WRITER’S DATE-PART 2
Yo-Yo Ma and Cats to the Rescue
Seventeen hours into my unexpected “writer’s date,” I found myself in a world of nearly non-stop noise. The dinging of call buttons long after they were probably answered; the aforementioned Laugher at the desk having a blast amid conversations galore; and on my roommate’s TV, the Michigan-Penn State game accompanied by crowd noise I tried to transform into ocean sounds. A note about the TV—as I mentioned in Part 1, a message under the monitor asked us to be considerate and wear headphones. But apparently, Elaine’s fractured shoulder precluded her from being able to put hers on. In any case, the TV was her constant companion, as it must have been for her at home; she’d told an aide she was a “flipper” who liked to flip through the channels. And I was a writer who flipped nothing but words in my head for great portions of any given day—in silence. Elaine didn’t watch any news channel; she preferred lighter stuff. The noise these programs generated seemed a continual drilling-into-the-brain sort of thing. Someone not used to it might be driven insane, eventually—unless somehow adapting. A person—not naming names—eventually might be compelled to hurl something at the monitor. A person—again not naming names—might regard it as a form of purgatory and offer it up for the poor souls in the real one. But then, there was Yo-Yo Ma to the rescue.
Earlier in the year, I’d viewed Master Classes by Salmon Rushdie and Margaret Atwood. That day, a series by Yo-Yo Ma on music and humanity caught my eye. This was the best possible choice. I put in earbuds and settled back with my iPad. Yo-Yo Ma’s somewhat hoarse but soothing voice along with his serene persona was enough to ease any heart—and beautifully erase the brain-drilling TV and the babble and laughter from the ward’s central station. Add to this, Yo-Yo’s playing of Johann Sebastian Bach’s Cello Suite #5 in C-Minor, and I was in another realm altogether. That piece, Yo-Yo says, searches deep into the human spirit; there’s “gravity,” a sense of literal gravity and even despair. But Bach described the world as he saw―and loved―it. So yes, the gravity of despair but also the presence of hope. I wished I could have shared those words and that music with Elaine, who’d been reiterating that everyone had left her and she wanted to die.
In his Master Class Yo-Yo Ma talks about how Bach balanced art and science. As a scientist of the inner soul, the human spirit, he was on a quest for truth. Good art, Yo-Yo Ma says, has elements of good science. Both seek truth. As do all the arts. “Music identifies our humanity. What is true in music is true in all the modes of human expression.” Music he goes on, connects us to others. “We depend on it to live.” It’s true. Music connects us to others in that it conveys universal emotion. It tells us that we aren’t alone. The notes, their arrangements, their expressed sounds are like code, universal code, for what we all feel. I thought of all the years devoted to writing and how it was okay―that attempt to connect. As I listened to the Cello Suite #5 again and saw how Yo-Yo Ma becomes the music, letting it flow through him and outward, I felt so full to the brim with clashing emotions. Sorrow, given our flaws, divisions, and benightedness. Yet joy in being alive and able to experience the depth and shadings in this work, a lament, really, that nonetheless lifts into hope at the end.
Concluding his first series, Yo-Yo Ma positions the cello, closes his eyes, and embarks on Antonin Dvorak’s “Going Home,” from his Symphony No. 9, “From the New World.” If you want to weep and exult at the same time, experience him playing this piece. It’s heartbreaking and sublime. It’s glorious. You’ll give thanks for being alive.
And I did. But my inability to help Elaine or even talk with her, seemed to verify what Yo-Yo Ma says about the gravity and despair expressed in the Cello Suite #5 in C-Minor: that we fail; that we’re inadequate, even helpless, finally, against overpowering forces. Yet accepting this while not giving up hope or effort is part of our greatness. And there is Yo-yo Ma, holding up the mirror. Showing us this mystery and paradox: In failure, triumph. This is a beautiful idea yet nearly impossible to embrace, I feel, when one is caught in the emotional vortex of despondency. What good, recognition? Where is hope? How to claw one’s way outward? Escape the black hole?
For some, there may be religious faith. For others, perhaps, only presence. The simple physical presence of another living being who seems to understand, as in Chekhov’s wonderful short story, “Misery.” Elaine frequently had to use the lavatory, on her side of the room, and often soiled herself before she could be helped there. Getting out of the bed was painful for her, given her fractured shoulder, and it was humiliating to have to get cleaned up and then helped back into bed. It all took a long time and gave rise to her refrain of wanting to die. During one of these arduous journeys, a young aide—the sweetest and most patient imaginable―responded, “Oh, you don’t want to die.” Hiccups punctuated the words. “Why? We’re all here for you.” We’re all here for you. Mother Theresa, in her A Simple Faith, wrote that many in the world are dying for a piece of bread. But many, especially in the West, are dying for love. The young aide never hurried Elaine. Her voice was warm and kind. Elaine often received phone calls, one of which told her the joyous news of the birth of her first great-grandchild—in a distant state. But phone calls—and texts and emails and even FaceTime—are a step removed from the actual; presence is presence. Presence is all. The bedrock of reality.
