While sitting in the surgery waiting room at Johns Hopkins Hospital last week, I heard live piano music drifting up from the Hospital’s main entrance. The tunes softened the sharp edges of my worries and carried me back to the surprise gift of piano music of earlier days; Christmas shopping at Nordstrom and lingering at happy hour in the Pentagon City Ritz Hotel bar, moments when life felt carefree and full of hope.
Music has always been a steady presence in our home, the constant companion to our everyday lives. It plays while we cook and clean, filling the spaces between tasks. Sundays belong to Chet Baker and The Brothers Cazimero. Painting a room calls for UB40, The Specials, Shinehead, and Los Lobos. Family get togethers belong to Dolly, Gordon Lightfoot, Lionel Ritchie, and Vivaldi. Christmas carols begin their gentle rotation the day after Thanksgiving, as reliably as the shortening days.
Every year a random song resonates with me in a very emotional way. This year, the Christmas song that found me was Alan Jackson’s “Let It Be Christmas.” It doesn’t ask for perfection or abundance. It asks for peace, for compassion, for the simple grace of people being kind to one another. In a season that has felt heavy and unpredictable, those words land differently, less like a song and more like a prayer.
My husband’s favorite Christmas song is the iconic duet by David Bowie and Bing Crosby singing, “The Little Drummer Boy.” I found an amazing version of that duet performed by Will Farrell as David Bowie and John C. Riley as Bing Crosby that’s worth checking out.
My husband reaches for music to ease the medical challenges of healing. He carefully chooses the perfect music for the multiple claustrophobic MRI’s, blood draws, and painful injections. He’s become known and liked by the staff for his music choices. Matt’s always been interested in other people’s favorite music/songs. Music plays as he’s transported to a test or procedure, I can hear him coming back to the room afterwards. I’ve noticed that the more painful the moment is likely to be, the louder and fuller the music becomes.
In that waiting room, that pianist playing so beautifully was a gift, an offering of calm in a place shaped by uncertainty. His playing reminded me how music holds memories, stitching together who we were and who we are now. Music, I’ve learned doesn’t erase worry, but it does make room for hope. And sometimes, in a hospital waiting room or a quiet kitchen at home, that is enough.
Kate Emery General is a retired chef/restaurant owner who was born and raised in Casper, Wyoming. Kate loves her grandchildren, knitting, and watercolor painting. Kate and her husband, Matt are longtime residents of Cambridge’s West End where they enjoy swimming and bicycling.
Write a Letter to the Editor on this Article
We encourage readers to offer their point of view on this article by submitting the following form. Editing is sometimes necessary and is done at the discretion of the editorial staff.