Sitting in the sun and watching the clouds pass by, my patient and I spent one afternoon doing this very thing. The crisp air and warmth of the sun seemed to grasp hold of her like a friend from long ago. As we sat and talked about life, I could not help but think about her life and what music has done.

Isn’t it amazing how human beings respond to music? It is a conscious and unconscious thing. Our brains are hardwired to piece one sound together with another, finding rhythm and movement, creating color and meaning.

We all have a unique relationship to music. We may have sung in a children’s choir growing up or been forced to take piano lessons. We may be an accomplished classical musician or a virtuoso radio listener. However close our connection with music is, we can all find ways to use it for self-care.

“How have you been feeling lately?”

“Do you mean with my body?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I have been dealing with some different things. When something comes up, I see it as another obstacle. But I always say, ‘This, too, shall pass,’” she said with a reassuring smile on her face.

Stillness.

Silence.

Labored breath.

Cold hands.

Tears well up and my heart slows its beating pulse, its flavor of love.

I currently work in a skilled nursing facility (AKA nursing home) and something I hear on a daily basis is that music therapy is entertainment. No one outright says this, but in conversation I hear what’s being said behind the words. “Music lady” is the most popular name I am given by staff, families, and the residents I work with.

Sometimes when people ask me, “How do you do that?”, I respond with something that may seem arrogant. It is a response full of pride and confidence, a response that not everyone can stand behind. “I think I am the right kind of person for this kind of work and I cannot explain why.”

In my attempt to continue answering this question, I share with you my next response. This is the response that I believe gives me the most validity.

I am trained.

I am a board-certified music therapist and am trained in the field of music therapy.

“How do you do that?”

This is often the question I first receive when I tell people I work in hospice care. It’s like each time I meet someone a waiter swoops by with a platter of hors d’oeuvres and almost every time I am handed the same thing, the same question.

…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.

Absence is a funny thing.

Loss is a funny thing.

Death is a funny thing.

Grief takes on many shapes. There is no one set way to go through loss, change, and absence. We need to be free in the process and patient in the timeline. Grief becomes a way of living, a new normal. Although grief is different for everyone, I do believe that three things ought to be present for a healthy process of grieving: time, space, and grace.

A favorite song of ours together was Fly Me To the Moon. We analyzed the lyrics and talked about its meaning (lyric analysis is a common music therapy intervention). I asked Betty what lyrics she liked and she asked me to reread them. She stopped me at the lyrics about music, “Fill my heart with song and let me sing forevermore.”

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 want to tell you about a “favorite” patient of mine. It is more a favorite string of sessions or a favorite response to music therapy. It is a favorite way of conducting a session, or rather, a patient who challenged me to utilize music in a different way than I had ever done before.

How do I begin?

How do I begin to share with you what it’s like to work with someone who is dying? Actually, it’s quite the same as working with someone who is living.

I’m so glad you’re stopping by to take a look at what I have to offer. My hope is that you find solace in my words and kinship in my thoughts. I offer you what I, myself, wish to read when grieving. I want to express my sadness, have it heard, and know that it lands on kind and listening ears.