My father was dying.

On a whim I brought my guitar to the hospital and sang and played for him. 

He was drugged but still in severe pain, confused, disoriented. But I noticed something curious happening each time he heard my music. 

His hands, now wrinkled and blotchy, his white knuckles clutching the bed railings for dear life, loosened their grip and fell to his sides.  His shoulders and chest, held rigidly against pain, now relaxed. And his wispy breathing deepened and slowed.  

I saw his contorted face yield to a soft expression and his eyes close as he descended into a restful, welcome sleep.  On occasion he sang with me, smiling with the recognition of so many tunes he had taught me. 

Did he respond because I was his daughter. Because I knew his favorite music? 

Probably.

But there was something more. 

I was lost.

Dad was gone and I felt empty.

Gordon and I assimilated easily into our new community in the Adirondacks of upstate New York. We joined my parents' church, kept busy with the old lakehouse, the huge yard and the ailing machinery. I sang in the the tiny church choir directed by my mother, enjoyed extended family gatherings and visited my ninety-seven year old grandmother who lived nearby in the family homestead.

I bought a kayak, swam in our pool, walked on our country road, volunteered in the fledgling arts organization, and played old-timey music with an elderly Adirondack woman.

Still there was something missing.

The itch to find a new calling remained unsettled. Leaving my career and the hustle bustle of the Metropolitan DC area was finally settling in.
 

Ready to trash the magazine, I stopped at an ad.

It outlined a certification program for becoming a music practitioner. Was this some lightweight training, some fly-by-night bunch waiting to take my money for a no-matter certificate?

And what was a music practitioner anyway?

"Hon, I think I've found a program I want to enroll in," I said to my husband. "Listen to this. A Certified Music Practitioner provides live bedside music to the critically and chronically ill, the elderly and dying."

He looked up from his book. "What would you do with that?"

"I don't know yet." Both my bachelor's and master's degrees were taken with solid career goals in mind. Saying I had no plan in place felt liberating.

Two weeks after I sent in my application (to Music for Healing and Transition Program, Inc), an acceptance letter arrived along with an award for a partial scholarship granted for musical knowledge and experience.

This all felt right.

We turned left to enter the patient wing. I was struck by how quiet it was, how the warm sage-green carpet and wall color gave off an aura of calm, a sense of refreshment.

I could feel some of my nervousness vanishing in this setting.

A dark-haired, middle-aged woman in a nurse's outfit sat at the spacious nurses' station midway down the wide hallway. When she saw us, she stood up, smiled and held out her hand.

"Welcome to Hospice House. We're eager for you to join the team. I think music will be so special here. Oh, and I'm Kathleen one of the nurses."

We shook hands. I could already tell I was going to like her.

I stopped at the door leading into his room, squared my shoulders, took a deep breath and stood there. Classes taught me to park my ego at the door... I asked for guidance from God and visualized the door frame as a halo of love blessing me as I stepped into the unknown.

Going into the room of a dying patient, my first ever, a complete stranger, reminded me of making cold calls when I was a newspaper ad salesperson. But there was more at stake here.

Suddenly I felt awkward, scared. How would I be received?

I opened the door and walked in. A man was seated alone on a long floral-print sofa facing the fireplace. The fire was still going.

His crisp, blue button-down shirt under a maroon cardigan sweater, his brown corduroy slacks and his horn-rimmed glasses led me to think he was an employee.

Then I noticed how pale and thin he was, how his eyes looked tired and lifeless.

"Hi, Bob. I'm Robin the new therapeutic music intern here at the House."

He didn't say a word.

"I'm wondering if you'd like some soothing music this afternoon. This is not a concert. And if you've had enough, I'll stop anytime. The music is designed to help you rest, relax, feel better."

I could see him eyeing the guitar and scrutinizing me from head to toe. He had a bit of a scowl on his face.

I imagined him thinking, "Oh boy, here we go with 'Kum Ba Yah.' "

And I expected his reply to be a flat "no thank you."

Instead of a flat no thank you he said, "I like classical music," rather emphatically.

"I can do that," I said. "Will you give me a try? And if it isn't what you want, I'll gladly leave, no questions asked, no hurt feelings."

"Okay,"' he said, but I felt his hesitation, saw him look down and cross his arms over his chest.

Bob became an avid fan of all kinds of my music over the next weeks.

The nurses told me he asked when I would be coming in and made sure he was dressed and ready for my arrival.

One Saturday I arrived to find him surrounded by his family in the great room. The Hospice social worker had briefed me that his adult children weren't speaking to each other and that his wife, disabled and in a wheelchair, was often abrupt and grumpy.

Tension held the room.

No one was talking except Bob and his wife. Bob looked up when I entered.

