Thoughtful Thursday:...And That is Why I Will Never Be a Hospice Music Therapist or Clergy Member

I went to the funeral of a dear friend yesterday. He passed away very unexpectedly a little over a week ago, and I felt that I needed to be at the ceremony celebrating his life. I don't usually go to funerals, mainly because of reasons I will iterate in the following paragraphs, but this one wasn't as wearing on me as some of the others that I've had to attend. The experience of yesterday reinforced some things that I know about myself, but that I've never really put into context before.

I work at a church as the director of music and worship leader. I fill in for the pastor when he is gone, and I preach sermons and coordinate worship and do all the things that the pastor does during worship on a pretty regular basis. Some of the people in the congregation have complimented me on my ease with public speaking and have encouraged me to think about becoming a minister. It was on my list of things I thought I could do before I heard about music therapy. I know that role is not for me - not because of the speaking parts (I'm good at public speaking), but because of the ministering parts.

I also have always felt very strongly that I was not cut out to be a hospice music therapist. This has been in my head since hospice music therapy started, but I never really fully understood why I feel this strongly. In fact, in graduate school, I was roundly criticized by my professors for refusing to take the class on hospice music therapy techniques. I stood my ground because it is not something that I can experience easily.

My first ever funeral experience was that of my paternal grandfather's ceremony. He died when I was 13 years old, and his death was the first one that I ever experienced. We had to leave everything and get out here to Kansas to be with my grandmother who was in shock. Come to think of it, Poppa's death was also somewhat unexpected. We went through the entire process of funerals here in the Midwest - an open casket viewing, an open casket funeral, expectations of touching the deceased. I couldn't do it, and I felt ashamed that I could only sit there and cry.

By the time my paternal grandmother's funeral came around, I had matured a bit and had a bit more awareness of what was expected of me. I was a senior in college, and the ritual was the same, but there wasn't a grandmother to expect specific responses and behaviors this time, so there was less pressure to touch and stare and view.

In California, the only other place I had ever experienced funeral traditions, the ceremonies are very different. The deceased is usually buried or cremated very quickly after death - family only ceremonies for the interment - and then we hold a memorial service after everyone is able to gather. It is rare for a body to be present (in my experience). This is the type of funeral ceremony that I prefer, but that is not the type of ceremony that happens out here.

Yesterday's ceremony was something that I had to prepare myself for - both physically and emotionally. I was (and still am) so tense that my shoulders caused me lots of pain. I went through all the tissues that I stuffed in my purse and then went through them all again during the ceremony. My other friend, the wife of the man who passed away, had asked me to sing at the ceremony, and I agonized about how to tell her that I couldn't do it. I am really glad that I did because I was a mess from the moment I saw their grandchildren arrive at the church, and I did not stop ugly crying for most of the ceremony. I couldn't even sing the hymns that were part of the service - I was just thinking about how much I would cringe every time we would sing "It Is Well With My Soul," and he'd scoop from one note to another. I couldn't sing much at all, so I am glad that I didn't try. I would have opened my mouth and just flubbed the entire thing.

I spent lots of time preparing myself for the possibility of an open casket, but the casket was closed. I was able to remember my friend as he was when I last saw him - alive. I am very thankful for that. 

The experience of being with my friend as she mourns the loss of her husband is something that I will be able to do, but there will be many tears between us. When I saw her in the reception line, she grabbed me for a hug, and we cried together. We will be getting together at some point next week or on my Fridays off during the summer session. I will do my best to support her grief and to just be there for her.

So, what does all of this have to do with the fact that I will never be a hospice music therapist or a clergy member? I was watching the pastor who officiated over my friend's ceremony. She was calm, composed, able to offer sympathies with a smile, and helped us to celebrate his life rather than just focus on his death. I noticed that she didn't sing, but I'm not sure that she ever sings. I don't know if I could ever do that, even if I do not know the person who is being celebrated. I get into a room, and I soak up the emotion that is present in the room. I don't think I would be able to be supportive. I think I would pull in the grief and be consumed by it. I know I am that way with people that I love, and I am somewhat that way in funerals for people that I know but do not necessarily love.

I admire those who are able to share the active dying process of others. I think that being able to hold the grief of someone without soaking it into your own self completely is something marvelous. I am very thankful that others can do this. I am also thankful that I do not have to try to be in that role. I would fail at the holding and supporting part of being a hospice music therapist.

And, that's okay.

One of the things that makes me the therapist that I am is realizing the things that I am able to do and also acknowledging those things that I cannot do. I can keep an entire school of kids with intellectual and psychiatric diagnoses calm during a tornado warning through singing our favorite songs. I can teach someone to communicate using the piano and reflections. I cannot remove myself from the grief of others because I join into that grief. That is okay. 

I will continue to go to the funerals of people that I love. I know this. It is inevitable that more people will pass away - I'm at the age where my mentors and friends are more likely to die. Death is a part of life, and I feel secure in my faith practices surrounding death and dying. I know that I will spend more time sitting in places with those who are grieving, and I know that I will be crying and unable to sing, and I will be a complete and total mess. That is who I am.

I also know that I will never be a minister or a hospice music therapist...