do mi sol

Today I spent time interpreting for a patient of ours who is what we call a "frequent flyer," meaning her condition requires her to be in and out of the hospital quite a bit. She's gearing up for a new treatment, and so there was a good bit of talking to do today. There have been some rough patches with this family: for a while there was some conflict between mother and daughter, complicated by the fact that the daughter has a learning disability, so we spent lots of time interpreting for social workers or psychologists who were trying to mediate, and I personally always walked into those sessions with a good bit of trepidation. It was difficult, too, because the daughter is fully bilingual, and takes pride in being able to speak English with the staff. That puts us as interpreters in the somewhat awkward position of interpreting the daughter's words to her mother - while she's judging us to see if we said what she would want to say. In the midst of a fight, that can be tough. Thankfully that rough patch is over, and today was a simple matter of education: relatively pleasant and straightforward.

Afterward, I went to visit the chapel, as I often do, just to think or play the piano, or pray or sing. I had sat down to the piano and was playing a song when I heard the telltale sounds of someone entering the quiet, green-carpeted space. The door handle clicked, swung open. I didn't turn to look until I'd finished the verse in the song. When I did, I was expecting to see someone random, briefly apologize for disturbing them, and leave. Instead, I saw the same family I'd just interpreted for.

"Toca el piano?" the mother asked me, "Do you play the piano?" "Yes, one or two songs, not much" I said in Spanish, for once not parroting her words in English. This seemed to give her confidence.  "Are you a Christian?" she asked, to which I replied that I was. "What church do you go to?" So I told her, and then her daughter piped up:"I want to know how to play the piano," she said. "Oh, yeah? Well, it's here if you ever want to practice," I said, not thinking about her upcoming treatment and how she wouldn't be able to, not sure what to say "it's always here." "Yes. I want to play the piano."

I looked at her and thought. This was the moment of truth. Or the moment where the sh*t hit the fan, depending on how you wanna look at it. It's one thing to exchange a few words, to be polite and not rude. It's something else entirely to actually interact. And then, I just went for it. "Ven," I said, "come on. I'll teach you one thing." I walked over to the piano, she followed, and I sat down on the bench next to her. I showed her how there is a pattern of three black keys, then two, then three, and how your hand goes at the beginning of the sequence of two. She learned to play from C up to E, on both hands, and since she was kinda going for it anyway, I showed her the arpeggio of C too. She was able to play those things, and before I left and went back to work I got to tell her in Spanish, "mira, ya sabes algo en el piano!" "Look, now you know something on the piano!"

Sitting there with her made my heart so happy! I've taught basic piano stuff to several of my cousins, and it was such a delight to do something so normal with her, without the awkwardness of talking over her, or for her mother, or about medical stuff. A relief from all the stressors I'm typically dealing with when I see her. The simple joys of teaching and music and encouragement. As I walked away I couldn't keep the giant smile from my face. It was good just to connect.