A Wailing Sound
February 13, 2000

Jill seems just as alert and more responsive than when I saw her three weeks ago, although it clearly takes a lot of effort for her to deliver the appropriate short-phrase "Jillicisms", as Janice dubbed them. From what I can tell, her legs are completely immobile now. The staff members at the Leigh Block Hospice House have to hoist her by the shoulders to align her in bed now and then. Although her strength wanes, her appetite seems to be making up for meals missed during the sickest period last fall. She polishes off every meat and potatoes dish they set before her during waking hours and supplements that with a substantial dose of candy-coated macadamias and peanuts.

Saturday night, shortly after I arrived, I signed her out for a night at the movies in downtown Santa Barbara without pondering much about whether or not I would be fit to transfer her between the wheelchair and car seat. The answer is, no, I am not fit. If I spent the next six months rowing a canoe, that might firm up my wimpy arm muscles, but the heaviest thing I've ever lifted in my arms is my 75-pound guitar amplifier. So to get Jill into the car I was not quite able to levitate her gracefully in one balletic move. But, with a bit of determination I was able to deploy the strength of my bicycle legs: crouching, I sort of slid her onto my thighs and squat-walked her into the passenger seat. The wheelchair section at the rear of the theater gave us a pretty good view of the light entertainment -- _The Whole Nine Yards_, a romantic comedy involving professional assassins and a Chicago gang.

Eight of us were gathered in Jill's room at the Leigh Block House on Sunday afternoon, including her ever-present (and, need I say, ever-vocal) father, Red, and half-brother, Scott. I had poured demi-tasses of Guinness for the few drinkers among us (including Jill), figuring that, considering the circumstances, mid-February was a good time to start observing St. Patrick's Day. (I also had a nip of Scotch to help dull the pain in my arm muscles.) In the garden outside (a drizzly, dreary day, suggestive of the British Isles) a loud humming sound seemed to catch the attention of everyone at once. It might have been a gardener's chipper-shredder winding up, but one of the guests put their finger on it: "It sounds like a bagpipe!"

The piper quickly finished tuning the drones then broke into a familiar Scottish tune and began moving. He marched around the corner of the building, through the inner garder, into the reception area and straight into Jill's room. The sound was deafening, thrillingly so. I was in tears; no amount of crying in anticipation during the preceding week could prevent me from crying again. For the next 45 minutes a very kind and talented man named Mike Reynolds played a mix of happy and mournful and triumphant tunes, marches and jigs and battle cries. Only a few were familiar to me: "Loch Lomond", "Scotland the Brave", "Danny Boy," and, yes, even "Amazing Grace." Fortunately, he announced the titles beforehand and gave a little background on each. While he played for us all, he addressed his words to Jill with the warmth of a kinsman, as if he knew and cared for her. Showing consideration for the patients in neighboring rooms, he switched to the quieter, sweet "fireside pipes." But sometimes these seemed too muted, and I, for one, nodded my approval when Mike reached for the highland pipes for the tunes that really demanded it.

Although her expressions are subdued, I think Jill was pleased. For me it was a treat, and a bit of a revelation -- to see the impact that hiring entertainment can have on people, and to see something turn out even better than I dreamed it might.

© 2007 Rick VanderLugt