SING FOR ME G3sr07

 7. SING FOR ME

In addition to my son, Adrian, there were seven children in his ward at The Hospital for Sick Children in London. They ranged from Adrian, who was four, through Carolyn, Elizabeth, Joseph, Hermie, Miriam and Sally, to 12-year-old Freddie.

All of the young patients were victims of leukemic diseases and didn't have long to live. All, that is, except one—beautiful, green-eyed, golden-haired Elizabeth, who was ten years old. After completing a period of treatment with the other children, she would be able to go home and live a healthy life. Yet the other children felt a genuine and profound sympathy for the little girl. This I learned when I paid my daily visits to my son and talked with him and the others. Companions in distress, the children shared everything, even their parents.

Elizabeth, who had undergone complicated surgery in the region behind her ears, was going deaf. It would be only a matter of months before her hearing loss was complete. Elizabeth was an ardent music lover, who possessed a clear and delightful singing voice and showed promise as a pianist, which made the prospect of her deafness all the more tragic. But she never complained. Occasionally, though, when she thought no one was looking, silent tears would form in her eyes and slowly roll down her cheeks.

Elizabeth loved music more than anything else, and she enjoyed listening as much as she enjoyed performing. Frequently, after I had helped my son prepare for bed, she would make a sign to me to come into the playroom, which was quiet after the day's activities. Seating herself in a big armchair, and making room for me to sit beside her, she would take my hand and say, "Sing for me."

I could not deny her request. Facing her so she could see my lips, and forming the words as clearly as I could, I would sing a couple of songs. She would listen intently and with obvious enjoyment, then thank me with a quick kiss on the forehead

The other children, as I have said, were disturbed by the little girl's plight and decided to do something to cheer her up. Under Freddie's leadership they came to a decision, which they took to their nurse Hilda Kirby, who, they knew, was their friend.

At first, Kirby was taken aback by their announcement. "You want to give a concert for Elizabeth's 11th birthday?" she exclaimed. "And it's in three weeks' time? You're mad." Upon seeing the look on their faces, she added, "You're all mad. But I'll help you."

Kirby lost no time in keeping her promise. As soon as she was off duty, Kirby took a cab to a conservatory of music to see her friend, Sister Mary Joseph, who was a voice and choir teacher. After a brief greeting, the nun came right to the point. "Kirby," she asked, "what do you intend to involve me in now?"

"Mary J," replied Kirby, "is it possible to turn a small group of children, none of whom has had any musical training, into a choir, capable of giving a concert in three weeks?"

"It is possible," replied Sister Mary Joseph. "Not very probable, but possible."

"Bless you, Mary J," exclaimed the nurse. "I knew you would."

"Just a minute, Kirby," said the bewildered nun. "Tell me more. Maybe I am unworthy of your blessing."

Twenty minutes later, the two parted on the steps of the conservatory. "Bless you, Mary J," repeated Kirby. "We'll see you on Wednesday at three."

"What's her name?" demanded Freddie as Kirby told him and the other children about her plan while Elizabeth was undergoing her daily treatment. "Is she a man or a woman, then? How can she be called 'Mary Joseph'?"

"She's a nun, Freddie. She teaches at one of the best music schools in London. It'd cost you two guineas an hour to take lessons from her. And she's going to train you—for free."

"Great!" exclaimed Hermie. "We'll do it."

So it was settled. Under Sister Mary Joseph's able direction, the children practiced each day while Elizabeth was undergoing treatment. There was only one big problem: how to include nine-year-old Joseph in the concert. Clearly, Joseph could not be left out, but, following surgery, he could no longer use his vocal cords.

"Joseph," the nun told him, after she had noticed him watching sadly as the others were assigned their singing parts, "You will sit beside me and turn the music pages as I play the piano."

For a brief moment, Joseph's eyes shone. Then, close to tears, he wrote quickly on his note pad. "But, Sister, I can't read music."

Sister Mary Joseph smiled down at the anxious little boy. "Don't worry, Joseph," she assured him, "you will."

Incredibly, within the three weeks Sister Mary Joseph and Kirby turned six dying children, none of whom had any noticeable musical talent, into an acceptable choir, and a little boy who could neither sing nor speak into a confident page-turner.

Equally remarkable, the secret was well kept. When Elizabeth was led into the hospital chapel on the afternoon of her birthday and seated on a "throne"(a wheelchair) her surprise was genuine. Her pretty face flushed with excitement, and she leaned forward to listen.

Although the audience—ten parents and three nurses—sat only a few feet from the platform, we had some difficulty in seeing the faces of the children clearly. But we didn't have any trouble hearing them. Sister Mary Joseph had told the children just before the program began, "You know she can hear very little, so give it all you've got." And they did.

The concert was a great success. Elizabeth said it was the best birthday she had ever had. The choir almost burst with pride. Joseph beamed. The rest of us, I'm afraid, shed more tears.

Anyone who is close to desperately ill or dying children realizes that it is not the hopelessness of their situation, nor even their physical suffering, that is so hard to bear. It is their will to keep fighting, their courage in the face of overwhelming odds, that breaks your heart.

I have no printed program for the most memorable of all the concerts I have attended. Nevertheless, I have never heard, nor do I expect to hear, more beautiful music. If I close my eyes, I can still hear every note.

Those six young voices have been stilled now many years. All seven members of the choir are sleeping. But I guarantee that Elizabeth, now married and the mother of her own golden-haired, green-eyed daughter, can still hear, in the ear of her memory, those six young voices which were among the last sounds she ever heard.