Then the waiting game began. The same game played out over and over by anyone who has a friend or loved one in a hospital. We wait by the door, in the hall, by the bed. We wait for the nurse's report; we wait for the doctors.
Life outside the hospital stops. We focus. We mold our lives around the emergency. Family members gather together and hover. We fill the waiting with our lives, the stories.
Luckily for all of us in this instance, Lewie's prognosis is good. He suffered no paralysis, and while struggling with his speech, he is recovering quickly. In less than a week, he's moved from Saddleback to Mission Hospital's Acute Rehabilitation Unit. In all likelihood, he will be home soon.
Recently, when he'd finished all the therapy required "work," he looked at his caregiver, and pointed to the piano across the room.
"He wants to play," she said.
Lewie sat in front the keyboard and his fingers danced across the ivory. He had suffered a stroke just days earlier, yet here he was, filling the room with a musical lyricism that transported everyone into a magical space.
The power of the music and the piano to heal were not lost on me. Each evening, Lewie would fill my parents' living room, playing from memory, with beautiful tunes. When my parents lost their home in the Laguna landslides five years ago, it was the piano that we feared would be demolished with the house. It was the one object left behind, and the one thing that Lewie truly loved (besides my mom and his family — of course).
The bulk of their belongings had been rescued hand over hand, walked down the steep and unsteady slope by friends and family members to waiting trucks below. The piano remained, lonely in the empty and shattered house, with no seeming solution. Too heavy to carry; the earth too unstable for transport.