Music Is The Universal Language (Especially In The Hospital)

When there are no words… I have music

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He is in his 90s, in the ICU for various issues. There’s a language barrier (he’s from Spain) and there’s no family visiting. The doctors are working on the physical needs, but the nurses felt as though he needed something… else. “He seems lost. Scared.” They asked me to see him. Often when nurses feel as though their hands are tied, and they are not sure how to help, they refer for music therapy. I went in and said, “Hello” and showed him my guitar. He looked at me briefly, gruffly - and gave a slight nod. He seemed unsure. We couldn’t communicate with words, but luckily… I have music.

I played. A down-tempo ‘Spanish style’ improvisation. His face slowly lit up, like when you turn on a dimmer switch to light up a room. As he brightened… so did the music, following him in the moment. As I increased the harmonic energy, he seemed to ‘wake’ up more and more. Before long, his eyes were wide. He looked like a child who sees snow for the first time. When I finished, he looked at me and smiled, put his hand to his heart and said, “Bravo.” When I left the room, his nurse said to no one in particular, “Did you see his face? He completely transformed.” When I looked in on him before I left the unit, he was sleeping.

“He speaks no English so we can’t really talk with him. And he’s had no visitors,” the nurse told me when she asked me to visit with him. He’d already been isolated in the hospital for some time receiving cancer treatment. I walked into his dark room, and it was so quiet I could hear the IV drip. He looked at me and I showed him the guitar and gestured to a chair as if to ask, “May I sit?” He tentatively shook his head “yes”. He was in bed with the covers pulled up. He looked weak. He looked lost. I just started playing something soothing, offering some soundscape for comfort. He was looking straight up but… seemed to be listening.

After a few moments I noticed his left foot slowly moving. I kept the rhythm solid. And then, some movement in his head. I followed him with the music, adding a little more straight structure to my improvisation. His eyes opened fully as his body seemed to activate. He transformed… and the music [purposefully] followed. More rhythm. More intensity. More movement. Soon, it felt as though we were… grooving? He looked at me and his smile lit up the gloomy room. It became a music and movement improvised jam-session. And the movement in his body seemed to give him some ‘life’. [It’s amazing what a little movement can do for someone confined to a hospital bed. Hence… the power of rhythm.]

Without thinking about it, I eventually worked my way to One Love and starting singing. He pointed at me, laughed, and said “Ahhh…” Of course he knew Bob Marley! He took it in. He could not stop smiling. No words were spoken for the half hour I was there. There was no need. We had music. As I was waving goodbye and about to walk out—three words… “Come back again.”

“One love. One heart. Let’s get together and feel alright…”

“She’s actively dying. She has no family. She’s all alone in there and…” her nurse paused looking a bit forlorn, “Can you bring in some music?” When I walked in, she looked like a shell of what I imagined she once was; the phrase ‘skin and bones’ came to mind. Her eyes were closed. And her mouth was wide open. Her breathing was shallow… and labored. The end was very near.

I sat. And for a moment I thought how ‘unique’ this is. We are complete strangers and here I sit as she’s dying. It’s so intimate. But it felt… right. She wasn’t alone. At this point, what else is there? There’s music. I played, on guitar, some comforting soundscape. I wanted to give her ‘presence’. I wanted to ‘hold’ her with the music. There were no outward changes, but I felt as though the music was getting through. [I always believe the music gets through.] Eventually, I moved into a ‘lullaby’ version of When You Wish Upon A Star. I felt connected to her. Music connects. Music connected us. I finished with Somewhere Over The Rainbow. In the silence after the music, interestingly, I felt… comforted. (Is that okay, I thought.) Maybe I felt comforted because she felt comforted. And I always remember what someone said to me one time when I provided music for their mother as she was also at the very end - “Do you realize, that is the last music she will ever hear?” I still get a chill when I think of that.

Sometimes we need more than words. Sometimes there is no need for words. Sometimes we need something with beauty and rhythm and soul and aesthetics. Sometimes we just need… music. Music gives you what you need when you need it. Even when there is nothing else left.

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.