It’s interesting how certain things hit you certain
ways.
I deal with death almost every day. Terrible, violent, and sudden death that rips
families apart. Sometimes it is really gruesome,
and sometimes it is subtle and underwhelming – and in the world of trauma, it
is always unexpected.
I like to think that I handle these situations pretty
well. While I can plainly (even robotically?)
explain the situation to families, I also have enough emotion in me to show
genuine empathy. In fact, I think I have
much more emotion than the average trauma surgeon – I’m just good at hiding it
when I need to.
The other day I got word that an old friend of mine had
died. I hadn’t spoken to Charlie in a
number of years, honestly. We had one of
those friendships that was on hold – we grew up together, but after going our
separate ways to college and adulthood, we just drifted apart. We’d see each other on occasion, and when we
did it was as if we had never left – we just picked up right where we left
off. And so to hear of his passing
thrust me back to my boyhood.
Charlie was a gifted musician. We met in the magnificent Washington National
Cathedral, where we sang as boys in the cathedral choir. We spent A LOT of time singing together…we
had multiple rehearsals a day, sang five services a week, and performed on
countless other special occasions. I
could only keep up that pace for three years.
Charlie did it for four, and then sang an additional two years in the
men’s choir. Every time there was a big
solo it was his – he had the best voice, by far, and we were all very glad to
give him the spotlight. And even after
our Cathedral singing days were over, we sang together in the high school
chorale – we just couldn’t let go.
The best singing we ever did, though, by far, was at
Christmastime. Christmas is a very busy
time at the Cathedral. In addition to
the regular services, there are numerous other services, and all of them filled
with music. We had very little free
time, but starting in the 6th grade (so…1991!) we joined in a
tradition of caroling at local hospitals.
(And the two of us – and others – would continue that well into our
20s.) So on Christmas Eve, before the
big midnight mass, we’d grab our hymnals and make our way to the
hospitals. It was just a small group of
us – 7 or 8 or so – and we just sang. We
sang hymns, and anthems. We sang in
harmony, and took turns doing solos. I
guess we were better than most of the carolers that come to hospitals at
Christmas, because doctors and nurses and patients alike would stop what they
were doing and just listen. Of all my
years singing, it was on these occasions when we could so clearly see the joy
and peace that our music brought to those in need.
Charlie’s parents often invited us all to their house before
and after caroling. One year – we were
in college, I think – they had us over the week before Christmas for a little
celebration. We ate some cookies and
then made our way to a local inpatient hospice center. Here, it was clear, we would be singing for
patients’ final Christmas. We tried to
be upbeat, but found ourselves singing Silent Night over and over again. From there we drove to a local hospital. We sang our usual pieces, and at the end of
the night ended up singing in the nursery.
A local couple had just delivered – we gathered around the babe and sang
Silent Night once more. On the same
evening, we sang for someone’s first and last Christmas.
Charlie’s favorite Christmas hymn was “Lo, How a Rose E’rr Blooming.” We would sing it over and over and over again…he
loved it. The hymn speaks of the promise
of Christmas, and the joy of heaven on earth.
It ends “Bring us at length we pray, to the bright courts of heaven,/
and to the endless day!” I pray that
Charlie is now in those bright courts, singing his heart out, and bringing joy
and peace to all who hear.
And I am lucky to have heard.