Although I was a little frightened because of the unexplained bleeding and was tethered by three different lines, my situation somehow seemed less dire than my roommate’s. Yet I did feel isolated and solitary in my curtained-off space. In it alone, as it were. Since I didn’t need that much care, my nurses and aides zipped in, efficiently did what they had to do, then zipped out again. They all seemed hurried—and probably were stretched thin. None took the time to connect on a personal level. Maybe they simply didn’t have the time. Or maybe they were a little burnt out by the Pandemic. Maybe they’d learned to protect themselves from personal engagement; first, because it took too much time and, secondly, because it was just too much to bear, day after day. In any case, they flew in and out, brisk and efficient as swooping barn swallows. And I got the feeling that I shouldn’t bother them too much because they were doing the best they could. So that’s how it was all day Saturday and part of Sunday—TV drone, laughter out at the desk, bubbly talk, a hospital chaplain visiting Elaine but not able to explain why God had done that to her, Elaine’s meals coming and then her trays picked up, I reading, or trying to, then listening to a Master Class, then book again, then looking-at-the-clock, then book some more—until a new nurse I’ll call Ben.
Ben was young, a recent graduate of a nursing school, but still looked like the college kid he’d recently been. As other nurses had, he introduced himself and wrote his first name on a whiteboard. Then he asked how I was doing and if I needed anything. With the nasogastric tube still in, I responded in my embarrassing, whispery rasp. I was okay, I managed to say, but I really wanted to go home. Making it a kind of joke, I added that I missed our cats and one in particular. At that, Ben took out his phone and began showing photos of his two rescue cats, both white with unusual black markings and cute names. I could tell by the way his eyes lingered on the photos that he really loved those two. The Elizabethans believed that love entered through the eyes. This seemed proof. I found some photos on my iPad and then struggled vocally to tell him about ours. When Ben left, saying he’d return later to talk more, I opened my book and read while Elaine’s TV went on chronicling the excitement of people deciding on which home to buy. This program had been on all day.
Around eleven that night, Ben did return. Sitting at the end of the bed, he began showing his trove of cat photos while narrating the cats’ rags-to-riches history and antics. He seemed completely enthralled. He also confided that he had a partner and might propose in a year or so, but that was a secondary topic. At the moment, cats ruled. I was enjoying the conversation, such as it was on my part. Here we were, of different races and at opposite ends of the age spectrum but having a wonderful time conveying experiences and feelings. In E.M. Forster’s novel A Passage to India, a major theme is encapsulated in the words, “Only connect.” This seemed one of those moments of simple connection, so surprising in its power to thwart fear and the sense of isolation―especially now, in this time of COVID when loved ones weren’t allowed to visit patients. By then I’d been in the hospital only two days―not counting that first night blurred by pain―and yet it seemed a long time. Especially when each waking minute was a struggle against noise. I seemed to be the odd person out at a New Year’s Eve party. But then, there was Ben, transforming that sense of alienation with simple words about beloved cats. Sincere, authentic words. It was like talking with a friend.
After Ben left, Elaine’s aide came in and, practiced diplomat that she was, said to Elaine, “You don’t want your TV on anymore, do you? No? I’ll just turn it off.” It was midnight. The decibel level at the ward station was subsiding. The TV had finally stopped its drilling for the day. I closed my eyes and envisioned our cats in their nests. All of ours rescues, too. And I thought how we rescue one another.
The next morning Ben popped in for a moment. His day off was the following day, he said, and he wanted to be sure he said good-bye in case I left that day. then he offered his gloveless hand and wished me luck. I did the same. The once commonplace, pre-Pandemic gesture of shaking someone’s hand now struck me as something rare and magnificent.
Being told I could leave, on the fourth day, was like winning a lottery. I gathered my few things but then spent nearly the entire day waiting for the discharge paperwork to come through. No matter. The euphoria lasted. Elaine, though, wasn’t happy when two young men arrived to transport her to a nursing home. All morning she’d been telling her aides that she didn’t want to go. She felt safe where she was. Why did she have to go someplace else? As one of the young men pulled her wheelchair past my bed, she didn’t look up. Possibly she didn’t hear my good-bye. She appeared so small and fragile in the wheelchair as she sat hunched forward a bit, her eyes vacant, her hands loose in her lap. This was the first time I’d actually seen her.
As my husband and I drove home, a near-full moon was rising in the east, over a ridge of trees etching the early evening sky. To the west, fading stripes of magenta and violet. I couldn’t get enough of simple looking at what the world presented.
That night, a cat jumped up on the bed and tucked himself close. This one had arrived in our yard twelve years before, a two-year-old, possibly, weighing next to nothing. Now, the only sound in the room was his purring. Like Ivan Ilych, at the end, I felt washed in benevolence and gratitude even though it wasn’t my time, yet, to merge with that white light.
Just to be home.
(Conclusion.)
