Sunday, September 08, 2013

Miss Catherine


A good friend of mine, a successful song writer and former Nashville resident, Herb McCullough, wrote and posted this story regarding his experience as a Hospice volunteer. This story speaks to my heart and makes me feel inadequate in many ways.

Miss Catherine

Tired and retired after 30 years in the Nashville song-writing business, I moved back to Florida with Joann in the fall of 2004. In the next year and a half we were confronted with the aging, the illness and the eventual death of Jo’s parents and my Uncle Herb (yep, I was named after him). We were blessed to have that time with them and immensely grateful for the amazing support of hospice.

So, it seemed appropriate for me to sign on as a hospice volunteer, and I’d been giving my time as a substitute courier, with limited patient interaction, for nearly a year when I received a call from the volunteer coordinator, telling me a patient had requested someone to play piano in her home. When I mentioned I didn’t play piano, the coordinator responded, “So can I tell her you’ll sing her some songs next week?” I still don’t know why I did it, since I’d previously resisted bringing music into my volunteer efforts, but I reluctantly agreed to give it a try. Just before our call ended, the coordinator added, “Uh … this patient has a reputation as being a bit of a curmudgeon, but I’m sure you’ll win her over.” 

Thus began my new roll in life … sharing my songs with hospice patients and their families.
As I drove to her house, I reviewed the information I’d received from the office on Patient # ____: Female, 86 years old, diagnosed with esophageal cancer, severe osteoporosis, arthritis, possible Parkinson’s causing continued shaking in right hand. She was in constant pain, was unable to swallow solid food, unable to walk without assistance, was house bound, lived alone and had no family. And, of course, her prognosis was “terminal”.

I tried to smile as I arrived, guitar-in-hand, on-time for our scheduled appointment and was met at the door by a home care nursing assistant who led me into the living room. At one end of that room, perched in a large chair, was a severely bent woman I would come to know as Miss Catherine. She was wearing heavy makeup, large, gaudy jewelry, a wild, primary-colored floral print top, and shiny, bright yellow slacks. To complete her eccentric ensemble, she wore seashell-decorated gold slippers on feet which didn’t quite touch the floor. 

Just as I was thinking, I like this woman, and before I could introduce myself, she demanded in a deep, gruff, cancer-ravaged voice, “Where’s your piano? I requested piano.” 
After telling her my name, I explained that I was a songwriter, and had brought my guitar to share some songs if she’d like, or, I suggested, we could just visit for a bit.

Again in that rough voice, she commanded, “Get your guitar, then!”


As I knelt down and opened my guitar case she commented, “I don’t much like men with beards.” 

Frustrated and running out of patience, I turned to face her, and, as politely as possible, asked if she’d like me to leave? She looked straight into my eyes and, with a twinkle in hers, said, “Sing one and we’ll see.”
As I sat on the floor and shared that first song, a slow, smooth one, I could see her tired body relaxing, and I noticed her hand gradually stopped shaking. When I finished, she flashed a lovely smile and said, “I hope you wrote more than one.”

For nearly two hours that day and nearly every Friday from 4:30 to 6:30 or so for the next eleven months, I shared about every song I’d written with this wounded, perfectly flawed human being. She loved music! I learned that until arthritis and osteoporosis ravaged her body, she had played piano, banjo and guitar from an early age. We shared stories of life, love, loss, hopes and dreams. On more than one occasion, she confided that she didn’t fear death, but was haunted by the thought that no one would remember her when she was gone.


The last time I showed up to visit, Miss Catherine was sitting in her chair, wearing a house coat and plain bedroom slippers … no makeup, no jewelry and no smile. I was aware of her declining strength and vitality over the past weeks, and realized she was obviously too weak now to dress for our visit. After apologizing over and over for not getting “all dolled up”, she said, “Sing one”.


I sang my heart out that day, and before leaving, I gave her a big hug and told her I loved her. She told me she loved me. We thanked each other. l was not ready to say goodbye and didn’t want to hear her say it, but she did just that as she told me she knew she’d be gone before our next Friday visit. 


Miss Catherine passed away a few days later, and the next few Fridays found me at 4:30, on my porch, with my guitar, singing and longing to hear her say, “Sing one.”