You Are the Music: How Music Reveals What it Means to be Human by Victoria Williamson Page A
Authors: Victoria Williamson
Ads: Link
otherwise appear to be lost.
A favourite anecdote that has stayed with me for a while (such that I cannot recall the source, I am afraid) was of a gentleman in a care home who had become largely immobile and very quiet. Most of the time he sat in his chair or lay in bed simply staring: it had been a while since any of the staff could remember him engaging in conversation. The man valued his privacy and preferred the door to his room to be closed during the day. The nurses were happy to oblige his wishes; they would always knock before entering and wait for his permission to enter.
One day the staff nurse became worried as the man did not respond when she knocked on his door. She tried once, twice, three times. No luck. At this point she decided to go in and make sure he was okay. She was greeted by the sight ofhim dancing round the room and singing to ‘Rock Around the Clock’ by Bill Haley and His Comets. Apparently a cleaner had left their radio in his room by accident during morning rounds.
From then onwards the nurses made sure that the man had access to music that he liked. He was still a quiet man but the music often put a smile on his face and encouraged him to chat more with residents and staff. A small difference perhaps, but a positive effect nonetheless.
At this point I would like to make it clear that music is no ‘magic bullet’ or cure for memory loss. Some individuals will never respond to music and others may prefer silence. The point rather is that musical memory can often survive even in extreme cases and can therefore be a method by which to reach someone who has suffered memory loss.
Perhaps the most compelling case of musical memory survival is that of Clive Wearing. In the early to mid-1980s Clive was reaching a high point in his career as a musicologist, keyboardist, singer and conductor. He was the choirmaster of the London Sinfonietta and director of the London Lassus Ensemble. He was a well-respected researcher and expert in early/Renaissance music and was given the prestigious role of managing the music for BBC Radio 3, a UK classical station, on the day Prince Charles wed Princess Diana. Clive was himself newly married to his second wife Deborah.
According to reports, sometime in March 1985 Clive fell ill with a headache and flu-like symptoms. His doctor prescribed painkillers and advised him to rest. His symptoms rapidly worsened and he was found wandering the streets in a confused state. He was taken to hospital where he began to experience seizures and fell into a coma. A brain scan revealed the terrible truth: Clive had contracted herpes simplex encephalitis, a rare but severe virus that attacks the central nervous system from within the brain.
While in a coma, Clive’s brain swelled with infection and was crushed against his skull. For most people this condition is fatal, so doctors were pleasantly surprised when Clive awoke from his coma. However, it quickly became apparent that all was not well. Clive remained confused and did not seem to remember anything about his life. Such confusion is not unusual after a prolonged period of unconsciousness but Clive did not show any signs of recovery as the weeks and months went by. His wife Deborah has said since that ‘the virus caused a hole in his brain and all the memories fell out’.
The swelling in Clive’s brain had deprived several vital neural structures of oxygen and the cells had subsequently died. The most severe damage was within the frontal lobe and the brain areas that support memory function. Like many with frontal lobe damage, Clive’s personality changed and he experiences waves of emotion and anxiety that he is unable to control. Unlike most people, however, Clive has a deep and dense amnesia, or memory loss; arguably the worst case in medical history.
As a result of his illness Clive has lost the majority of his life’s memories and is unable to make any new ones. These conditions are known as retrograde and
A favourite anecdote that has stayed with me for a while (such that I cannot recall the source, I am afraid) was of a gentleman in a care home who had become largely immobile and very quiet. Most of the time he sat in his chair or lay in bed simply staring: it had been a while since any of the staff could remember him engaging in conversation. The man valued his privacy and preferred the door to his room to be closed during the day. The nurses were happy to oblige his wishes; they would always knock before entering and wait for his permission to enter.
One day the staff nurse became worried as the man did not respond when she knocked on his door. She tried once, twice, three times. No luck. At this point she decided to go in and make sure he was okay. She was greeted by the sight ofhim dancing round the room and singing to ‘Rock Around the Clock’ by Bill Haley and His Comets. Apparently a cleaner had left their radio in his room by accident during morning rounds.
From then onwards the nurses made sure that the man had access to music that he liked. He was still a quiet man but the music often put a smile on his face and encouraged him to chat more with residents and staff. A small difference perhaps, but a positive effect nonetheless.
At this point I would like to make it clear that music is no ‘magic bullet’ or cure for memory loss. Some individuals will never respond to music and others may prefer silence. The point rather is that musical memory can often survive even in extreme cases and can therefore be a method by which to reach someone who has suffered memory loss.
Perhaps the most compelling case of musical memory survival is that of Clive Wearing. In the early to mid-1980s Clive was reaching a high point in his career as a musicologist, keyboardist, singer and conductor. He was the choirmaster of the London Sinfonietta and director of the London Lassus Ensemble. He was a well-respected researcher and expert in early/Renaissance music and was given the prestigious role of managing the music for BBC Radio 3, a UK classical station, on the day Prince Charles wed Princess Diana. Clive was himself newly married to his second wife Deborah.
According to reports, sometime in March 1985 Clive fell ill with a headache and flu-like symptoms. His doctor prescribed painkillers and advised him to rest. His symptoms rapidly worsened and he was found wandering the streets in a confused state. He was taken to hospital where he began to experience seizures and fell into a coma. A brain scan revealed the terrible truth: Clive had contracted herpes simplex encephalitis, a rare but severe virus that attacks the central nervous system from within the brain.
While in a coma, Clive’s brain swelled with infection and was crushed against his skull. For most people this condition is fatal, so doctors were pleasantly surprised when Clive awoke from his coma. However, it quickly became apparent that all was not well. Clive remained confused and did not seem to remember anything about his life. Such confusion is not unusual after a prolonged period of unconsciousness but Clive did not show any signs of recovery as the weeks and months went by. His wife Deborah has said since that ‘the virus caused a hole in his brain and all the memories fell out’.
The swelling in Clive’s brain had deprived several vital neural structures of oxygen and the cells had subsequently died. The most severe damage was within the frontal lobe and the brain areas that support memory function. Like many with frontal lobe damage, Clive’s personality changed and he experiences waves of emotion and anxiety that he is unable to control. Unlike most people, however, Clive has a deep and dense amnesia, or memory loss; arguably the worst case in medical history.
As a result of his illness Clive has lost the majority of his life’s memories and is unable to make any new ones. These conditions are known as retrograde and
Similar Books
