During a recent three-day stay in the hospital, Brahms’ Lullaby was a ritual honoring the arrival of new souls and saluting the old souls departing.
By Jo Mooy
I never heard of Room 799, nor did I expect to be a resident in it for three days. One morning, when pain and fluttering in the chest grabbed my attention, something said, “Go to the ER!” If you present in the ER with chest pain, you’re triaged to the front of the line. Nurses and doctors materialize from every direction. You’re wired up to machines that track every movement in the human bio-system. Hours later, the head of the ER, (a too-young doctor named Jude) said I was being admitted, but they were waiting for a room to open. I was now entrenched into the “Western medical system” with all the whistles, bells, medicines, and technology it afforded.
A few more hours passed before I was wheeled into Room 799 on the cardiology floor. Brahms’ Lullaby was playing on the loudspeaker as I crossed the threshold of the room. The hospital’s practice was to play the lullaby to announce the birth of a new baby. I made a mental note that it was two days before the full moon, and there might be many more lullabies to come. When I mentioned it to the nurse connecting my monitors she replied, “I know. That’s when all the crazies arrive.” But it wasn’t until day two that I realized the new babies announcing their arrival on Earth had become musical counterpoints to the dying roommates leaving Room 799. The occupants in 799 were not going back home; they would all be discharged to hospice care. You see, Room 799 is an acute cardio-memory care room positioned close to the nursing station. I’d been sent there because it was the only room available.
Toots was my first roommate. She was 97 and still fiercely independent through her dementia. She told me she legally changed her name to Toots because “that’s what they called her during the war.” I figured she meant World War II. She laughed easily and engaged in conversation readily but remembered nothing. Toots was not allowed out of the bed unless accompanied by a nurse. She ignored them then loudly cursed the alarm that went off whenever she left the bed to go on frequent bathroom breaks. The alarm wailed like an air-raid siren, blasting three rapid sounds that brought the nurses running. Toots always sneaked out of the bathroom when they told her to ring the bell to go back to her bed. Maybe she forgot because every time she passed my bed, she asked me, “Where am I going?” I pointed, she laughed, and she plodded to the other side of the curtain. Toots left Room 799 at 10 p.m. the first night saying to anyone in earshot, “I don’t think I’ll be back.” Soon after Brahms’ Lullaby played on the speaker.
A crew came in, cleaned Toot’s side of 799, and Elaine arrived. She also had dementia but, gratefully, there were no alarms on her bed. (Maybe I would sleep?) Poor Elaine had been in the hospital a week with pneumonia. Each time she became conscious she asked where she was. Her two daughters repeated the same mantra. “Mom, you’re going to rehab to regain your strength.” They never mentioned hospice. I mouthed the words “You’re going to rehab” whenever Elaine came out of her coma and asked where she was. There was a theme going on—so far neither roommate knew where she was or why she was in Room 799.
Later another staff person came in to discuss “the diabetes results” with Elaine. The nurse addressed her as “Ruth”, and Elaine answered yes. Her name’s not Ruth I thought, but no one corrected the nurse who kept doling out instructions for diabetes control. Finally, one of the daughter’s said, “What diabetes? She’s here for pneumonia.” The staffer asked, “Isn’t she Ruth Blah blah blah?” then realized she was in the wrong room, with the wrong patient, on the wrong floor. Then, when Brahms’ Lullaby began to play, Elaine asked her daughters if that music was to make her sleep not realizing she’d been sleeping 95 percent of the time she was in Room 799. Somewhere in her lost memories she remembered it was a sleep lullaby. And, 24 hours after arrival, Elaine also left for rehab and Hospice.
Three new babies had been born that day and two patients in Room 799 had gone to Hospice. I wondered if there was a cosmic birth and death balance sheet for planet Earth that someone was tracking on a heavenly monitor. If there was, the balance sheet was about to even out when Charlotte, my next roommate, arrived. Sadly, she needed acute care. She began screaming help, help, help. She’d stop for a few minutes if a nurse spoke to her, then screamed when they left the room. Without any family, Room 799 was a frightening place for Charlotte. With no conscious memories to draw on, she only communicated through screams. Each time the blood curdling sounds came through the curtain I quietly hummed the tune, Hush hush sweet Charlotte, Charlotte don’t you cry! But the only music that calmed her was Brahms’ Lullaby.
Lying in the darkness it felt like the lullaby was well chosen as an anthem for birth and death by the invisible cosmic accountant. Brahms ends the first verse with a soothing cadence, but the words are not: “Tomorrow morning, if God wills, you will wake once again.” The baby hears the soothing rhythm of the music, but the parent fears the threat of death behind the words. And maybe too, the elderly women in Room 799 heard the real meaning of the words hidden in the lullaby.
In ancient times, after a battle was over, the dead and dying were left on the field. A holy person would hold a ritual to honor the dead and then sing their souls into the afterlife. For three days, Brahms’ Lullaby was that ritual honoring the arrival of new souls and saluting the old souls departing. When I hear that song, I’ll forever remember those three warriors, Toots, Elaine and Charlotte, who left the battlefield of Room 799, and were sung over to the afterlife to the sounds of Brahms’ Lullaby.
Jo Mooy has studied with many spiritual traditions over the past 40 years. The wide diversity of this training allows her to develop spiritual seminars and retreats that explore inspirational concepts, give purpose and guidance to students, and present esoteric teachings in an understandable manner. Along with Patricia Cockerill, she has guided the Women’s Meditation Circle since January 2006 where it has been honored for five years
in a row as the “Favorite Meditation” group in Sarasota, FL, by Natural Awakenings Magazine. Teaching and using Sound as a retreat healing practice, Jo was certified as a Sound Healer through Jonathan Goldman’s Sound Healing Association. She writes and publishes a monthly internationally distributed e-newsletter called Spiritual Connections and is a staff writer for Spirit of Maat magazine in Sedona. For more information go to
http://www.starsoundings.com or email jomooy@gmail.com.
