Why They Cry

Some thoughts as images from my farewell to my residents continue to play through my mind:


They cry because I leave them, and it hurts to be left behind.

They cry because they hug me, and when bodies touch, tears flow.

They cry because they see their friends crying, and once one person breaks down with emotion, the tears become contagious.

They cry because when one thing makes you cry, you sometimes end up crying for other things that you never got to cry over in the past.

They cry because they hear music, for music touches hearts in ways that words cannot, and it releases pent-up emotions that need to come out.


Conscious closure allows for people to cry in safe settings, and crying becomes a cleansing for the soul.  


They cry because I leave them, and I cry because I am leaving them.  We cry together because we allow ourselves to feel things and be human, and our shared human experience has given us the opportunity to say farewell through music, touch, and tears.

Gainfully Unemployed

On the first Saturday after ending work, I:

• Woke up on my own, without an alarm, at 6 am
• Went walking at 7 am.  Walking helps me process things, and I needed to dispel the intensity of emotion that I had been absorbing from the past few days of farewells.
• Ran into a few residents during my walk!  I woke up with images of their tear-stricken faces in my head, which made me sad.  It was good to see them in their normal state this morning: happy, hopeful, and out and about to get groceries from the local market.
• Made scrambled eggs, oatmeal, and carrots+chard
• Had a Quiet Time and journaled.
• Enjoyed being with my roommate as we focused on our own introverted things in the living room.  She was streaming hymns/praise songs, and we both hummed and harmonized along with the melodies.

Some things that are on my mind this weekend:

• In times of blessing, do not forget others' suffering.  Life happens in seasons, and I will probably experience seasons of suffering in the coming days.  I have learned not to dread those anymore-they happen for my growth and to deepen my faith.  
• In times of harvest, store up for times of famine.  Lately, I have been reaping the harvest of the past 2 years' ministry at work.  But it is not always so.  There have been other times in life when I have given it my all and had it all crumble into the dust, so the fact that I am seeing the fruits of my labor right now is a blessing but not something I should expect every time.  It is easy to forget to meditate and spend time with God when things are busy and good.  But it is important to abide in Him and continue feeding one's soul so that, when the time comes that I am too broken and spent to even crack open my Bible, I will have things stored up within my heart that I can remember.

It's only 10 am, but I am feeling extremely productive in my gainful unemployment :D

It is Finished

It is finished, this chapter of my life that began so unexpectedly 2 years ago.

June 2012--I was still reeling from a rather abrupt move to Los Angeles from my beloved San Francisco Bay Area.  A family emergency compelled me to leave behind 40 music students (violin and piano) without saying goodbye, and the faces of my students--particularly the 5 and 6-year-olds--haunted me in my sleep.  With the sudden change in my life,  the music that had always been a part of it faded away and died.

In some ways, I was relieved.  Music chose me more than I chose it, and it was refreshing to be released from its grip for a time.  My ears, always oversensitive to musical imperfections, reveled in the break from instrumental sounds produced by children, becoming instead receptacles for words spoken by the elderly.  In listening to my residents, I became a counselor, an advocate, and to many, "like my daughter".

How many people in the world are lucky enough to be "like my daughter" to nearly 100 seniors?  

Today was my final farewell party, and again I played my violin for the residents I was leaving.  To fit the demographics of this particular building, I took out the "Cuban" section from my "International Medley" and put in a Korean folksong and a Persian tune.  The goodbyes today were even more heartrending than the previous Farewell's.  My male residents could not hold back their tears, and my female residents clung to me, some convulsing with sobs and whispering in my ear in long embraces.

It is a deeply moving experience to go through something like this.  In a way, it is a bit traumatic.  I didn't know when I started this job 2 years ago that one day, when I left, I would be responsible for breaking so many people's hearts.

