She was balled up, in a fetal position, with the blankets pulled up over her mouth. Her oncology nurse asked me to visit her, because she had just received a difficult diagnosis, but the room was so dark, I wasn’t sure if she was awake. I slowly came around the side of her bed and saw her eyes open, fixed on the wall, in a state of what looked to me like fear, and intense worry. I introduced myself, said that I play soft music for people at the hospital, and asked if she would like a song today. Her eyes stayed fixed on the wall, but she nodded yes.
About halfway through “Time After Time,” by Cyndi Lauper, she started stretching out into the bed, and she slowly, with what seemed like a lot of effort, lifted herself to face me. Her demeanor started changing throughout the song, and by the end, she was sitting straight up, smiling with bright eyes, and singing along with the chorus! I brought the song to a close and looked up at her round, puffy from chemo, but beautiful smiling face. She said, with a raspy southern drawl, “Wow! Why is it so dark in here? Let’s open up the blinds and let’s let some light in!”
Over several months, I came to know her and love her light-hearted sense of humor about her illness, and her ability to keep those around her hopeful. One day, I found her at the end of the unit, sitting by a large floor to ceiling window, letting the sunlight warm her skin. I came to sit beside her and placed my hand on hers. She smirked and then slowly opened her eyes at a side glance, as if she was waiting for me there, and she opened her hand to reveal a tiny paper wrapped gift. I gently opened the paper and found a porcelain blue bird, with big eyes, looking up at me. She smiled that big, broad smile of hers and said, “That sweet, little bird reminds me of you!”
That was the last time I saw her. Her husband actually made the effort to let me know that she had passed away, so that I wouldn’t have the pain of finding her room empty. Despite his intense pain, he thanked me for spending time with her, so that he didn’t have to feel like she was alone, when he was at work. All I did was sit with her, talk to her about her life and her favorite music, but that seemed to remind her that she was more than a diagnosis. I had never felt the loss of a friend before her. For a while, it was hard to see the little bird without feeling a heaviness on my chest. But now, years later, whenever I see that porcelain bird, it reminds me that even in my darkest days, I can try to let some light in.
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