Sing a Song for Me

In spite of all the negative experiences this disease affords, every once in a while, there's still a ray of sunshine.

My husband was taking a nap on his bed when I arrived today, which isn't all that unusual. I checked his closet for misplaced or missing items, then sat by him as he slept peacefully. When he awoke, I greeted him with my usual smile and kiss(es). He seemed in no hurry to get up, so I prattled away about this and that, sang a few tunes, and was checking more song lyrics online when who should appear? The music therapist! Perfect timing.

I wish you could have seen how my husband responded to the singing and guitar strumming today. It no doubt would have warmed your heart as it did mine, and you might even have been a bit teary-eyed, too.

He was all smiles and even "sang along" with a "word" and even an understandable word here and there, moving his shoulders, occasionally closing his eyes tightly and pursing his lips as he used to do when "feeling" a tune, obviously and undeniably enjoying what can only be described as a joyous, lighthearted, captivating experience for him. It was uplifting and gratifying for me (and for the therapist), as well.

I can't begin to tell you how much I appreciate this music therapist. Not only is he a talented musician and vocalist, but he goes out of his way to learn the songs that will be pleasing to a man of my husband's generation and situation.

I've said this before, and it certainly appears to be true time and again so far:  Music is transcendent. It's magic. It's miraculous. It reaches back to long-forgotten times and places and emotions, and -- at least for a moment -- fires up the imagination to connect with the spirit. If you have a loved one in hospice care, be sure to request music therapy. In a world where I don't imagine there are very many pleasures remaining, this one is not to be missed.

I didn't manage to capture the beatific smiles and engaging eye contact,
but believe me when I tell you he was having a good time!

Baby, Baby

March 2, 2019


You were sleeping when I came to see you today. I waited. And waited. It was a sleepy kind of day, and you weren't the only resident snoozing. Finally, after an hour and a half, you opened your eyes and sat up. You didn't seem inclined to get up and out of bed, so I quickly put your headphones on and started the music before you could lie down again.

I sat next to you and waited and smiled and nodded my head to the beat. You finally started to do the same. I stood up in front of you, offering you my hands to help you get to your feet, but you resisted. So we went through the process again and again until, finally, success!

You stared past me as we walked, hand in hand, all over the facility to the different tunes on your iPod. You were mostly expressionless, with an occasional sort-of-smile. Not the one you use when you are in a good mood and having fun. The other one. The one that's a half-hearted or confused return of someone else's encouraging smile. The one that's an obligation, an automatic reaction, rather than a pleasure. That's okay. I know you aren't always going to recognize me or be thrilled to see me. I guess you are more familiar with the caregivers than with me now. After all, they are there all the time. I'm not.

You didn't say anything for hours. Nothing at all. Until Rod Stewart's "Baby Jane" was playing. You lit up, looked over at me, scrunched up your face, and sang, "Baby, baby, baby, baby..." And that was all it took to warm my heart today. I've always been a "low-maintenance" kind of girl, eh?

You kept wanting to sit down. Sometimes you headed for a couch or chair in the common area, and sometimes you headed to your room to sit on your bed. You seemed tired. I guess it was a tired kind of day. I was tired, too. Pretty soon, you got up from the couch where we were sitting and just walked away. I waited. You came back by and walked right past me without noticing that I was there at all.

I gathered my things and stepped in front of you, smiling, to give you a kiss goodbye. You stopped and looked at me, but you didn't see me. I kissed you, but you were somewhere else. That's how it is sometimes, and so it goes.

Music Therapy

As I mentioned in Music Is Magic a few days ago, my husband has always loved music. While he was still at home, we played music all the time. There's generally music playing at his place, but it's geared more towards folks who are a bit older than he is. He still responds to it, of course, but it isn't the music of his youth, his heart, his falling-in-love times. It isn't the soundtrack of his life. We enjoy the music our parents played, and it might even remind us of happy childhood times. But it isn't our music, it's theirs.

I've struggled with ways to play his music for him without disturbing the other residents. His sister suggested that I take his iPod to him and leave it with him. While that's a wonderful thought and would be terrific under different circumstances, he no longer knows how to operate it. To ask the already taxed staff to keep track of the thing, turn it on and off for him, keep him from breaking his teeth while attempting to eat the earbuds, keep it charged, and prevent it from being broken or lost would just be too much to ask. His glasses have been missing for over a month and are nowhere to be found, so I'm thinking the same thing would happen to the iPod.

At any rate, as I previously mentioned, his iPod is still loaded up with the eclectic musical choices he selected years ago. I landed on a brilliant plan for his music therapy:  I would see if I could purchase a splitter so that two sets of earbuds could be used at the same time, enabling both of us to share the music experience together without bothering everyone else and allowing me to hear what he hears so I can respond engagingly with clapping, dance steps, or just nodding my head or tapping my foot to the beat. Then I thought about the earbuds and how appetizing he seemed to think they were, so I decided to see if I could also find some regular, lightweight headphones for him to use instead. He has a lot more experience with headphones than earbuds, and so I thought he might not be tempted to see how they taste. I was thrilled to find just what I needed at the first place I stopped.

Responding to Led Zeppelin

Today was our first attempt at this method of sharing music, and it went very well indeed. The new headphones fit his head comfortably, and the earbuds didn't fall out of my ears too often. I was glad to learn which songs elicited the most response from him and was able to skip the songs that weren't appealing. I encouraged him to "dance" with me to some of our favorite tunes. He tapped his foot at times, or whistled, or hummed. And then the most fantastic thing happened. The first few notes of Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love" instantly brightened his face with a beautiful smile as he looked at me and said, "Yeah!" Clearly, this was not "rest home" music. But he responded to it, and that's what matters to me.

I want him to be able to get some enjoyment out of life if at all possible, and I'm thrilled that this experiment seems successful so far. Like so many of the things I've tried in the past, it might only work for a couple of weeks. But that's okay. It'll be a couple of weeks during which I can drive home from his place with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.