I weep with gratitude tonight, humbled by the fact that I was allowed to experience such connections with these human beings, these residents that my company paid me to help advocate for and find resources to help them age in place.  What started out as a job given to me by a friend who needed a replacement ended up being a profound testament to this quote:

A thought that came to me tonight--Empathy is often deepened by our own experiences with suffering.  2 years ago, when I arrived at my job, I had lost not only my 40 music students, but also the community I'd built up in the Bay and a chance for a love and a life I'd always wanted.  I felt abandoned by God and betrayed by certain ideals with which I'd been brought up.

I moved back to a SoCal lifestyle that made me feel very out of place.  When I first moved to the Bay, everyone thought that I would be making my new life there.  My parents rented out my old room to a tenant, so when I returned to LA, I didn't even have a proper bed to sleep on.  During my time in the Bay, my spiritual community consisted of young married couples who were starting to have families.  When I moved back to LA, my old friends were busy being married or engaged or about-to-be-engaged. I had to build a new community with single young adults, and that definitely felt like going a few steps backwards in my life stage.

So when residents told me about their experiences of moving to the States, of taking steps backwards in social status (some were professors and doctors and engineers in their Old Country), and in feeling lonely in a new environment, I felt more sympathetic.  I resonated with feeling displaced in a place that one now had to call "home" and having to make a life for oneself under less-than-ideal circumstances.

As Life would have it, abundant blessings and rich friendships have come out of my relocation to LA, and the chapter of my professional journey which has now come to a close was one of the best things about this move.  This week, I tenderly turn over the final page of my time as a Resident Service Coordinator, and I give up my time as a working adult for a chance to be a student again.  Somehow, in the process of seeking to gain complete and conscious closure, I have turned to music to guide my process, and in that process, my violin came out of its shell and began to sing again.

RSC Reflections II

My Job Has Become My Ministry

Tomorrow is my last day working for be.group.  I gave my employers a 12-week notice and my residents 6 weeks to say goodbye, but still the time has flown by all too quickly.  I am emotionally ready to move towards my next season, but it's still hard to leave people who love me and whom I love.

For one of my buildings, yesterday was my Farewell. "I have very peculiar emotions", said a resident, as I set up my office for one last day of service coordination. And as the day progressed, other residents dropped in to have me resolve last-minute issues for them or to simply give me words of blessing.

By the time my "Ice Cream Social" Farewell Party rolled around, I had visited a sick resident and his wife in their apartment, been on hold with the US Citizenship and Immigration Services for 2 hours, and spoken with various residents around the apartment.  Compared to other days, my workload was moderate--I've had up to 16 residents see me before lunchtime on busy days--but it was still pretty involved for one's last day.

I had prepared a special musical offering for my residents, and I was excited to share my violin playing with them.  Since our residents hail from all over the world, I made an "International Medley" based on various international tunes.  There were excerpts from of the Far East, India, the Middle East, Armenia, Russia, Europe, Cuba, and Mexico.  My medley ended with "America the Beautiful", to symbolize the fact that all our residents, in some way or another, ended up here in the U.S. and in our building, as one big family.

I had a message for them, too, one that I self-translated from English to Chinese.  I told my residents how grateful I was to have been able to have so many older adults in my life for the past 2 years, something not many of my peers have.  They all know about my future plans (attend Divinity school, become a hospice chaplain) and I told them that I believe God is the one who has given me this desire.  I told them that it is because I have experienced God's deep love for me that I have wanted to love others, and that if any of them had ever felt love, care, and compassion from me, they had tasted God's love.  

I told them that I believe they were created by God as people of value, and that each person, no matter where they came from or how they were feeling or the way they were aging, was a person of value.  I reminded them to see their neighbors as people of value and to treat them as such.  And I encouraged them to also treat the building staff with love and grace.

I had another musical medley for them at the end, a medley which included a song based on the 1 Corinthians 13 passage on Love, which I read to them in both English and Chinese.  My medley began with the longing strains of "Ashokan Farewell", followed by the "Love" song--my love song to them, I said--and ending with "Auld Lang Syne", to celebrate our Friendship.  I walked around the room as I played, making eye contact with residents and taking in their emotion-filled faces.  There were tears welling up in the eye of many, and residents processed their feelings in the intimate yet congregational space created by the music.  The sadness was palpable, but it felt necessary to allow for it in a meaningful and structured way.  Thankfully, by the time I played "Auld Lang Syne", everyone had sat long enough in the sadness to move towards something more uplifting: the celebration of Friendship and Love.  The whole room was humming along to the tune by the end, and my Farewell Medley ended with a high note.

