Betty’s Story – Part 2 (of 3)

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Over the weeks that I worked with Betty, I watched as her memory faded like the top of a pencil’s eraser after multiple uses. I arrived at her door, greeted her as usual, and listened as she said, “Oh, who are you? What are you going to do?” I explained to her that I am the music therapist and have come to bring music in order to help increase comfort. Sometimes she accepted my visits, allowing me to conduct the session, and other days she did not.

One day after she let me in the room, Betty said, “I can’t help you.” I was confused at this statement and why she said this. Was she talking to me or saying this in general? I pried, and she responded, “I am blind and in my bed. I cannot move and I cannot help you with anything.” I could hear in her voice a sense of hopelessness. Her addition to the world had depleted as her body had lost its function. I could not imagine being in her shoes, remaining in this bed for the rest of her days, listening to the classical station, and having little interaction besides short visits from medical staff. This was her life. If it was mine,  I would be so lonely!

To her concern, I began talking about what she still has to offer to the world. Besides her infrequent memory loss and forgetfulness, she was still cognitively present. Her speech was sharp and clear, and her thought was deep and vast. I validated her understandable feelings and proposed a new structure to our sessions. “Betty, I can see that you are still cognitively sharp, you can hold a conversation and have little memory loss. How about I learn a song for you each week and you critique me as my teacher?” I set this up for her to have purpose in the world. I wanted to offer her another chance to feel useful, a small opportunity for autonomy. And so, our sessions from that point on consisted of me singing a new song for her each week as a vocal student and Betty giving me constructive criticism to sing the song better. It opened the door to Betty’s past, present and future.

I came back week after week and noticed how Betty’s role as “music teacher” gave her a sense of accomplishment. She had meaning and purpose. She interacted regularly with another human being, and had something to still offer the world. I saw an increase of smiles in these sessions, and I had a glimpse into Betty as the choir director. Sessions arrived when she did not remember me, but at times I convinced her to let me sing at least one song, and halfway through the song she had the light bulb turn on. Betty remembered her student and the song she asked her to work on from the previous week. From my perspective, she taught me about breath support and finding meaning in the music. I was not pretending for the sake of the session, but structuring the session for the sake of my patient.

Betty had a fondness for the 1930’s songs I would sing, and requested specific songs. I played Sunny Side of the Street and she would bob her head back and forth with a constant grip of the beat. She tapped her hands and wiggled her toes with the tempo of the tune. I imagined what it was like to walk down the city streets in the 40’s (when the song was popularly sung) with a wide skirt and pinned up hair. I could see her walking with red lipstick and shoes that clicked and clacked to the cadence of the song. What a sight!