Music for the last journey

I did something earlier this week that I’ve done before, but this time it finally had a different meaning. First, here’s a little background. I play the cello for patients in the “No One Dies Alone” program at St. Joe’s Hospital in Pontiac MI. I learned from the staff at the hospital that death, like birth, can be a process with stages. When someone is dying naturally, it takes time for the body to shut down. Most of the people I visit are very old and are “actively dying”, meaning they only have a little time left--maybe days or hours. They have no family or friends to be at bedside, so volunteers come to sit with them. We are trying to help them travel through the last stages of life comfortably and peacefully. That’s where music comes in.

The patients are always lying there unconscious, but I’m told they can still hear. That’s one of the last senses to go. I quietly set up my cello next to the bed and start playing. No songs, just bowing the low strings of the cello at first. These low strings really vibrate, and the sound fills the room. After a little time passes, I start playing simple folk songs or hymns. I watch the person lying in bed to see how they are breathing. Sometimes when I first come into the room, the person’s breathing is very labored and shallow. I have learned that this is a sign of stress. I keep playing these simple, soothing melodies and after a while, I notice that the person lying there is breathing more calmly and deeply. Sometimes I hear quiet snoring. They’ve fallen asleep and gotten a little respite from the work of dying.

Those who are out on the floor often stop in to say hi and chat with me. They hear the music in the hall and it draws them in. There’s always a story about a relative who plays the cello, or just gratitude for the music. Somehow, those mellow sounds of the cello have a way of softening the rough edges of their day. In the past, these were the people who motivated me to come and play. I liked the encouragement, compliments, etc. from the people who were walking around (and talking to me!). The person I came to see would “just lie there”. But with more experience, I’ve gotten better at noticing the subtle reactions of the dying person. When I left, the man was breathing so softly and calmly. Completely different from when I came in. Noticing this change made me feel that the music had made a difference.

Music makes life so much richer. How many people can say, “Today I helped make someone’s last journey a little easier”. I’m glad I have this gift to give.

Playing for these patients also reminds me to reflect on the decisions I make in my own life. Why are they dying alone? Is it because they’ve driven away everyone who tried to love them, or just have the bad luck of outliving those who cared. I don’t know the answer and it doesn’t matter. I’m there to give, not to judge. If life is made up of small gestures, let me take time to consider my own actions, while I still can.