And then the picture-taking began.  First, a group picture: me surrounded by nearly 50 residents, all dear to my heart.  Then, residents lined up for individual pictures, and I felt like a Disneyland character or a celebrity!  Tears flowed, and hugs and kisses abounded.  I was surrounded by a sea of emotions, and I tried to give each resident a final moment of sincerity and care as they said goodbye.  As residents retreated slowly back to their apartments, my coworkers helped me load the pile of gifts and cards--I was especially touched that, in 6 short weeks, one resident had managed to finish an oil painting for me and another had made a quilt--onto a cart to transport to my car, and then I was driving away from the beautiful building that had been my work home for 2 years.

The emotions hit me 2 hours later, when I was on my way to my weekly Tuesday night prayer meeting, and I began to sob as I drove down San Gabriel Boulevard.  The privilege I had been given to touch the lives of these seniors was something I felt undeserving of, but at the same time, I knew I had been faithful with the work given to me.  I had poured so much prayer into my job, and I had tried to be intentional about doing each task with excellence and with acting with integrity in every interaction.  God uses humans to be His hands and feet on earth, and I knew He had placed me in the lives of these seniors for a reason.

The feedback I had gotten from residents was overwhelmingly positive, and that was what had given me the confidence to tell them that whatever love they had received from me originated from my experience of God's love.  Even though this job has not been easy, there has been an ease with which I have been able to navigate, and I owe this to the power of Christ working in me.  He has truly given me the grace to deal with each challenge, and I have felt His anointing over me to do His work in my seniors' lives.  My job has become my ministry, and in striving to serve others, I have been blessed beyond measure.

Hospice Music Therapy

Here is something I wrote in the Fall of 2011.  It's about my time working as a hospice music therapist.  I had entered it into a writing contest where the theme was "Fault Zone", and the meaning of that theme was open to interpretation.  I didn't win anything, but it was fun to write :) Enjoy!

****************

I landed my dream job right out of school.

For work each day, I drove all over Los Angeles County to visit clients.  As I walked into each facility, the smell of cleaning fluids and bleach would hit my olfactory senses.  Ah, the good ol’ nursing home stench.  Along with another scent that I characterized as “that old people smell”. 

But I didn’t mind.  I always walked up briskly to the nursing station and informed the charge nurse that I worked for the Hospice and was here to see so-and-so.  With a brief jerk of the head, the nurse would show me the right direction to take, and I’d walk away just as briskly as I’d arrived, the click of my shoes echoing sharply along the hallways.

Entering the patient’s room was another story.  I made sure to soften my steps as I walked in, taking note of the lighting of the room, the placement of personal items, and the patient’s body position.  Oftentimes the patient would be sleeping, snoring with mouth open and saliva dripping onto the chin.  At other times, if I came right after mealtime, the patient would be sitting up, either in the bed or in a wheelchair, staring vacantly ahead or at a TV screen. 

Ten minutes into the visit, the atmosphere of the room would be completely different.  As I provided music by singing and accompanying myself on guitar, the patient would respond by tapping hands and feet to the rhythm, singing along, or simply maintaining eye contact with me.  The music would draw curious staff members to the room—random heads popped in at the doorway, faces brightened up with smiles, and the hum of voices traveled down the hallway as they continued on to their next task with a tune on their lips.

After the visit, as I filled in my paperwork at the nurse’s station, some of the same staff would stop by again to chat. 

“So, you’re from the Hospice?”

“Yes, I’m the music therapist”

“Wow.  Music is such a gift to these patients.  It improves their quality of life.”

