A Man I Barely Knew (who is no more)

There was a doctor from eastern Europe who had developed a rare form of leukemia. His daughter, very young, had also developed leukemia at the same time as him. Here in the US, the doctor had a job working for a credit card company, and was married.

About 5 months ago, I was scheduled to go to play a hospital in Manhattan as part of the Musicians-on-Call Program. I volunteer about once a month on average for one evening, and spend the time walking room-to-room with Social Workers, playing songs for the patients in the oncology ward. It has been a tremendously rewarding experience, and particularly at this hospital, I have had a special bond with the folks that work there. They are all professional, kind people who take great pride in the quality of work they perform.

So, back to 5 months ago. I arrive, and the entire program was just as the other programs had gone: playing songs for people, seeing eyes well up, seeing families smile and sing along, dressing in and out of gowns, putting on gloves and face masks, and all the while singing fervently and with a passion. I connect better there than on any stage; music and its power is never more apparent than right there. But this night was not eventful, per se, from the other nights I spend there. They are all moving experiences.

On this particular night, one of the social workers that I did not know particularly well, asked me to make a special trip down to visit the doctor. He had been checked into the RCU (the Respiratory Intensive Care Unit), and was suffering greatly from his treatment and his cancer. The Social Worker asked that I just play a song because he would really enjoy it. No problem.

So we head down to floor 8, which is not where we normally go, and go into the doctors room. He was alone, it was about 7pm or so, and he was laying on his back, with his foot elevated. His leg had deep carvings out of it, most likely where surgery had been performed. He was not able to speak, or open his mouth, due to a feeding tube, and he could only make small moanings and slightly shift his head and face.

The Social Worker then gave me the go ahead, and I played the Beatles song, "In My Life." Particularly, I chose it because I thought he would know the Beatles, being from eastern Europe, and that song seems to be very sentimental. I've played it thousands of times, and so it was no problem. The performance itself, to me, was uneventful, as I played it how I always have. When I finished, his reaction was one of gratitude: he attempted to make eye contact with me, he moaned a bit, and he shifted his face towards the social worker with an urgent sense of appreciation. He wanted her to know he was thankful we came down.

The Social Worker and I then returned up to the 10th and 11th floors, where I played for a few more patients in their rooms, and eventually went home to Brooklyn.



I had not given that whole incidence any further thought until this morning. I was asked to perform at a board meeting for that hospital, as a special guest for a presentation regarding the Musicians-on-Call Program. In particular, this Board decides the funding for programs that the Social Workers have in place to support the patients and their families of the hospital.

The Social Worker I worked with 5 months ago was presenting, and she first talked about the Program, and how it came about, and what it does, and the power of music to help ease anxiety, loneliness, and boredom. She then brought up a case study. It was about the doctor.

She told the Board the doctor's demographic information, and then talked then about how I performed "In My Life" by the Beatles, and how apparent it was that the patient enjoyed the music.

She then went on to say that the patient died a day before his birthday, just a few months ago, succumbing to his illness. His wife made a point to share with the Social Worker just how much that one musical performance I gave meant to him, and how deeply it touched him.

She then asked me to play "In My Life" for the Board members, which I did.

"There are places I remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places had their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all

But of all these friends and lovers
There is no one compares with you
And these memories lose their meaning
When I think of love as something new
Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more

Though I know I'll never lose affection
For people and things that went before
I know I'll often stop and think about them
In my life I love you more
In my life I love you more"

They all politely clapped, and the Social Workers present said they were moved to tears, but really, it was I who was moved. I never knew I touched that man's life, someone I barely knew, who is no more. I guess you just never know what affect you can have when you're doing something good. It may seem monotonous and routine (as playing cover songs usually feels to me), but the beauty of music as a medium can transform you. If you have an open heart, it can work wonders.

So I write this not out of personal gain. I don't want praise from anyone for my volunteer work. And I don't want any sort of points from it on any level. What I do want to share is what it feels like to be an instrument of peace. That ordinary people like you, and certainly like me, can carry such weight with them just by using their talents to help others. And in some cases, they can make an impacting difference. But you have to get busy.


So, to the doctor, a man I barely knew, who is no more, it was a real pleasure of my life to perform for you. And I hope you are pain-free, wherever you might be.