Beth, Alice, and I walked into the community room of the memory ward. An ornamented tree stood in the corner and colorful lights adorned the ceiling. The residents were just finishing dinner; those self-reliant enough were feeding themselves at the dinner tables, while the more disabled residents were being spoon-fed from their beds. Judy, a nurse, welcomed us and led us to the spot where we could set up to play music.
As I tuned my guitar and plucked some notes, I noticed Ellen, our assigned patient, being spoon-fed in the back of the room. We hadn’t had much success communicating with her verbally – she often had a glassy-eyed look when we would speak, as though she wasn’t fully there. She couldn’t respond to us and would instead simply stare in our general direction.
But when we played music, however, it was different. I started strumming, and the three of us began to sing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” in harmony. The chatter in the room slowly died down as the residents looked up from their meals to find the source of the music. As I sang, I looked up from my guitar and saw patients leave their tables and come to sit in chairs facing us. Ellen’s bed was wheeled over by her nurse, as were those of several other patients. Everyone sat quietly and attentively, looking at us as we sang by the fireplace.
The change from the initial chaos of the ward was striking. The music washed over everyone in the room, creating a calm and centered stillness. As we played the classic hymn, it was clear that something was happening to the residents. Some mouthed the words along with us, and some bobbed their heads. I saw smiles emerge on a few faces. Past memories were triggered by the nostalgic music. As we sang, I noticed that Ellen’s eyes were sparkling.
I’ve long known the powerful communicative effect that music can have, both in my own life and in my interactions with others. The most meaningful experiences that I have with friends and family are often closely tied to music. I’ve also played music with Beth for the elderly at local nursing homes through Princeton Music Outreach. Through these experiences, I’ve been able to see from a personal perspective just how powerful music can be as a way to speak to others when words fail.
We played a few more Christmas hymns for our audience, as well as some fun classics like “Jingle Bell Rock.” When we finished our set, we wished everyone a Happy Holidays. As the residents all returned to their preoccupations, we packed up and said goodbye to Ellen. She still couldn’t respond, but the childlike glint in her eye remained. It felt like we were really seeing each other.
This program has been incredibly important for preparing me for the medical profession. It taught me how to be attentive, patient, and caring. Above all, however, it taught me how to see a patient for their humanity, not simply entities that a doctor must fix. It is just as important to create a connection with a patient as it is to help them heal; they even go hand in hand.
A large part of appreciating a patient’s humanity, I’ve learned, is understanding death. Working with hospice has taught me to consider the end of the road. When you don’t confront death, it can be tempting to try and stave it off at all costs. By reckoning with death, however, you can approach healing more holistically and engage with patients on a more human level. This hospice experience has given me an increased respect for the gravity and importance of the medical profession – for how it must grapple with life and death and give meaning to both in the process.