Lloyd Goldstein

I peer into the room to see a man, sitting in a chair with a welcoming and inquisitive face, and a tube near the base of his throat, making it impossible for him to talk to me. I am used to these kinds of things and I assume, by the look in his eye, that he can, both, understand me, and respond to my offer of music in some other way. He does, and his face is lit up, eyes sparkling and whole face smiling. His whole posture is alert and positive. I begin to play with happiness in my heart, allowing each note to flow smoothly into the next, and watching the phrases go by with care and simplicity. I look up to see enjoyment and approval, encouraging me to continue with another piece, and then another. Between songs I hear quiet applause coming from more than one direction. People have peeked in from around the corner, from other rooms, and from near the nurses station. I glance to my left and a patient’s bed has been pushed into the doorway of her room by her, so that she can see and listen from a couple of door’s down. People are smiling left, right and behind and waiting for the next tune to begin. A nurse sweeps by and says in stage whisper, “443 when you’re done here, OK?, with a smile, a wink and a nod. I can’t wait to continue!

I move down the hall to visit the woman two doors down, whose bed is in the doorway. Her two grown son’s wheel her back into the room. She lies back in her bed watching me with a peaceful smile and bright eyes, hands folded on the covers. The burly son on the right, standing near the doorway to watch, asks me a musical question, and the patient proudly tells me, “This is the musician. And this one plays guitar as well.” They are already smiling and very complimentary about what they have heard so far. They want to know about the instrument that I play, commenting on the look of it and the beauty of the wood. Where it was made. I play a few more pieces, a hymn, a waltz, one of my own compositions with almost a rock and roll groove. I tell them about the rest of our program, our visual artists, our poet in residence and point the beautiful card, with an original painting by one of our visual artists, posted in the room with our contact information on it. I thank them for their wonderful hospitality and remind them to, “Make sure you let us know when you’re here again, so that we can come to visit you!”

As I begin to move toward 443, a lovely woman in a wheelchair has stopped beside me in the hallway and is holding some rolled up bills in her hand. I see the money, but I explain that I am paid by the hospital for the work that I do, and “thank you so much, but I don’t accept tips. I want you to know how much that means to me though”.

The man who sent the tip is in bed in room 443 with 3 of his family seated around the room as well. They have been listening to the music from around the corner and down the hall, and want to say how much they have been enjoying it. The patient is telling me how excited he was, “I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Is that really a cello (bass) playing here in the hospital? Is that possible? And it is very beautiful.” I feel honored to play for this patient and his family, and after playing several more pieces of music, promise to visit again as soon as I can.

            Normally, I fill out my patient visit reports, just quick notes, between each visit, but the whole area was so alive with music appreciation today, that I moved as quickly as I could between visits, knowing that in the end, I would remember every detail of this extraordinary triple play.

Today is a day I have to write about, even though it is now 1:00 AM and I am tired. I’ll make it quick. Yoga and bass practice this morning before going to work. Felt very good.

2PM to 3:30PM - Video shoot featuring me and a special patient I met just yesterday. The patient who participated in this interview had some profound and beautiful things to say about live music. “There is something very human about live music played well, in a situation like this. It speaks to and for the soul.” (Not an exact quote, but close)

4PM - A few precious minutes with my supervisor over some food in the cafeteria and a chance meeting with an old colleague whose wife is a BMT success story after 5 years. He says - “This place has a culture of community.”

5PM More patient visits.

6:30-8:30PM - Me playing 1.5 hours of live music during the Nite Out Open Studio. Lovely interactions with a number of patients, family and visitors, while providing inspiration for the artistic activities going on inside the open studio.

9PM and I am all packed up and ready to leave the hospital, when I remember a patient, someone I know and care a great deal about, whom I respect and admire. This pt. has had surgery today and is probably out of it. I am probably wasting my time, but I am out of town next week and might not get to see her again, so I turn around a wheel my bass upstairs. She is awake, alert and happy to see me. She invites me in, we talk. She has never heard me play before. She wishes she could hear me play. I have my instrument outside. I would be happy to play.

I begin to play and she closes her eyes and smiles. For the next hour and a half or more, the smile never really leaves. My hands are guided well, I am not tired, though I probably should be by this time. She tells me about the quality of the vibrations, the images she sees, the perfect timing for the visit, and the good way the music helps her to feel. It is 11:15 when I leave the hospital. I am very happy and fulfilled. I go to Waffle House to eat and I don’t read the paper, I just sit and remember her beautiful face with her eyes closed and her smile.

