men. I saw many men this week. And two of those, in particular, whom I worked with put a few things in perspective for me.

Michael*: Michael had been in the hospital for several days and is very ill. Some of his issues were brought on by continued lifestyle choices. (He commented, “I realize now, your body just can’t handle stuff like it could when you were younger.”) He’s been in constant pain and his body has basically shut down. Now it’s looking as though he may have to move into a long-term care facility. I was asked to visit with him because, “He seems to be giving up.”

When I first met him, he was in bed. The room was quiet—No TV. No book. (Not even a phone.) He was just lying there with his eyes fixed on the ceiling. I introduced myself and asked if I could sit. “Okay.” After a beat… “How are you doing?” Still fixated on the ceiling (and with no pause), “Terrible.” I said that I was sorry and that I knew he had been here for a while, “It must be frustrating.” Quiet…

After a moment I said, “Hey… I brought my guitar. Can I play some music for you? Just to give you something different to focus on. Just to take a break from… all this.” beat… “Okay.” [It didn’t seem like talking was going to help, so, as I often do, I got to the music.] I started with a little soundscape, then went into a ‘reflective’ version of Peaceful Easy Feeling (the Eagles) – He immediately started to cry.

I paused my singing and asked, “Should I keep going?” beat… “Yes”.

After the song he started to open up a bit. “I’m done. It’s over. What am I supposed to do now?” I gave him some space, just listening. “They don’t know… I may never work again. I may never even go home again.” I continued in silence, just being present with him. After a several moments of silence I played a few more songs as he continued to stare at the ceiling. As I was packing up he said, “That was great man.”

The next day his nurse called me. “Can you see Michael? He’s having a tough morning. He said that the music was helpful. He said that it was the only thing that helps him.” – We had a little more conversation this time. He told me where he is from, mentioned that he always wanting to learn how to play the guitar, and he mentioned classic rock as “my music.” I said, “Our music.” He actually smiled. I shuffled through Tom Petty, Steve Miller, Led Zeppelin… He cried. As I was packing up, “Thank you. This helps me so much. There’s nothing. But you…”

I saw him about six times until he left for a long-term care facility. I really saw his emotional pain. I felt it actually. I found myself thinking about him after I left the hospital each evening.

Richard*: Richard came to the hospital because of sudden pain in his mid-section. After some tests and a biopsy – cancer. He had surgery and was admitted to the hospital for recovery and treatment. But his pain continued, and he had two additional surgeries because of complications. I was asked to visit as “He’s having a tough time both physically and emotionally.”

When I entered his room he was in bed with his eyes closed. He looked weak and he looked tired. He also looked as though he were in pain. But he greeted me warmly, “Please come in… sit.” [Richard had a ‘European hospitality’ air about him.] When he saw the guitar, he smiled (through his pain) and said, “Oh my… I love music. Please… please… play.” I gave him something comforting, trying to redirect his focus away from the pain – ‘holding’ him with the music. He closed his eyes and his face slowly transformed. He fully took the music in. After a pause in the music he said, “Oh my… that is so beautiful… so beautiful...” He started to cry. I gave him some space. After a few moments he said, “I don’t know why this happened. I did everything right. I eat well. I’m active. I bike… 30 miles on the weekends. Never smoked… drank. It’s over.”

“It’s over.” Just like Michael said… “It’s over.”

He asked me if I could play Don’t Stop Believin’ (Journey). “That’s the song my wife and I sing when we feel like we can’t make the last 10 miles…” His crying became more profound, “I’m sorry. It’s beautiful. But it will never be the same. Why? Why?” I just listened and gave him my presence. silence… “Why? The music is so beautiful… oh my. Why?”

After I left Richard’s room, something hit me. I started to feel some emotion coming on. I had to step outside for a bit. Take a breath. Take a walk.

Meeting and working with Michael and Richard lingered with me. I couldn’t stop thinking about them in the evenings when I left the hospital. Yes, sometimes this work is hard. There is a lot of emotion. And when you share music with those who are hurting, within such heightened emotion, you connect on another level. There is always a sense of ‘taking on some of the pain’. I reflect what they are feeling in the music I present, often created in the moment. Music created to sound like what I imagine they are feeling. It’s always powerful. It’s always emotional. It’s always profound. But Michael and Richard? They were lingering more than usual.

Then it hit me. They are both my age.

I wondered what this must be like for them. I thought, how do they deal with it? I realized that they were both kind of ‘in mourning’. They were mourning their former selves. I have no idea where things will go for them from here, but one thing is evident. Their ‘selves’ up until now are… over.

Then the big reflection - What if that were me? I’m not that different from either one of them, really. What if that happens to me?

I thought… am I really that far removed from them? Things can change on a dime. I see it all the time. Suddenly there’s pain… Suddenly I don’t feel well… Suddenly this headache won’t go away… Then? Here they are. And in a sense, yeah, suddenly… it’s ‘over’. And now they have me coming in trying to help them ‘cope’… me and my stupid guitar. Really???

Sometimes it hits a little too close to home. No one plans on getting cancer, having an accident, getting a life changing disease. But when you see it every freaking day… Sometimes you can’t let it go. Sometimes I think (often actually) it’s not fair. This is not fair. There is no bias. No one is immune. This could be me…

Life is fragile. (I know, a cliché…) And yes, we all take a lot for granted. I take a lot for granted. But all we can do is keep going. Live for today. Live in the moment. (Yes… more clichés.) And appreciate life. Appreciate nature. Take an extra moment to look at the sunrise. Put your phone down when your child asks you a question. Take comfort in the little things. My adult daughter still doesn’t drive and asks me for rides a lot. Sometimes I feel put off. But y’know what? I’m lucky. I get that added time with her. Just us… listening to music. Talking. Together. I should cherish those moments more. (I will cherish those moments more.) Because tomorrow… things could change. Tomorrow, things could become very different. I see it every day. And I’m not that far removed. No one is. It’s not fair. Why? Why?

[This is dedicated to Michael and Richard, both of whom I’m still thinking about.]

The healing power of music…

(*The stories presented in this blog are based on accounts or experiences and are not actual accounts or experiences.)

Raymond Leone, MMT, MT-BC is a board-certified music therapist based in Northern Virginia and writes extensively about music and wellness.