Whatever the Medley

Meanwhile, back at the assisted living facility, my mother is ever more befuddled and frail but seems reasonably content in the familiar environment that's been her home for years. Sometimes when I go there I feel very sad. There's a lot of loneliness and struggle going on behind the scenes, a vague sense of waiting and a quiet despair. The verbalizers kvetch a lot about sons and daughters who never visit, or food that doesn't appeal to them, and various injustices and miseries real and imagined.

On this particular visit my heart broke at the sight of a lady named Rose weeping with the discovery that her car keys were gone, her red car was not in the parking lot, and she was not allowed to leave. "I thought this was just a regular motel," she sobbed.

But then there are the beautiful things...like 90-year-old Lola comforting Rose. I often see residents looking out for others less able, with touching concern and surprising tenderness. And of course I love the colorful fragments of histories shared at the lunch table–glimpses of butterflies fluttering past.

On this day, Jenny in her flower print dress was recalling her childhood in Oklahoma, and memories of going fishing with her stepfather. She was an only child, she says, "But don't be feelin' sorry for me. I had all the attention to myself. I was spoiled rotten."

Then along came a resident named Joe, who invited us to come into the multipurpose room and hear him play the piano, and so we did. We sat and listened to a medley of three songs, played over and over: Que Sera, Sera; Hot Diggity (Dog Ziggity Boom); and Surrender.

We all sang along to Que Sera, Sera, and my mother, who is deaf as a stone, somehow seemed to be experiencing the music, happily clapping and present. (She also occasionally offered up some of her loud and wincingly embarrassing commentary, such as: "Look! He has white hair but it's all gone on the top!")

Joe was facing away from us the entire time and said not a word, but he played with a kind of razzle-dazzle jauntiness.It was enchanting, but after several cycles of the medley, we were all ready to move on. I walked up to Joe to thank him and ask him when he'd started playing. He told me that he'd never had a lesson in his life, but when he was a kid, his father had one of those old-fashioned player pianos, and he watched how the keys went up and down and learned to replicate the tunes he heard. One of them was Hot Diggity.

"It's a wonderful gift," I told him, "and you're so generous to share it with us. People are happy when they're listening to you play."

"Thanks for telling me that," said Joe. "I like to know that it helps."

Oh, it helps. And I have often wished that I could make music, but even smaller gifts are meaningful, and I guess each of us has something to offer. Maybe it's just a matter of listening to someone who'd like to share a bit of who they are, or smiling and being pleasant, and erring on the side of kindness.

Whatever our medley, we should play it.

Over and over.