“You’re so right.  And in fact, music therapy has been proven to help decrease perception of pain, provide sensory stimulation, and help regulate breathing during respiratory distress.”

“Make sure you come back to visit soon, then.”

            I drove away from each visit feeling satisfied and fulfilled.  To get paid to bring the comfort of music to hospice patients—individuals from all walks of life who, due to disease and age, were only given 6 months or less to live—was more than I could ever ask for in a career.  They say that if you’re wired for hospice, sooner or later you wind up there.  My co-workers—from the nurses to the chaplains to the medical doctors—all agreed that hospice was a calling. 

In particular, there was one patient to whom I felt particularly called.  Annette* lived in the locked unit in an assisted living facility.  Her diagnosis was dementia.  She had a daughter living in the Midwest, a son with whom she was estranged, and no other family members around.  The first time I saw her, I played a song called “When Irish Eyes Are Smiling”, which brought a big smile to her face. 

“In New York City…” she started to mumble.

“Oooh, New York?  What about New York City?”

“I was a schoolgirl…in the choir”. 

“Did you grow up in New York City?”  She nodded.  “And you sang in the choir at school?”  Another nod.

“Th-there was….there was a man….a man w-with…a b-big….big cigar”.

“There was a man with a big cigar?  Who was he?”

“I-in the choir.  I sang in the choir.”

“Was this man the choir director?”  A big smile broke out on her face, erasing the furrowed brow that had formed when she started speaking.  I could tell it took a lot of effort to piece together her thoughts.

“Yes.  The choir director.”

I sang “Irish Eyes” to her many times that day.  In between each time, she would tell me the same story—about singing the song as a schoolgirl growing up in New York, and about the choir director who had a big cigar.  Eventually Annette grew tired and asked to take a nap.  I squeezed her hand and told her I’d enjoyed getting to know her.

I went back to see Annette many times.  Each time, she would be sitting in her wheelchair, with her gray hair tightly French braided.  Her eyes lighted up when she saw me with my guitar.  And each time, I made sure to sing “Irish Eyes” to her.  Over time, her condition declined, and in Hospice team meetings the nurses talked about how she was speaking fewer than 6 words at one time, which was a sign of end-stage dementia.  She was eating less and losing weight, too.

One day, I got a call from her nurse case manager.  “Annette’s under respiratory distress.  Can you go see her?”

I drove over as quickly as I could.  When I entered the room, I saw Annette sitting up in bed, propped up with pillows; she had an oxygen mask on and was breathing quickly and heavily, with a look of panic in her eyes.  Quickly, I unpacked my guitar and began playing and singing in a tempo that matched her agitation.  I called to her and had her maintain eye contact with me.  The chorus of the song I sang had the words: Bring back, bring back, oh bring back my Bonnie to me, to me.  I changed the name Bonnie to Annette, and I sang the chorus over and over again. 

Little by little, I slowed down the tempo and decreased the volume and vigor of my strumming.  Annette’s breathing became more regulated as she entrained to my music, and after about twenty minutes, she closed her eyes and lay resting peacefully.  I continued to play softly until she drifted into sleep, and then I squeezed her hand and whispered in her ear that I was glad she was feeling better and that I was glad to have spent the afternoon with her.

I never told my patients, “I’ll see you next week”, because I never knew if they would make it until next week.  Instead, I wished them well and told them that I cherished my time with them.  For individuals living near the edge—the edge of what lies beyond life on earth—tomorrow is never a guarantee.  And we never knew when they would step up to the edge and take the final plunge into the place where we could not follow or help them.

Annette did make it until the next week, however, and her turnaround took all of us by surprise, although it was not uncommon for our patients to delay death with the sheer will to live.  The next time I visited her, she seemed to be back to her old self—sitting in her wheelchair with her hair tightly French braided.  But there was no joy in her eyes when she saw me.

“Hi Annette.  It’s me!  Remember, I sing “Irish Eyes” for you!”

She nodded slightly.

“Remember, that’s the song you used to sing in New York City, with the choir director with the big cigar!”

A faint smile, but still, no joy in her eyes. 

