Let’s Let Some Light In – Danielle DeCosmo
The first time I ever experienced the loss of a patient, who I came to love as a friend, was with Karen. I really got to know her and her husband over time, but when I think about her, I go back to the first time I ever met her.
Karen’s nurse suggested I visit her, to see if I could lift her spirits after a difficult diagnosis. I gently tapped on her door and slowly entered a dark hospital room. There was a small figure on the bed, curled up in fetal position, with the covers pulled up to her mouth. I came around the bed and saw that her eyes were open, so I said, “Hi, I’m Danielle. I just sing songs for people. Would you like to hear a song today?” She nodded “yes” and I picked a song that I thought might be soothing, based on her age. About halfway through “Time After Time,” by Cyndi Lauper, Karen started stretching out into the bed, and she slowly, with what seemed like a lot of effort, lifted herself to face me. Her demeanor started changing throughout the song, and by the end, she was sitting straight up, smiling, with bright eyes, and singing along with the chorus! I brought the song to a close and looked up at her round, puffy from chemo, but beautiful smiling face. She said, with a raspy southern drawl, “Wow! Why is it so dark in here? Let’s open up the blinds and let’s let some light in!” And that’s the way she remained every time I saw her after that.
Karen and her husband were so in love with each other. Whenever he was there, they were both in bed cuddling. Often times, they would cuddle as I sang her top request: “The Littlest Birds,” by The Be Good Tanyas. Karen was known to clap and sing along, jump up to open the door (so the nurses could hear the music), or invite other patients to join in. She was a ray of light for the whole unit, always motivating everyone to think and speak with positivity.
We talked a lot over her 14 months of treatment, about music, living a peaceful life, and the watercolor paintings she started making of her horses. The last time I saw Karen, she was sitting by large floor to ceiling windows, letting the sunlight warm her skin. I came to sit beside her and placed my hand on hers. She smirked and then slowly opened her eyes at a side glance, as if she was waiting for me there. She opened her hand to reveal a tiny paper wrapped gift. I gently opened the paper and found a porcelain blue bird, with big eyes, gazing up at me. I looked up at Karen. She smiled that big, broad smile of hers and said, “That sweet, little bird reminds me of you!”
I never saw her again. Her husband actually made the effort to let me know that she had passed, so that I wouldn’t have the pain of finding out another way. He thanked me for spending time with her, so that he didn’t have to feel like she was alone, while he was at work. All I did was sit with her, talk to her about her life and her favorite music, but that seemed to remind her that she was more than a diagnosis, and that she had worth. I had never felt the loss of a friend before her. Because of her, I try to remember that even in the darkest moments, we can let some light in. And in reminding others of their worth, we in turn build on our own.
Danielle performs nationally, shares stories from her 10 years of singing at hospital bedsides, and leads wellness workshops on Relaxation for the Active Mind: Movement, the Arts and Mindfulness. To be a part of Danielle’s “feel-good community,” please keep in touch with her here: