Romeo Plays the Piano in His Nursing Home

I don't put boundaries on myself
when I sit at the piano.
-- Vanessa Carlton

I wheeled Romeo into the activity room, right up to the piano, and set the brakes on his wheelchair. "Will you play something for me?" I asked.

Romeo grew up playing piano. He took lessons until he went away to university. He enjoyed it and was, apparently, quite good. He loves classical music. His favorite composer is Beethoven.

But, until now, Romeo would never play the piano for me, not even a keyboard. He said that he couldn't remember how to play anything, couldn't remember any chords. He wouldn't play for his own enjoyment, for fun. He wouldn't play for the sheer creativity in it. And he wouldn't play for the exercise it would give his brain.

Romeo couldn't get past the idea that he thought he wasn't good at the piano anymore. He was hung up in grieving for the pianist he once was, hung up in sadness that he didn't keep up his playing, hung up in fear that he was no longer good at the piano. This has been going on since we've known each other.

Until now. Without asking, I gently placed him in front of the piano and asked him to play. He smiled, raised his arms, plunked his fingers on the keys, and played for a few minutes. I don't know what he played, he doesn't know what he played. But he played. He played. And he said he will play again.

And the fear that he was experiencing? Gone, apparently. Gone for good? We don't know. Gone because of dementia? Possibly. My little wish is to hear Romeo play often. The next step for him and the piano? I'll bring some sheet music from home, place it at the piano in front of him, and see what happens.

The Aftermath of the Retreat, or How Dementia Can Really Mess Things Up

There was something horribly wrong surrounding Romeo. I sensed it just before I entered his room at the nursing home, in the hall before I ever saw him. All that day, I had been at a retreat in the mountains above Boulder and hadn't been able to come to see him until well after his dinner time.

To help Romeo remember that I wouldn't be able to see him until late on retreat day, to prepare him for my delayed visit, we worked together for a week before the retreat. I drilled him on what was likely to be my arrival time that evening. This technique had worked before. It was the only one that did anymore. That is, until now.

I entered his room, the partially drawn curtain between Romeo and his roommate allowing a view only of Romeo's feet and legs. He was tucked under the covers, seemingly in bed for the night, much earlier than usual. As I came closer, I saw that the bed had been lowered so it sat about six inches off the floor. A mat had been placed on the floor beside the bed. This is the typical evening arrangement, precautions to prevent any injury if Romeo happened to fall out of bed during the night.

He saw me come to the side of his bed. And he glared at me. Glared at me. Daggers shot from his eyes, heading my way, hundreds of tiny daggers. I took the hit. I took all of them. And I took them gladly because I knew, without a word having been spoken from either of us, that Romeo had forgotten that today I would be late. He did not remember that I would be in the mountains and not be able to see him until later in the day, much later.

The daggers pierced my skin, traveled to my heart, my stomach, my lungs, my throat. No part of my body escaped injury. The wounds hurt; I was in great pain. But I also knew that Romeo's wounds hurt more, that his pain was much greater. His pain manufactured and then launched the daggers that attacked me. His pain was the wound and hurt of abandonment. He thought I had left him that day. He thought I was gone for good, would never come back. He was frightened and angry, and this pain had been simmering in him all day. He was a pressure cooker of loneliness and fear, and it was now time for him to blow and for me to clean up the mess.

We sat together as his hurt and pain and fear and my hurt and pain and fear became acquainted, until we all were simply one happy family of hurt, pain, fear, loneliness, abandonment. We sat, my hand holding his, each of us crying like abandoned kittens, each of us forgiving the other, forgiving ourselves, forgiving Romeo's dementia, forgiving the Universe. Until finally, finally, finally...until finally, we laughed.