I played a few songs for her, keeping the tonality somber to match her mood.  Eventually, she seemed to brighten up, and I introduced a new song to her, “Que Sera”, which depicts the interactions between a mother and her child.  As I sang, Annette’s whole body began to shake.  Tears rolled down her eyes, but no sound came out of her mouth.  I offered her a tissue, asking if she was OK and if she wanted me to keep playing; she nodded.  As I continued to sing, the tears and the shaking continued, but still no sounds of sobbing.  Eventually, the shaking subsided and the tears stopped coming, and I let my hands continue to strum softly as I sat with her. 

“Did that song make you sad, Annette?”

She nodded.

“Sometimes music does that to us, doesn’t it?”

Anther nod.

“Did that song make you think of your own children?”

This time, she began to shake again, and the tears appeared in her eyes but did not roll down her cheeks. 

My mind went over what little I knew about her family situation: daughter living far away, son estranged—and neither had paid her a visit since the time I’d known her.  It must be so lonely to live in that locked unit, losing her memory and waiting to die—and perhaps, I surmised, bearing feelings of regret or guilt…and feeling like she was somehow to blame for ending up like this at the end of her life.

Hospice confronts us with some hard questions.  It brings us to the “fault zone”, where we must reflect upon our lives and the relationships we’ve had.  Perhaps Annette’s recovery from her episode of respiratory distress—her refusal to succumb to the process of actively dying—had something to do with the fact that she needed to process and come to peace with the issues that still clouded her heart.  It was not my job to tell her how to think, but I could provide a safe space in which she could do her own healing and processing.

“Annette”, I said.  “I don’t know what you’re thinking about that makes you so sad.  But if it’s OK with you, I’ll keep playing some music and you can just sit here and think it through.  Would you like that?”

She nodded.

“And if you need to cry, I don’t mind.”

She smiled faintly.

I told her that sometimes when I was missing someone or wishing things could be different, I would think good thoughts towards that person or situation in order to come to peace about it in my heart.  I sang the chorus from before—Bring back, bring back—and I told her she could insert the name of whomever she was thinking of into that chorus.  As I sang, she still made no sound, but I saw her mouthing the words, Bring back, bring back, over and over again.

A glimmer of hope began to come into her eyes.  I sang another song with her, “My Favorite Things”, encouraging her to insert her own favorite things and memories into the lyrics of the song.  I sang softly and steadily, supporting the peaceful reverie that she had sunk into. 

I sat with her a long time that day.  We watched the afternoon sunlight fade into early evening.  Finally, it was time to go.  As I squeezed her hand farewell, she spoke for the first time that day. 

“Thank you.”  And a tear rolled down her cheek as she smiled at me. 

In that moment, I took a mental snapshot of her face.  This was one of those times when nothing else in life really mattered—what mattered was that I had made a connection and a difference in someone’s life.  As I walked out of the facility and drove home, I savored the experience in my mind like a peppermint whose taste lingers even after it is swallowed.

Personal circumstances took me out of town for the next few weeks.  I went to the East Coast, enjoying my time away from work and the chance to travel.  Now and then, I saw an elderly person sitting in a wheelchair, and I would think about Annette.  I blessed her from my heart and wished her well.

Back at work, I attended the weekly hospice team meeting.  We always started our meetings with a run-down of the deaths in the most recent few days, followed by a short time of remembrance led by the chaplain.  Then we discussed new admissions, their diagnoses, and the services they would need.  Finally we talked about current patients and how they were doing—how much they were declining, whether or not to adjust medications, and how funeral arrangements were coming along.  Annette’s name did not come up today, and I wondered if she had passed on while I was away.

At the end of the meeting, her nurse case manager approached me. 

“Annette finally let go.  She’s in a better place now.”

I clasped hands with the nurse.  We had both walked with Annette during the final days of her life.  Her children mailed cards to her and made legal decisions for her—she was a “Do Not Resuscitate”—but we were there with her when she was happy and when she was agitated and when she was sad.  We had been her companions as she processed, accepted, and learned to celebrate her life for what it was.  And when she passed on, we released her with our full blessing, and wished her well. 

