Trading the Emergency Room for Music and Massage

Mom's hospice provides services to her in her apartment. In addition to the nurse who visits once a week, the program also offers weekly visits from a music therapist and a massage therapist. "How nice! How thoughtful! How unique!", I thought. But, little did I know, hospice care programs all over the United States now routinely provide their clients with the dynamic duo of music and massage. I googled music and massage and found them to be joined at the hip when you add hospice to the mix. What seems to be a luxury turns out to be standard fare in the end-of-life hospice menu. It makes financial and policy sense. By agreeing to go on hospice, Mom had to acknowledge that she understands that she probably has less than six months expected life and that she does not wish to undergo invasive interventions if and when she experiences a medical emergency. By foregoing expensive (and unpleasant) care, the participants in hospice programs are freeing up substantial resources.  I read somewhere that 50% of the medicare patients who passed away in the last year were enrolled in hospice programs.  Redirecting funds away from unnecessary emergency room visits and toward palliative and comfort services such as music and massage seems quite sensitive and humane to me. Earlier, as we were anticipating the therapist's visit, in Mom's befuddled state, she ranted to me that the government wastes the taxpayers' money by paying $300 an hour to those therapists and they don't even know how to play music. Nevertheless, she agreed to allow the music therapist come to her home to play for her. A twenty-something young lady comes to the apartment with a guitar strapped onto her back, clutching an iPad preloaded with songs that 90 year olds can relate to. During the session last week, she got dressed, laid in her reclining chair in the den; and joined by my sons Gordon and Alex, we sang together. Here is a video clip of Mom following along with the therapist to "Let me call you Sweetheart" (Gordon's knee in the foreground).  We younger generations fumbled with the words, but Mom had them hard-wired in her brain from her youth. It was soothing and sweet to sing along together. We sang Edelweiss and then Amazing Grace brought tears to my eyes - especially hearing Mom belt out the words "a wretch like me".

As to the massage therapy, Mom had refused it. I learned that she had told the therapist to go away.  "Why?" I asked. Because, she said, "A massage is a lousy substitute for sex. If you want to have sex, you should just have good sex".  That's my Mom. Feisty to the bitter end.