54-year-old M presenting with left radius/ulna and metacarpal fractures as well as fractured L3-L4 vertebrae due to a motor vehicle accident. The first time our team meets him, he asks, “Will I ever be able to play music again?”
From the back of the room, my ears perk up. I find myself jumping into the conversation, the lowest on the ladder of our general surgery trauma team. “What instrument do you play?!” The surgeons’ capped heads tilt in my direction. I realize I’ve spoken out of turn. The patient smiles.
“Electric bass, piano, and I also compose.” At this point, I start to geek. Realizing I’m holding up the team, we table further conversation for later, but he asks if I’d bring my cello one day. I answer tentatively, unsure of whether this request will be approved.
The next day, on rounds, he’s outwardly disappointed I don’t have my cello in tow. As we leave the room, the attending turns to me and says, “Mel, I think you have to bring your cello tomorrow.” So I do. I lug my cello, fondly known as Shelby, through the hospital and enter his room.
“No way, you actually brought it in!” The nurse had warned me that the patient’s IV transfusion pump was acting up that day and told me to just silence the alarm as needed. As I’m finishing up my first piece, the alarm blares its ungodly shrill tone. I get up to silence the alarm but then listen a bit more closely. I don’t turn it off. It’s beeping in the key of B and giving me two eighth notes and a quarter note with two beats rest. Beep beep beep. Rest. Rest. Beep beep beep. Rest. Rest. I sit down with my cello.
The patient looks at me confused, his face unable to hide the fact that I probably, as a third-year medical student, have no idea how to turn off the alarm. I take a breath and launch into a slow winding improvisation in the key of B minor, jamming with the transfusion pump. Every so often, I arrive back to that beep beep beep. We harmonize. I close my eyes and escape in its consistent accompaniment. When my last note fades away, the monitor continues its song. I open my eyes. Tears stream down the patient’s face. “This is the nicest thing someone has ever done for me. You just made something so ugly sound so beautiful.”
“You’re a composer. Why don’t you challenge yourself to compose a new piece every time the alarm goes off. Maybe then it won’t be so annoying, it will be an accompaniment to your own music.”
I’ve found that normalizing bringing my instrument to work on medical school clerkships has opened up relationships and stories with patients that I never otherwise would have discovered. The connection between music and medicine is strong, so why not capitalize on it as much as we can?
If you play an instrument, bring it to the hospital or clinic. Put it under your desk or in the call room. When you have a free minute, take it out and play for someone. Or just play for yourself. If you’re more of a music appreciator than player, ask a patient about their favorite song or whether they have a playlist they’d like to listen to during a procedure. Ask them about what role music has played in their lives. Listen to a streaming service together and sing along. Take a second, breathe, and explore the presence of listening, not only to words but to other parts of the person you are caring for.
