Mrs. Angleton was a new hospice patient. My music therapy colleague and I stood on her doorstep and introduced ourselves.
“Come in,” she greeted, enthusiastically. “ I hope you’ll stay all afternoon, I’ve invited my neighbor from across the street to come listen; she does love music so much!” Mrs. Angleton spoke warmly, hardly pausing for breath. “Can I get you anything? Shelly, dear, would you see if these nice ladies would like a glass of water or something? No, well come on in. Are you quite warm enough? Would you like to sit in the living room or kitchen?”
And so we settled in the living room – Edgar, her large fluffy cat, settled himself into my open guitar case. Mrs. Angleton asked us what songs we’d brought to play for her, and I explained that we came to play her music, not ours! She insisted that first day that we play what we’d like. We picked music we thought she would like, discreetly giving choices and feeling out her musical preferences. “I love all of them!” she exclaimed. Mrs. Angleton joined in on each song, sometimes becoming tearful, and afterwards apologizing for not being able to keep herself from singing, despite her protests that she did not sing very well. She also apologized for her tears and said, “I can’t help it! Beautiful music just makes me weep! Doesn’t it do that to you?” We asked her about her experiences with music, what it had meant in her life, where she’d grown up, and the people who had mattered in her life.
Beautiful music just makes me weep! Doesn’t it do that to you?
We visited each Monday. Mrs. Angleton spoke of her life: often about her father and how he would make up words to songs, and substitute her name. She recalled how he played at the pub every Saturday night, earning just enough money to buy himself a pint of beer. We heard about her father’s shop next to their home, bath night each Saturday, her mother brushing her hair in front of the fireplace until it shone, her brothers- one who had died when he was very young, and her grandmother.
Each week, Mrs. Angleton’s energy diminished just a little as her illness progressed, but never did her joyous spirit and hospitality wane. I made her a CD to keep after she finally shared the titles of her favorite songs. She was ecstatic and told me she would listen to it over and over so that she could learn to sing the words. When I offered to make copies of the lyrics for her, she asked, “Oh, you can do that? That would be wonderful!” so I made her her very own songbook to partner with her CD to cheer her when she was alone.
One week we visited and Mrs. Angleton was in her bed, and apologized for not being able to get up. She said she was too tired to “entertain,” so would we mind sitting outside of her room and singing her favorite songs so that she could rest? Of course we accommodated her wish, and Mrs. Angleton fell asleep after only a few minutes. The next week she was even weaker. She summoned us to her bedside. She spoke slowly and very quietly.
“Thank you for your beautiful music. I have enjoyed every visit, and have never had anything quite so enjoyable to look forward to on Monday afternoons.” She was confused, mixed up our names, and complimented our clothing when it was clear that she meant the music that we shared with her. It was clear that she was saying goodbye.
Mrs. Angleton passed away about a week later. I feel privileged that I knew her, that I was able to enjoy her love of life even as she experienced pain and the uncertainty of a life-ending illness. I’m grateful she shared her memories and her music with me. I know that by sharing music with us she had been able to reflect on her life, remember lost loved ones, and have moments of peace in her last days.
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