I have been seeing patients all day, doing my best, but not really my best day overall. Tired and a bit over-reliant on caffeine and chocolate. One of the nurses approaches me and suggests visiting you. She tells me that you will be leaving tomorrow and that your life journey too, is near to ending. I enter your room and find someone who is calm and content, who is gracious, welcoming, and grateful for the opportunity to listen to music and share simple conversation. You tell me that the music makes you feel happy, that the visit added 2 years to your life. You tell me that when I play I am playing with my whole being and that this is translated to the listener. I so not feel flattered, but honored. You have no reason to flatter me, but every reason to enjoy each new moment as it passes. You seem content to move on, without fear, yet with a zest for living each moment fully and honestly. We share forty minutes together, and it is a timeless time. I sincerely hope that I will never forget you, because, when the time comes for my journey to come to its close, I want to be like you are today.

Our first meeting, a son and a father. There is no distraction here, but instead, quiet, intelligent intention. They listen attentively to the music that I play, and after each piece, encourage me to play some more. “We will keep you here all night…” Son, lying in bed, trying to find a comfortable position to settle into, listens while gazing at a mute TV screen. He has learned recently that his auditory skills outpace his visual sensitivity; he doesn’t even see the TV screen. After each piece he turns to look at me, a gentle sparkle in his eyes, a smile and a nod to tell me to continue. Lately, he finds it difficult to stay awake, but the music helps him to stay engaged.

Father leans back, closes his eyes and smiles. Between tunes he asks questions, shares impressions, lets me know how much he enjoys the music, and that I am appreciated for my skill, and for my soul. Wow. He is not only listening with his ears, but feeling the music deep inside. Over an hour later, we say goodbye, and I feel grateful and happy for having met them and to have shared such good time together.

Sisters sitting, reading, one to the other. Older sister cares for younger sister in years gone by; now younger cares for older. One sits listening, one writing, as I play. Ending a tune, I glance up to find a welcome smile and enthusiastic commentary . . . A nagging headache receding . . . deep visceral feelings elicited by the music. She stands, moves close to my instrument, extending a finger as if to touch, admiring the age and beauty of the wood. Younger sister smiles, quietly writing her memories now for later. Older sister is very proud of her younger sister’s accomplishments in writing and literature. I notice the exquisite purple hydrangea on the table to my left, a gift from sister to sister.

I am playing for an elder woman who is happy to see me. She has bandages in her mouth and so much write on a sheet of paper in order to have a conversation with me. The chaplain is also present and some of her comments are directed to him as well.

“Visit by Lloyd (bass). (FL Orchestra). My husband and I had season tickets for years. We loved it. Why didn’t I know about this sooner? This is so uplifting! 5 weeks today! Joy! I was about 100 ft. in despair and gloom, and a little walk and that beautiful music helped move some of the cobwebs away. I’m being shipped out of here tomorrow and nowhere to go! It also has to be acceptable…no places…some totally undesirable. Digging for hope, help, whatever - So beautiful! So hopeful!”

Always a quiet smile and gentle, generous eyes. Listening and enjoying each piece and each visit with kindness, respect and gentle warmth. Today, after 7 weeks, he is worried. There are bills and insurance issues and this man who worked diligently throughout his life is worried about the security of his home and wife. He shares his concerns with me, and in doing so, honors and humbles me. The pressure of unexpected illness and weeks of ups and downs exact a heavy toll, even on the one the nurses fight over. Music created the bridge between us and music continues to maintain that, even after the difficult words have been spoken. Here I am again, one week later, and he is hopeful that he will be discharged soon, his counts are moving slowly upward and once again music spans the distance between us, like a handshake and a hug.

Sometimes there is unexpected intimacy, immediately, as soon as I introduce myself. Today a silver haired woman tells me - The doctors have informed me that there is nothing more they can do for me. I will be going home soon. - She seems sad and I choose a piece of music that is also a bit sad, like a simple prayer. She gets this and is somewhere between moist eyes and a little smile. Next comes ‘Over the Rainbow’. Then something a little faster and finally a song that dances lightly in G major. We have come from sadness and resignation to a moment of dancing together. A minor miracle, perhaps only temporary, and yet. . .

This post is from Brian Caroline, one of the kindest, most courageous, and brilliant young men I have had the honor to meet. He gives us a rare gift, a glimpse into the short time before dying that we all fear. His wisdom can be of great use to some of us if we choose to hear it.

