Yesterday I was playing for patients in the surgical trauma ICU. I was sent to a room of a young man who was in a coma, and on life support. I was standing at the doorway, looking over where would be the best place to sit (and not be in the way of the nurses) when the patient's mother appeared by my side. She looked as though she hadn't slept in some days and when she saw my guitar, she said with tears in her eyes, "Oh please, play for him. He is a musician and he plays the guitar too."
I found a chair by his side and began to play slow, soothing melodic passages to help bring down his heart rate. Most of the time in ICU, I do not play something that would be familiar to the patient, especially if they are not able to speak. I can't risk sparking a memory that would call up emotional material for them. So, instead, I make up my own lullabies and soothing, simple music that lets them know I am there. I give a melody they can follow out of the depths of their suffering. A trail to where there is hope, comfort, beauty and healing.
As I played, his mother stood by his side and held his hand. She watched him closely and at one point she said, "I know he can hear you." She would often lean down and kiss his cheek. Her tender caring and love for him was so moving for me to see. It is quite an honor to meet people in a place where they are the most vulnerable. I am a stranger to them when i walk in the hospital room, but as soon as I start to play music, we are bonded by the universal language we all speak. The language that has no words.
Above is a picture of me taking in the ICU over the summer by a family member of a patient.
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