Some Days

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I walked in not sure what to expect. She was minimally awake, and her breathing was heavy. She was staring at the ceiling. Her body looked stiff and frail. I said, “Hello.” She tried to say something but she seemed to have trouble speaking. She mumbled. I wondered how coherent she was. I felt like she was aware that I was there. I didn’t think she was in pain, maybe uncomfortable. But her face seemed to show something else. I told her that I was going to play some music for her. She looked at me. Another mumble. Her eyes, though, seemed to have something to say. I wasn’t sure so I took out my guitar and sat near the bed.

I did what I do… I gave her some music. Something on the guitar, some soundscape, and then I went into some songs that I thought she may know. Something for both comfort and orientation. As the music progressed, she held my eye contact. There was something about her eyes though. They seemed to tell a story, but it wasn’t fully broadcasting. Was she confused? Frightened? I tried to be present with her. And music. Was that helping? She looked back up at the ceiling. Maybe the music was comforting her.

But then, she seemed to start getting agitated. Again, I sensed that she wanted to tell me something. Her words would not come. Just faint sounds. What was it? I asked her if she was in pain. She nodded “no”. Did she need help with something? She nodded “no”. But I sensed it. She was definitely trying to tell me something. I started to see some frustration in her eyes. I felt bad. I tried to ‘read’ her face. My own anxiety started surfacing and I could feel my heart-rate increasing. I got back to the music, trying to keep it calm and steady, fighting against my own rising fervor. Trying to hold her with the music. Comfort her.

Her eyes opened even wider. I abruptly stopped my strumming. I asked if I should get the nurse or a doctor. “What do you need?” I heard more urgency, and some frustration, in my voice now. She nodded “no”. I saw frustration all over her face. My confidence deserted me, and I started to sweat. I apologized again. She looked away. I felt bad. I wanted to run away but I didn’t want to leave her alone. What in the world was she trying to tell me? She didn’t seem to be in physical distress. She just wanted to be heard. And I could not ‘hear’ her. How frustrating that must be. I was letting her down.

Suddenly, she took her fist, even though her arm was frail, and pounded the bed. The thud echoed in the quiet room. (And in my head.) It was jarring. I jumped. “I’m so sorry,” I said, now sounding desperate, and, perhaps, a little defensive. I felt helpless… like I was on a sinking ship.

My whole aura was tense. I was trying to hold back my own frustration but I don’t think I did very good job. I let out an audible sigh. That’s when she seemed to become resolved to the fact that she wasn’t going to get anywhere with me. That I was useless to her. We sat in uncomfortable silence. Resigned. I felt sad. For her. And, selfishly, for me too. I could not help her. My one job. My one purpose. I could not give her the one thing that she needed… to be heard.

After a moment, without much thinking about it, I played and sang a solemn version of Let It Be. Somehow it seemed appropriate for both of us. I don’t know. After the song, more silence. She was looking off. I was staring at a vast nothingness on the floor. I packed up my guitar and got up to leave. I stopped at the door and said, “I hope you feel better soon. I’m sorry.” She continued looking off. I left. I felt unsure of myself. I felt like a failure. I wondered, “What the f*ck am I doing?” I went for a walk…

(*The stories presented in this newsletter 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 therapy and music and wellness.

Did you know that if you hit the heart at the top or the bottom of this email you will make my day and it will make it easier for others to find this publication. Thanks!