Finding Rest

What does it take to let go of control?

Lunch is over. I wave to Celeste, one of the many Filipino workers in the nursing home. She is already mopping the floor of the dining room, a space where I also perform regularly. She gives me a dazzling smile, her gold front tooth winking in the light. She waves back, “hello Elizabeth!”, intoning my name in her melodic accent. Celeste looks like she is in her late-30s, but I know she has grandchildren. Only when I am closer to her do I see the tiny laugh lines around her eyes and the stray strands of white in her black hair.

I pass by Daniel, the gentle giant of a nurse in charge of several wings on the second floor. Today he is decked out in his signature fuchsia scrubs. Daniel keeps a guitar in the corner of his office, ready for strumming-on-demand. Once time I forgot my guitar and Daniel let me use his in my work singing and playing for the residents. Daniel always brings his entire presence to any person, which makes him a great nurse and an awesome human. Sometimes we linger at the nurses’ station for a quick chat about guitars and songs, but today we just smile and share a warm hello. I can tell he is on his way to someone who needs him.

Here comes Jim in his white kitchen apron pushing a big metal cart full of collected meal trays with half-eaten lunches. I stand aside and hug the wall to give him room.

As he barrels past me, he asks “bringing some smiles today, are we?”

“I hope so!”, I say.

It’s always an obstacle course in the hall of the nursing home as I wheel my small cart with guitar, in search of residents wanting a “private concert.” Wheels everywhere! People self-propel in wheelchairs. Others slowly push their walkers with restorative therapists at their side, helping to hold them upright with strong canvas belts. I always move to the side of this busy thoroughfare, making room for these heroic efforts to defy physical limitation and gain strength. They inspire me and remind me it’s never too late to get stronger!

I peer into the rooms where the residents live, usually two per room. Each name outside the door is marked with a D if the resident is near the door or a W if by the window. Francis (232D) is fast asleep. Eddi (245W) is in the gym getting physical therapy. I hesitate outside 245—Nell and Sarah are always game for some tunes, but I just saw them last week and others need attention too. In 246, Janet’s bed is neatly made with a homemade quilt on top, but there’s no trace of her. It’s Monday—she’s probably having a long lunch with her daughter.

I hesitate in the doorway of a male resident I have never met. I look at the single name outside the door—Arthur (247W). Inside, I see a small woman with short white hair sitting in front of the window near the bed, Arthur’s wife I assume. She looks sad and tired. She glances up quickly—and I have a feeling she is imploring me to enter.

I go with the feeling.

I introduce myself and ask them both if they would like some music. Her face brightens as if lit by a sudden ray of sunshine.

“That would be wonderful!” she says. “I’m Sandra, Arthur’s wife.”

I move in close to Arthur lying in the bed, covers in a tangle around his waist. He sits up, frowns and reaches for the name tag dangling from my neck.

“Music therapist?” he asks, studying the name tag. I’ve worn that tag for nine years, but never before has anyone scrutinized it carefully.

“Well, I just call it music,” I say.

Arthur studies my face and starts to look agitated. “Elizabeth Hummel,” he reads, still holding my name tag.

“I’ve seen you before,” he says as he releases the name tag and leans back on his pillow. His brows knit in frustration. It looks like he is trying to remember.

“Older,” he says, still staring at me and waiving his hand vaguely toward my face.

“Well, yeah … I am older,” I reply.

I mean, it’s true, but why did he say this, since we just met? I study his face more closely. Aquiline nose, intense gaze, eyes a pale, piercing blue. He looks like an aristocrat character from a BritBox series.

He does seem somewhat familiar, but I have not seen him in this nursing home. Maybe he used to come to shows of my original music? Maybe he remembers me from being a member of an audience fifteen or twenty years ago. In which case … yep, I certainly look older now!

“What kind of music do you like?” I ask them both. “Hymns? Pop songs? Folk music?”

“All of those sound really nice,” Sandra says with a hopeful smile.

“Put me to sleep,” Arthur says, waving his hand again wearily and closing his eyes.

I begin singing “Red River Valley,” a song known by every American over the age of sixty. This song is usually soothing, especially to older men. But no dice with Arthur. Almost immediately, he interrupts me.

“When did you start playing?” he asks, waving at my guitar. It looks like he cannot relax his arms. They hover restlessly above his body, fists clenched. I try to sing over his talking, hoping he will relax.

“I’ve heard all this before,” he says loudly with a disgruntled head shake. I stop the song. No point in going on if he’s not into it.

“Since I was fifteen,” I say, in answer to his question. I glance at Sandra. Her face sags with sorrow, embarrassment, disappointment. But I can tell she wants me to keep trying.

