I’ve been interested in music’s role outside of the concert hall ever since I learned to play the cello; what would happen to the world if formal music was made available to anyone who wanted to hear or play? As an idealistic high school student, I had dreams of my cello saving the world and I turned to the stories of people like Roberta Guaspari and her work in the East Harlem public school system during the ’80s and ’90s. I felt that kind of use of music was living proof that music had transformative abilities that reached far beyond the traditions of classical music and education. It was a dream that would take a nap during those adulting times when the basic necessities required a steady job in the concert hall.
Fast Foward 20 Years…
In 2014, a health crisis and hospital stay had me revisit the idea of music’s role outside of the concert hall. It was the first major surgery I ever had and the first time I would need to be in a hospital since my birth. The experience of just 4 days showed me how horrible it was to be languishing in a hospital bed with nothing to do but spiral in my thoughts under a haze of pain medication and sleep deprivation. The saving grace of that time were those wonderful people called nurses. I had admired their dedication and devotion to caring for their patients. One of those nurses was my assigned PCT, Natalia. She was taking me on my very first post-surgery walk through those gloomy hospital halls. I was not able to stand upright fully yet as my torso felt like fire – a constant pain I had never felt before. Natalia had to drag me along like a stubborn dog at first because the pain was wreaking havoc in my headspace. As I took those first few steps she talked about the importance of moving following surgery and that reassured me it would get easier each time. Then she told me she recognized me from the symphony and said how much she enjoyed our concerts. She talked about her favorite music and asked me about the work and who/what I liked best. Then, before I knew it, we had completed my first lap around the nurses’ station. I realized she had been diverting my attention away from my pain and anxiety and connected me to something we shared; music. When she talked about music and asked me those questions I wasn’t patient anymore; I was me – the cellist and the person who remembered what life was like before the dreaded diagnosis. She connected me back to my ‘whole’ self, to the rhythm of my hospital routine, to the rhythm of people around me and how that all weaved and interplayed together. She had given back my beat.
The diversion had replaced pain and anxiety with the knowledge that my incisions would heal and I would as well. It took a while, but I did heal and return to the regular concert hall rhythms. I did see Natalia again, but this time she was sitting in the audience for one of our Great Escape concerts; it was joyous for me as I felt we had made a full circle together. I am forever grateful to her and my nurses who cared for me. I thought about the kind of work they do beyond the confines of IVs, pain management and bedpans. I thought again of Roberta and understood that was something intersecting; the dream was about to awaken.
Revamping the Dream Sequence
“Nurturing the spirit, Offering comfort and Inspiring hope through the Expressive Arts.”
~ Moffitt Cancer Center’s Arts in Medicine mission statement
I had been familiar with the successful results music therapy was having with aphasia, dementia and Parkinson’s patients. Oliver Sacks’ essays and interviews were already a source of inspiration. However my recent experience as a patient in the hospital had me seeing something very different, focused, fundamental and direct; yet, I didn’t know what it was called and how it could be done. When I spoke to a colleague about my experience and curiosity, she told me about the Arts in Medicine program at Moffit Cancer Center; a fully-funded program dedicated to health & wellbeing through the therapeutic arts. I arranged for a tour and to talk to some of the people involved in the program. My guide was bassist Lloyd Goldstein, a Certified Music Practitioner who played “prescriptive” music for patients at bedside and for visitors in the open seating areas and main lobby. I was shown the Open Art Studio where patients, family, visitors, and staff were welcomed to sit down and draw, paint, doodle, and fold. Then Lloyd picked up his bass and set up in an open landing area. When I saw the reaction of the staff and visitors when he started to play I saw serious, thoughtful expressions of tired staff and visitors dissolve into smiles; stress released in sighs and the routine of the day transform into “nurturing the spirit, offering comfort and inspiring hope” as they wordlessly walked past us. This was what I had been looking for outside of the concert hall and it was what I needed when I was in the hospital recovering from open surgery. I thought back to my walks with Natalia and how different they might have been if I had a place to walk to – like a place to paint, draw and doodle.
As Lloyd described the process of becoming a CMP, I knew it would be a challenge given that I already had a full-time job, but I could see the pieces I had collected were coming together. Music, mission, and transformation combined with empathy and nurturing. The dream I couldn’t distill into a name was becoming something that connected the music’s intent, the patient’s needs, the needs of the people around them and their surroundings. It was like a gigantic circle, a living piece of chamber music that was dedicated to bringing comfort and balance to the patient so that they may begin the process of healing. Here’s an example: I am in a patient’s room playing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” The attending nurse and I are doing a dance around our various carts and equipment, yet we are both able to administer to the patient. The patient starts to sing along to the song and soon the nurse is humming along. At that moment, we are all connected, aware of one another, by the music. The connection between the nurse and the patient deepens as they sing together and share their memories of first hearing that song. The patient no longer feels like a room number, a diagnosis or a set of random symptoms, and they are reminded that they are being cared for by people who are dedicated to helping them heal.
Prolonged illnesses and extended stays in the hospital can rob a patient of the sense of control and who they are in these situations. It also robs the caregivers and family their identity and their previous roles and in the end, words alone are unable to fully express the loss, fear, confusion much less comfort and guide. This is the space where the expressive arts filled the void. Through them, we reconnect to who we were before the health crisis and we connect with who we are in the present. We learn to see the way colors look through those changes and we relearn our own patterns. We learn to hear the rhythms around us and reconnect to the beat of our hearts and how it weaves in and out with our surroundings. We come back to the present, to ourselves and the world we live in.
This is the story of “Back to the Beat.”
