Music Heals

Eugene Concert Choir and Paul Winter Consort (photo by Laurel Titus)

During a sleepless night before open heart surgery last January 20, Kim was understandably agitated. Here she was, a seemingly healthy 70-year-old, about to have her chest opened to extricate from her left atrium a tennis-ball-size tumor that had been secretly growing for at least ten years. There was a 99% chance of her surviving the procedure, but uncertain months of recovery stretched ahead.

Kim sings first soprano in the Eugene Concert Choir. Before surgery, she had been rehearsing for a February performance of the Missa Gaia with the Paul Winter Consort. Theresa Thomason would be the featured vocalist. Toward morning, surgery looming, the lyrics to Theresa’s solo “Sound Over All Waters” rolled into Kim’s head:

The dark night is ending and dawn has begun.
Arise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun.
All speech flows to music, all hearts beat as one.
The dark night is ending, and dawn has begun.

Surgery came and went. For two days I watched my lovely wife transition from unconscious on a breathing tube, to writhing in pain, to retching with vertigo, to walking laps around the ICU. Before she was discharged on January 24, just four days after surgery, she asked her medical team if she would be able to sing on February 19. The surgeon smiled with noncommittal encouragement. “Maybe.”

The night Kim arrived home, I was forced to run a quick errand to the local grocery store for Tylenol. What household doesn’t have Tylenol on hand? Apparently ours. When I walked into the house, sobbing was coming from the bedroom. Feeling panicky, I rushed in. Kim had asked Siri to find the Missa Gaia, and up popped Theresa rivering out “Sound Over All Waters.” Kim hadn’t told me the story of her lyrical meditation in the wee hours before surgery. Now I was crying, too. Cathartic relief rolled away in waves of tears. Music heals.

Within days after arriving home, Kim had ditched her respirometer in favor of singing along to Youtube recordings of her missed choir rehearsals. Two weeks later she was rehearsing live, hell-bent and heaven-sent on singing. She was featured in the choir’s weekly newsletter and was asked to speak to the group about what had happened. She told them about the transformative power of the music they were working on.

February 19 at the Eugene Hult Center. The auditorium lights drop. Perfunctory announcements. Kim is far stage-right in a stunning green dress. The choir hits the first notes of “For the Beauty of the Earth”, and my tears begin. Paul’s soprano sax slides in seamlessly, rising and falling with humpback whales and wolves and fur seals. Early in the first half, Theresa grabs our hearts with her performance of “Mystery.” A few people are already giving her a standing ovation.

Soon Theresa is up again. “Sound Over All Waters.” Kim's pre-surgery prayer. I’m crying again. Of course I am. And in all the emotional connection to this music, I wonder how Kim can possibly sing the accompaniment. Yet there she is, always the performer, arms and hands spread wide, belting out those crystalline high notes. It is utterly astonishing.

Theresa Thomason...

Music heals, yet there must be a million ways it can break your heart. Late in the second half, Theresa is back at the mic rolling out “The Rain is Over and Gone.” Every perfect note is accompanied by equally perfect gestures with arms and hands. At the end she tips back her head and sends her voice upward on an improvisational staircase that lands on a sustained note, high and clear and lovely. Before that last note dies, an audible gasp escapes from the audience, rushing toward her like sunset beneath a glittering planet. And dammit. I’m crying again.

Now I’m on a mission. Unsure how long it might take, I hand the car keys to daughter Laurel, who is in charge of helping Kim with her music, music stand, and anatomically-correct red heart pillow that she received at the hospital. After the encore and two standing ovations, I press upward toward the lobby. At the top of the stairs to the basement dressing rooms, I wait like a stalking heron, a program tucked under my right wing, and a borrowed ballpoint in my left. Diane Retallack, the choir director, emerges with Paul in tow. People gather around him like iron filings to a magnet. I’d love to shake his hand but hang near the staircase, wondering.

Finally, Theresa steps around the corner at the foot of the staircase and ascends in her pink and black concert garb. She is much smaller than I would have imagined after just witnessing what she has done on stage. When she reaches the top I introduce myself. "My wife sings first soprano and had open heart surgery four weeks ago." Her smile is as wide and warm as the sun. She knows. Kim has already connected with her. Beyond us, a lobby full of people are waiting to touch this bright star of gospel and jazz. But for two minutes Theresa treats me as the most important person in her world. She inscribes my program, glances up. She closes with two earnest words:

“Music heals.”

Kim with Paul Winter (photo by Laurel Titus)