"Oh, Robin," he said. Then he turned to the rest of the group. "This is the House musician." No one moved a muscle except to briefly look at me, and then return to their downcast, blank stares. I could feel anxiety creep over me. I wanted to excuse myself and escape.

For some reason I had packed another instrument that day, a rhythm instrument called a limberjack. I wondered how this fit with protocol and hesitated a moment. A limberjack in a Hospice setting?

Oh, well, I thought, and slid the little hand-carved wooden man and his thin paddleboard out of my satchel.

I sat down on the edge of the square wood coffee table, situated the paddle board under my thigh, and began tapping my fingers on the board. I held the limberjack over the board with a long dowel rod fastened to his back so his feet barely touched. His arms and legs, loose and hinged, began to fly around, his feet began to click away in a steady rhythm.

I added my voice. Jim Jim along, Jim along Josie, Jim Jim along Jim along Joe. I kept my eyes on Bob. This was for him.

Have you ever seen a limberjack in action?  How did you react?

My patient, Bob, was watching me and the limberjack intently. I noticed him motion to one of his sons who got up and disappeared into the Hospice kitchen. I continued singing and dancing the limberjack. Dance Jim along, Jim along Josie, Dance Jim along Jim along Joe.

The son returned and handed his father two silver tablespoons. Bob, who was now wheelchair-bound like his wife, arranged the spoons between his fingers and began a clickety-clack in perfect rhythm to the limberjack's tapping and my singing.

Everyone's eyes were on Bob, playing the spoons. One of the daughters pulled a camera from her purse and began snapping pictures. The sons sat forward on their chairs; their faces softened, their shoulders relaxed. I felt the heavy atmosphere begin to dissipate.

I made up several extra verses to the funny folk song to prolong this precious time for Bob's family. Hop Jim along; Jump Jim along; Laugh Jim along. And so it went.

When the music stopped Bob spoke. "Boys, get me out of this wheelchair and over to the coffee table. I want to play that limberjack." What would Hospice and MHTP say to this? I wondered.

Without hesitation the adult sons lifted their dad onto the coffee table's edge and sat on either side of him to ensure his safety. I handed over the limberjack, grabbed my guitar and off we went.

Buffalo gals won't ya come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight; Buffalo gals won't ya come out tonight and dance to the light of the moon. The other daughter got up and grabbed the spoons and joined in. Even Bob's wife smiled at the site of the family band and its impromptu merrymaking.

When we stopped singing and playing, small conversations started up among family members. I thought this was a good time to excuse myself and allow the family to enjoy their privacy. The atmosphere had changed dramatically.

"You can put the limberjack on the counter of the nurses' station when you're done," I said. "I need to see some other patients this afternoon."

"Thanks," someone said as I excused myself from the room.

Bob became bedridden. One morning as I sang and played for him in his room, he blurted out, "When you give me music, I don't feel my pain." Our eyes met. I could hardly continue singing, but I caught my breath and tried not to interrupt the music.

Another morning he shared stories abut his military service during World War II; how he was on a destroyer in the Pacific. I realized our relationship had deepened. He trusted me. And I also realized playing and singing music for him was something more than just music. It was ministry.

Eventually Bob lapsed into non-responsiveness, a term used in place of unconsciousness. His eyes were shut, but his breathing, although somewhat labored, was regular and steady. Knowing his hearing was intact, I entered his room one late November afternoon, sat beside his bed and sang to him. Just my voice, no instruments.

Eternal father, strong to save, whose arm has bound the restless wave. I reached for his hand and continued. Who bade the mighty ocean deep, its own appointed limits keep. Oh, hear us when we cry to thee, for those in peril on the sea. The "Navy Hymn" was one of his favorites.

I felt a weak squeeze to my hand and saw tears form in the corners of his eyes. I knew he was close to his time and I didn't know how much longer I could maintain my composure in his presence. So I sang only that one hymn.

"Bob, I'm going to miss you." I felt another weak squeeze to my hand. I stood up over him, slid my hand out of his.

"God bless you, Bob. Have a good journey up." Then I eased my way out of the room.

He died peacefully the next day.

I mourned the loss of my first patient, dreaded returning to the Hospice House the next week and walking past Bob's empty room. Could I hold myself together to offer healing music to the other patients?

When I looked into his room, another patient had already moved in. I stood outside the door remembering the funny limberjack dancing its way into Bob's and his family's hearts, and Bob's initial hesitance about having music at all.

A nurse passed by and patted me gently on the shoulder. With her gesture, I came back to thinking about the day's work ahead of me and slowly walked to my space behind the nurses' station.

I hung up my coat, unpacked my instruments and moved on.

This wasn't going to be easy work.