272. Lullabies
from American Symphony (courtesy of Netflix)
Lullabies are often written in triple meter, which is a swaying or rocking rhythm that mimics what a baby feels in the womb as its mother moves.
The winter of 2022, I lived a more intense version of isolation than I’d ever experienced. I was undergoing my second bone marrow transplant to treat a relapse of leukemia, and the chemo I had done to prepare for it had obliterated my immune system, leaving me with literally zero white blood cells. In such a circumstance, being sequestered in a hospital bubble is a given. However, my transplant occurred during the covid omicron surge, so hospital restrictions were higher than normal and visitors were extremely limited. Not only could I not leave the eighth floor of Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center, but I also couldn’t see many of my beloveds.
For a period of time, this included my husband Jon. He had work obligations, and he could not avoid being exposed to all kinds of pathogens—from covid to the common cold—that could have killed me. That he continued to work was a choice we’d made together months earlier, back when we learned my leukemia returned. We had many discussions about whether he would pull out of his obligations to be with me, and I had insisted he continue. He had worked tirelessly from the time he was a teenager to get to that point, and the idea that he would miss out on this big moment because of my relapse was completely unacceptable to me.
Being apart was difficult for both of us, though in some ways, I believe it was even more difficult for Jon. He had to put on his professional face and move about the world when both his head and his heart wanted to be there at my bedside. But instead of wallowing in loneliness and despair, he came up with a creative solution. He connected a small keyboard to his computer, and he began composing lullabies and sending them to me. They were improvised, raw, and beautiful. (One of them evolved to become “Butterfly,” one of my favorite songs on World Music Radio—which, no big deal, was nominated for a Grammy for Song of the Year.)
Lullaby. It comes from the words “lull,” as in “to soothe,” and “by,” meaning “near.” Lullabies are often written in triple meter, which is a swaying or rocking rhythm that mimics what a baby feels in the womb as its mother moves. Jon’s melodies provided that sort of comfort, that sense of security. There was a week where I was in the most pain I’ve ever experienced, as close to the veil as I’ve ever been, suffering from three simultaneous infections—two in my bloodstream—and the whole time I played those gentle, mellifluous songs on loop, for hours and hours.
Hospitals are noisy places, with the constant beeping of monitors, the wheezing of respirators, the blaring alarms on IV poles. Jon’s songs were a welcome counterpoint to that soundtrack. But more than that, Jon found solace in the making of those lullabies, and I found so much in listening to them. I could feel his tenderness, his love, and his support. He wasn’t physically there, but he was present with me.