“He’s been very aggressive lately,” she says softly. “I do think the music could …” she breaks off, looking down at her clasped hands.

I nod, adjust my tuning, and begin another song that most people love, “Eidelweiss.” Arthur closes his eyes, but soon they fly open again. He studies my face for a few seconds, then interrupts.

“Taylor,” he barks, pointing to the brand of my guitar inscribed on its headstock. “The kind of guitar!” I try to keep going, but he holds his hand up like a cartoon traffic cop.

“Too many memories,” he says, shaking his head and shooing me away with his hands, as if I’m a stray cat. “That is enough.”

I have been summarily dismissed. Okay. I tried. The last thing I want is to cause Arthur more distress, so I begin to pack up. But his phrase “too many memories” keeps repeating in my head. Could there be another way to help him rest? I ask Sandra if I can try one more time to play a song that does not trigger any memories. She nods.

Arthur is a man clearly used to being in power, controlling conversations, and having his way. I imagine he was not easy to live with—the lines of sadness etched in Sandra’s face attest to a long-term difficult dynamic that has taken its toll.

I wonder. Maybe it’s time to turn the tables and give him some orders of my own. Meekly trying to soothe him with tried-and-true tunes only irritates him. Another approach might backfire, but I figure it’s worth a shot, for his sake. He looks so exhausted and depressed. And for Sandra’s sake. She needs the music as much as he does.

“OK, here’s what is going to happen.” I clap my hands briskly. “I’m going to sit over there,” I say, pointing to a spot at the side of his bed.

“Arthur, I’m going to sing a song you don’t know. It’s a song I wrote. It’s about being on a sailboat, and it might put you to sleep. Close your eyes. If you open them, don’t look at me. Look at your wife. Look at Sandra. She sits by your side, day after day and hour after hour. She loves you.”

I pause, then add, “And do not interrupt my singing again. Just listen.”

I open my folding stool and move to a spot out of his line of sight beside the bed. I am just a bit behind his head, close enough that he can hear me, but still facing Sandra. Maybe neither “Elizabeth Hummel” nor the “Music Therapist” can bring any relief to Arthur. Maybe he just needs the music itself, unattached to any distracting person or persona, unattached to any memories, real or false. Sometimes, memories can feel like needles poking the mind in tiny electric shocks, keeping the nervous system from resting. I know that all too well myself.

Arthur does not chafe at my commands, which is a relief to all of us. I think he may be truly desperate for any help going to sleep. He obediently closes his eyes as I begin singing my song Sailing.

Oh, let’s go sailing
On a ship with many sails
We’ll ride the choral beaches
We’ll sing beside the whales

After the first few phrases, he sighs and says,

“It’s hypnotic.”

I meet Sandra’s eyes. I keep singing and playing. Partway through the first verse, Arthur opens his eyes, begins to turn his head towards me, but then instead looks at Sandra. He smiles, reaches his hand towards her and then closes his eyes again. His hands slowly unclench and drop to the bed. They are an old man’s hands, deeply creased and laced with blue veins. His face relaxes. By the end of the song, he is asleep.

Asleep, in under four minutes! It seems like a small miracle, and I almost don’t believe what just happened. I don’t even quite understand how it happened. In my work, I never order people around so bluntly. Most interactions with these fragile people are gentle and subtle—but apparently this moment with Arthur and Sandra required my inner Drill Sargeant to come to life and take charge!

Maybe someone needed to take control from Arthur and tell him what to do—so that he could finally let go and find some deep rest.

Sandra’s face shines with tears. I smile at her and mouth, “thank you!” I pack up as quietly as I can.

Right before I leave, Arthur opens his eyes and looks directly at me.

“You did it,” he says with a faint smile, and closes his eyes again. “You did it.”

He falls back to sleep.

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

Here is “Sailing,” the song I played for Arthur and Sandra that finally brought him some rest. In these tumultuous times, may each of you find rest and peace too.

I am so fortunate to be able to do this work with music and elders. In this piece, I tried to share a glimpse of my world in the hallways outside the rooms, but there are so many other amazing people who work there. Special shoutout to all the workers in long term care facilities who care, who connect, who do what they can to enrich the lives of their vulnerable fellow humans. Nurses, aides, physical therapists, restorative therapists, kitchen workers, custodial workers, activity staffers—all make such a difference. You are human angels.

Thank you as always to the angels who support this Substack! ❤️Please let me know if you enjoyed this story in the comments.

Like all stories on Some Glad Morning, this story is entirely true. All names and some details have been altered to protect the privacy of individuals.