"Mrs. Adams died this morning at 8:14. Five minutes after I arrived to work. I didn't know that when a man with a baseball cap, red polo, and somber countenance walked in with not a tear. I did know, however, when Mrs. Adams' son walked out face red, sunglasses to hide that empty pain in his eyes, and a quivering hand as he signed out on the visitor sheet. I don't think I'm going to get used to the death in this place...the Grim Reaper is good buddies with the staff here. I guess he's not so grim to them anymore."
That's what I wrote in my journal on my second day of work at Hospice Atlanta. That day, I questioned myself...this is SAS? the fun, thought-provoking summer experience I was excited about?
The next day of work, 2 more people "fall asleep." Death is serious business to me. It's scary - the antithesis of life - and yet I've learned more about life in these first weeks than I have...well...all my life! And, no. I'm not exaggerating.
Last week Wednesday, I escorted a visitor to a patient's room.
The man asked, "Where are you a student?" "What's your major?"
I answered, "Emory." "Music - Piano and Composition. I'm also pre-med."
"OH! Mr. A___ B____ in this room has been a piano tuner all of his life. In fact, he tuned the piano of Rubinstein. He'd love to talk to you."
WHAT! He tuned Arthur Rubinstein's PIANO! Oooo, I want to talk to him. But, I don't have my mandatory TB test that I need in order to be allowed to see the patients...sorry I can't go in. ---that's what my head said.
This is what I actually said, "Oh sure, I'd love to. I can't get close, because I haven't been screened yet but I'll talk to him from the door...ok, I'll come in a little bit."
"Hello, A____. This young man is a pianist, and would love to talk to you sometime about your experience with Arthur Rubinstein."
Rasping, and with great deliberation, Mr. B____ said, "Oh! Come by...next time. We...can talk."
I whispered a quick thank you and left. Excited. As if I had talked to Rubinstein himself.
That was Wednesday.
I came back this Monday to work. I knew Mr. B____ hadn't died. He couldn't have. This conversation was a part of my destiny. He would dispense some life-changing wisdom that would make me change the world with music.
Mr. B____ died on Thursday. Peacefully, the nurse said.
Crap.
I was angry. I was sad. I was in denial. Hahahaha. no. That didn't happen, right?
I don't like expressing pain...I don't know how. I just write music, and it comes out. So that's what I did. And then it clicked.
Death isn't the antithesis of life. It's just the end. The end comes to everybody. That's what makes life so important. Good things can arise out of death. Mr. B___ got peace. His family got peace after a lengthy period of stressful circumstances. And I wrote a piece.
So, if life has an end that is imminent, shouldn't I do my best to make my life and the lives of others as fulfilling as possible? Is that through music or medicine? Is choosing my passion for music selfish or is it selfless? Is discarding my dream of using my hands to heal someone the right decision?
I have no beeping idea.
I do know that if I have had such huge breakthroughs in the first 2 weeks of SAS, then I can't wait to see "the new me" at the end of this endeavour.
