Hospital Visit with Grandma

They wanted contemporary songs, ones she was heard singing last week, last month. But I saw the earnest request in her brittle face. She turned her beautiful gaze towards me and said assuredly, though weak in nature, “Play some older hymns, more traditional. You know which ones, Kimmy.”

That moment stamped itself on my heart. She was one of the few people who called me Kimmy, and in an instant, she understood. She knew what music she wanted and she grasped what I did to care for people; it resonated deep down in her soul. She was still Grandma, but there was a softness that entered the room. 

“Come Thou Fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy grace; streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise. Teach me some melodious sonnet, sung by flaming tongues above. Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it, mount of Thy redeeming love.”

We sang together, Grandma uttering some notes here and there. The older hymns broke through the noise of beeping machines and scurrying medical staff, the music like a table we could gather around and with one voice join hands. It was a comfort to Grandma, these songs from her youth. They were songs of stronger times where she could jump and not break a bone, sing and not be left fighting for air. 

More people entered the room, familiar faces of aging relatives and growing cousins. I led us in some contemporary songs as to accommodate the kinship my family had with those newer melodies, but I ended my time that day with her favorite, “O For A Thousand Tongues To Sing.” We all sang together, as much as any one person could get the words out beyond the curtain of their crying insides. The ache we all had as we sang was too real. The room could not hold it. I could bear it but a second more.

Zipping up my guitar case with its ascending sound breaking the ice, I knew I had to leave. I took my instrument and music and cautiously walked past my grieving family, as to not disturb the free sound of silence. Looking into her gray-blue eyes, it was as if I could feel Grandma’s heart. There was a moment where every fiber of who I am felt her. What was this that I was feeling? I’m always able to keep it together around people who are dying, but this was beyond compassion, this was love. 

The only part of her that resembled life and did not lose or take on an abnormal amount of weight were her beautiful eyes. Those eyes were a connection to the line of women who are me. They brought me back to the playground and having my hair braided in pigtails. Looking into her eyes, I felt like I could see part of her world. And somehow, I knew this was the last time I’d see those eyes, as fragile as they were, so full of life. 

I said my goodbyes, and then to her, “I’ll see you soon, Grandma,” with a broken smile and a will to walk out of the room before I left a puddle of tears on the floor. 

Stopping me at the door, Grandpa – the generous [grand]father that he is – gave me some money for the road, saying, “Thank you so much for driving all the way down here to see Grandma. I know it meant a lot to her.” And barely getting the words past the emotions logged in my throat, I said my sincerest thanks with a hug and fled from the room. 

I walked down the hall and into the elevator, and once down I took the maze of hallways to exit the building. I fought and fought with every step to keep the tears inside, but finally as I took my stride outside, with the same fresh air as a new day, my feelings released. They came out with a shyhesitation, as not to attract attention from any stranger perusing the same sidewalk as me.

I could finally breathe free and see everything held inside of me. After throwing my musical skills, guitar and all, into the backseat, I sat quietly and reflected, “I’ll see you soon,” the truest of words hidden so politely, but she knew. Grandma knew that this was likely the last time we’d see each other, until, sometime soon, I’d meet her after my life. And as I left, holding my breath in order to have more understanding of the aforementioned events, I sent up a prayer of thanksgiving for this memorable hospital visit with Grandma.

Note: Working with Grandma was special and meaningful. The music connected us to one another and with our whole family; however, this was not music therapy. As a board-certified music therapist, similar to any other professional clinician, it is a conflict of interest to provide services to my family. The music we shared was therapeutic, of course, but I did not conduct an assessment, create goals and objectives, and evaluate the responses to music in a clinical way. Because it was my family and I was the one providing music, this cannot be considered music therapy. If there was a separate music therapist working with my family, that would be a different story.