Guess I’ll Be Hittin’ That Dusty Frequency (With Bonus Features Unlimited)
February 25, 2008
Tuesday is the day of many things. They are removing the sutures from my Feb. 14 surgery, I am talking to the pain clinic about my medications, I will have my 5th round of radiation on my upper spine and left hip/pelvis, and most importantly, I will have a meeting with the radiation doctor regarding my future plans. I will keep my radiation set up for the 14 treatments, but we will probably have the Pinellas County Hospice meet us at our house when we go home later this week to see how their services would affect us. It might be easier to stay at home with their help than to come to Moffitt all of the time. We will find out. It’s a hard decision, but I have so many problems that are building up, they can’t all be stopped or ignored. I’ve got to accept the fact that dying is a reality.
But being an existentialist philosopher has added a year to my life, or at least allowed me to make it this far without being a depressed wombat. I offer some philosophy and my weird version of truth.
As Donnie Darko says, “We all die alone.” But that is only a moment. In the movie Donnie Darko, an alternate universe opens up where Donnie finally enjoys a real life, where he gets to understand love, and then he must sacrifice himself, the extra universe dies away, but people still remember the good times that happened there. So with Anastasia I got to experience a real life before it was too late. It was all worth it.
And good ol’ Hamlet’s father appears to his son and says, “Remember me.” We just want the good times to be remembered. Although the world seems unjust and out of joint, enjoy what can be enjoyed before it’s too late, and then remember me.
Do not worry, though, I will hang around. I have read enough crazy books to believe that life and death, the universe and everything are frequencies. When viewed from different perspectives by those who are open, more frequencies can be detected. Death is a release of our higher energy from the imprisonment of the lower-frequency body. The body can be fun, but eventually we must move on. But I will try to hang around, being another special voice in Anastasia’s head and telling jokes or test answers to family and friends. Life and death are modes of being that are connected. I can be a guide like the one Socrates had in his head, but I will be better, not only telling people what not to do, but also providing them with many movie and Simpsons quotes.
I will hang around, I will be around, and because I am crazy, I will go…laughing through the sky. But still…
I will be here—just ask Travis—FOR I AM THE WATCHER.

Existentialist philosophy does not depend on writings or thinking. It is a matter of living your life according to your truth, because life is art, and you are the master of it. You paint your life and try to make it as beautiful as you can. You try to make the best possible world out of your situation. You don’t always write what you want, you can’t always edit so well, but you write what you can. This was supposedly a year of no work, but I worked harder than ever before. It was one difficult art class. Maybe I’m not a god on the scale of a 10, but a 9—I reckon so. I had to somehow sculpt painful materials into something transfigured that can be meaningful and worth experiencing for myself and others. Most of the time my pain was not so bad. It was just the suffering of not being who I once was. But I deepened as well and my relationships became much more than ever before—it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the blurst of times. Frickin’ monkey! The blurst of times? I got married, which was very important, although I never thought it meant anything before.
But this book of life that I have begun, I’ve learned tricks to continue chapters after the publication. From the Bible, from Castaneda’s Don Juan sorcerer books, from Icke and the fourth-dimensional aliens, the Matrix, the energy-theories of life in the Celestine Prophecy. I will be around, if possible. If not, there’s nothing to worry about and nothing to be done. But I’d like to continue my entertainment and human connections. That’s all I know. I can’t say what will happen, but I am going to find out. That can be exciting. I don’t have to fear. As Kierkegaard said, “Sweep me up.” I am That Individual, I am going to find out. Dad has read me a lot of philosophy lately, including Metallica and Philosophy and a Nietzsche autobiography. Difficult stuff, but the old man stays dedicated to it. I am a wise old man whose body forced him away from the physical to spiritual enlightenment. I guess I matured like the sage Zarathustra, too early. I am ready for the end, my friend, the end. It is just a new beginning. I’ll be there, waiting with Hendrix, when I’m not being The Watcher. And I have so many writings that can be used to connect with me, but they won’t bring nightmares like in the Butterfly Effect, for they are good. Remember me…
Regrets? Not finishing my Blockbuster Online movie queue. Wah-wah! I love guitar. I’ve got to play some more insanity, even if it hurts—who cares? I will videotape it because music can express all that words cannot. I will play the soul and the universe. They are the same. We are all together. As you can see, I had no plan. I write whatever happens. That’s my script. I’ll be back, for I am…
Brian The Laughing Monkey

I am playing for a patient in Rehab that I have played for before. She seems a little groggy today. After a few pieces she says enthusiastically, “More, more! I love it. Since the stroke my mouth isn’t smiling the way I want it to, but I’m smiling inside.”