My mom loves music.  Throughout the years mom was a musician, a self-taught pianist, a church choir director, a composer, a first-class soprano soloist, a piano teacher, and a High school music teacher.  In addition to her many musical talents, mom was what they used to call a ‘smart cookie’–She was the salutatorian of her High School class and Valedictorian in college (or vice-versa).

Today mom couldn’t spell ‘CAT’ if you spotted her the A and the T.  While she is always happy to see me, she tends to think I am her sister–which is fine with me, at least it is someone she thinks of fondly.  She usually recognizes her husband, but not always.  Her formerly ultra-rich vocabulary has been taken from her, and she is left without the right words to express the thoughts she struggles to articulate.  Her inability to communicate causes her a great deal of anxiety.  However, mom still loves music, and it is one of the few remaining paths to reach her in a positive way.

Mom first went into the memory care unit last fall, so I would frequently play and sing familiar Christmas songs during my visits.  A crowd often gathered at the piano as others heard the familiar carols.   Due to my marginal piano skills, I focused intently on reading the music (a feat that requires finding the elusive sweet spot in my trifocals and a degree of manual dexterity that usually eludes me); so I was not able to watch  my mother’s face while she sang along.  Her pitch remained true and while she didn’t always remember the words, she remembered  the tunes and often sang a truly beautiful harmony.  Mom particularly relishes dramatic high notes, so I often embellished a loud and bold ending on a literal high note.

On particularly good days, mom would struggle out of her wheelchair to show me where I played a wrong note!  One afternoon, dad reported that my playing of a particularly difficult piece (for me) brought a grimace to her face.  Her ear does not lie.  In recent months, I have been foregoing the torture that accompanies my accompaniment, and I simply sit and sing with mom.  During one visit we sang ‘You are my Sunshine’ roughly 300 times along with another resident with whom the song clearly struck a chord.   Guzzy occasionally joins us, and her lovely clear soprano is always a welcome addition.

At the same time that my mother’s mind and memory are fading, my beautiful grand-babies are absorbing everything they see and hear.   It is a bittersweet observation that for now, I am relating to both my grand-babies and my mother at very similar levels.  They don’t know exactly who I am, but they are always glad to see me;  they have limited means of communication; they respond to physical comfort when upset;  and they love to hear me sing ‘You are my Sunshine’… over and over and over again.

 

 

Pin It on Pinterest