I drove away from the meeting with a medley of songs in my head, songs that I had shared with Annette.

            Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens …these are a few of my favorite things…

            My favorite things.  Yes, it was the little moments and memories in life that brought joy and peace.  I had shared a few of these moments with Annette, and they had brought such meaning and fulfillment to my life.  

            Bring back, bring back, oh bring back my Annette to me, to me…

            Part of me wished she was still with us and that I could have had a few more sessions with her.  I also wished that I had gotten to have more conversations with her before she lost her ability to speak—perhaps that would have helped me to understand better what she was thinking of and going through near the end.

            Que sera, sera.  Whatever will be, will be.  The future’s not ours to see.  Que sera, sera.  What will be, will be.

            All of us can say “I wish” and “If only” about so many things.  But at the end of the day, we must accept whatever comes our way and make the best out of it.  Perhaps the music had helped Annette come to that place, and perhaps the music had been her guide as she navigated her way through the fault zone.

            When Irish eyes are smiling, sure it’s like a morn’ in spring…

            Annette had the most beautiful smile in her eyes—eyes that communicated with me even when her words failed.  She had taught me so much just by sharing her journey with me, and I knew that the image of her smiling eyes would always stay in my heart.   I had come in contact with death in a deep and meaningful way, and I resolved to live in such a way as to be ready to go in peace when it was my turn to step up to the edge and join Annette on the other side.

 

**********

 

*Name changed to protect privacy

2 years, 2 people

Today I want to mention 2 people who have made my 2-year stint in LA very worthwhile.  Not that other friends have not blessed me, or that I have not learned something from every interaction I've had.  But these two women in particular are worth highlighting because 1) I saw them frequently enough to come to admire their character and integrity and 2) there are things about them that I want and need to learn.

2 months after I moved back to LA to take care of my mom, I landed a full-time job working in senior housing.  My co-worker, HC, and I hit it off as both co-workers and sisters in the Lord, and seeing and working with her 3 days a week for the last 2 years has been a huge blessing.  HC has a heart of gold, and she is a very direct person who values honesty and draws clear boundaries.  That has made working with her so easy and conversing with her so refreshing.  She tells things as they are, asks hard questions, and is very real.  I always know that I'm seeing the Real HC and that there is no pretense.  In day-to-day situations, I often hear her say, "My question to you is…."  "What I need you to do is…" She never assumes things and is always willing to ask or explain things clearly so that there is no room for miscommunication.  She lets her "yes be yes" and her "no be no".  In a building of nearly 100 residents, she manages things efficiently and has trained residents to respect boundaries and be responsible for their part in the community.  As a natural people-pleaser, I admire HC's ability to be direct and to have pure motives.  I'm going to miss seeing her at 8 am and praying with her before a day of work.  Thank you for modeling what it means to be a genuine person who cares about people with honesty and integrity!

Here we are at a mutual friend's wedding (one of the few times we saw each other outside of work)

The other person I want to highlight is my current roommate, RN.  I met her through BSF (a Bible study), where she was my discussion group leader.  I admired her ability to listen well and to facilitate group discussions.  When BSF ended, our friendship continued.  We began inviting each other into various activities and social circles of our lives, until a year later, we saw each other several times a week.  Becoming roommates has been a blessing, and I will cherish this time we've had together.  RN and I are both introverts, and both of us are pretty good listeners.  What I admire about her is her ability to maintain a thriving community life despite being an introvert and how present she is in every social situation.  I always sense that she wants to be there and is interested in the people she's with.  She shows this interest by asking good questions, questions that are open-ended and allow people to elaborate and process things in a meaningful way.  As someone who can listen well but struggles with asking good questions, I want to be more like my roommate in the way she engages in conversation.  She's moving away from LA a few months after I leave, so I'm so grateful I got to know and live with her in this season!

We spent 12 hours together at the Happiest Place on Earth!