"Music of a serene nature has been shown to lessen anxiety and allow individuals to relax."

G.F.Lindenmuth, PhD; Manish Patel; P.K.Chang, PhD, American Journal of Alzheimer's Care and Related Disorders & Research, March/April '92

"... the music of Tommy Dorsey and Benny Goodman enveloped my father, whose look was soft, almost ironic. It was the kind of look he had at times that he probably was not even aware of--the kind of expression a child looks for and knows to be who his mother or father really is."
Perfect Endings, Robert Sachs

Loneliness.  Isolation.  Pretty tough feelings to deal with--under the best of circumstances.  Add to that a lack of independence, grief over the loss of your life's mate and/or lifetime friends, and being forced to live somewhere other than your own home.  Can you imagine a harsher scenario?

And yet, for a great number of our seniors, this is what they endure on a day-to-day basis.  Many of the residents that I observe in facilities have few, if any, visitors.  They have little, if any, joy. That's why the mission of Heart and Soul Music is so important to me.

There are volunteers called "Friendly Visitors" in some facilities who visit with the residents.  I bless these people for their kindness and their giving nature.  I guess what I do could be called a "Friendly Visitor With Music".  The recorded music that I bring with me often opens lines of communication that might have otherwise remained closed.  As Robert Sachs so eloquently noted in Perfect Endings [see quote above], the music can register on a patient's face in a way to allow us to glimpse their soul ... and make a connection that might not be made without the aid of music.

People ask me, "How do you know what you’re going to say when you walk into a resident’s room?"  The truth is, I don’t.  I have no idea. And I have no agenda.  I trust my heart to lead me in the right direction.  And now-–with the help of recorded music-–I trust the music.   Oftentimes, I will sit with a resident, playing the music, and barely a word will be spoken beyond the introduction phase.  Other times, the resident will reach out for my hand.  We will be sitting quietly, holding hands, and I will notice a tear rolling down her face. "What’s making you cry?" I’ll ask.  And a flood of memories come tumbling out.  Memories of "that nice young man" [i.e., her husband] she used to dance with.  Memories of how things used to be "before…"  And with those memories, very often surface fears, regrets, disappointments.  Whatever it is, all I have to do is be still and listen.  And the music helps to lead the way … for the resident, and for me.  

I’m not surprised anymore when the topic of conversation turns to death and dying.  Mostly, that’s what tops our list of fears.  And when you’re busy reliving your memories, you can’t help but think about what it’s like today and what occupies your mind now. Death is not a subject that’s open for discussion on most social levels. So, I think that, for most residents, it’s a relief to have someone visit who’s not afraid to talk about it. And-–not surprisingly-–the fact that I’m a stranger to this resident works in my favor.  She’s not likely to broach the subject of death and dying with her grown daughter who comes to visit, reassuring her that "Oh, Mama; you’re going to be fine."  She knows she’s not going to be fine.  She knows she’s dying [aren’t we all?].  But she knows it’s not a subject open for discussion. I have my own opinions about subjects that are "open for discussion". Or not.  So often, we pretend.  That everything’s going to be "okay". That things are going to turn out "fine".  The truth of the matter is: Everything IS okay.  Things ARE going to work out fine.  And Death plays its part in that "okayness"; that "fineness".   We begin dying on the day we are born.  All of us--young, old, healthy, ill--we’re all going to die.  And I know it’s a relief to me to be able to talk with these residents about it.  I can only hope and--based on what I see--believe, that it’s a relief to them too.  And the music provides such a natural, easy flow for this conversation.  The music truly does "break down the barriers between strangers". 

This side of the "business" isn’t for everyone.  Most of us have an aversion to the subject of Death.  But for those of us who are able to open the lines of communication, I’d say [to quote Ganga Stone] it’s time for us to Start The Conversation.  Dealing with their fears and anxieties of what lies ahead can be extremely liberating for these residents … and for their families … and for you!  Good luck.  And don’t hesitate to contact me so we can have our own "conversation"! 

POSTSCRIPT:  By writing the above, I don’t mean to infer that all conversations lead to the topic of death and dying.  And it’s not up to you to lead it in that direction. Allow the music to lead the resident to whatever subject is on her heart.  And don’t be afraid of any subject; we’re all in this together.  

As an example of what I'm speaking about, I'll relate the following story:

A "One-On-One" Moment

During our recent "Northwest Tour", Robert was performing in a beautiful facility in Washington state. The residents loved the music; sang along; created their own magic with the help of the music. What happened at the end of the show is what I want to write about.

An aide came up to me and told me of a patient in one of their rooms who was unable to come into the common area for the music. But whose daughter had come in, saw Tugger, and asked if we could bring her into her mother’s room after the show; it seems this family had a dog "exactly like Tugger" for 13 years! So ... off I went to "Louise’s" room, Tugger in tow.

"Louise" is 93. She immediately brightened at the sight of Tugger, who was the absolutely perfect "hospice" dog as she walked over to the bed and placed her front paws gently on the edge of the mattress. "Louise" oohed and aahed, as her daughter stood by. Then "Louise" started talking to me.

"I’m going to be 94 years old in April," she said. "But I really don’t want to live like this any longer." I held her hand and listened to her as I knelt by her bed. "My daughter keeps telling me I’ll get better, but ever since this stroke, I know I won’t be able to live the kind of life I’m used to."

"Have you talked to your daughter about this?" was the question I put to her.

"No; I think you could probably do that better."

At which point, the daughter and I DID have a talk and she realized that this was her mother’s story ... not hers. That it was her mother’s choice to make. And that, like it or not, if her mother wasn’t happy living what she considered a less-than-productive life, she wasn’t going to find much joy in life.

The daughter hugged me and said, "I never really HEARD what she was saying to me. Thank you."

Now ... call this the Magic of Music ... or call it a "coincidence". Because we had Tugger with us? Because this daughter saw Tugger and wanted Mom to meet her? Point is, the music is what got us there and, because we were there, a mother and daughter were able to talk. I call that Magic.

I don’t know what happened to "Louise", but I know that, whatever it was, she and her daughter were at least able to talk about it ... openly and honestly ... and love each other enough to really listen to each other. And it’s just one example of why I will continue to visit with the residents and the families in the midst of the Magic of Music.