Bring Him Home

Some goodbyes are harder than others. The farewells that last a lifetime. The parting that puts worlds between you. The separation that can't be bridged by text, email, phone, or written letters.

A couple of months ago, I had to say goodbye to JC--a dear friend and cello student. He died at the age of 51 after a five-year battle with cancer. His wife, 10-year-old daughter, and 8-year-old son stayed behind as he moved on.

JC joined my cello studio during his last year of life. Before starting lessons, he and his wife Lucinda met with me in my front living room, expressing his desire to learn the cello and trying to make me aware of his musical background and special needs. I learned that he used to be a drummer, that all his prior musical training was in solfege (where syllables are assigned to notes instead of letters), and that he fell in love with the cello through listening to recordings of Bach's unaccompanied cello suites. He decided to start the cello at that point in order to check off an item on his "bucket list," and to give his mind a new focus through a meaningful hobby that could be maintained in his home between chemotherapy treatments. I like to think that the music was also therapeutic for him--that to some degree it helped elevate his spirits even as his body experienced oppressive pain and fatigue.

An email I received from him on February 1, 2016, shortly after he decided to take lessons:

We were able to rent a great cello. It is an Yamaha VC3 model. I couldn't wait and had to play with it a little already. I am looking forward to our first lesson. 

Thanks

JC Sousa

JC was 6'5". His tall frame posed some interesting challenges for beginner cello-playing. For starters, he knocked his head on the light fixture in my music room at least once (I eventually replaced it with one less hazardous for tall people). Also, I had to set up a stack of cushions for him to sit on when he played, in order to accommodate his long legs. Perhaps the most difficult challenge was that his rental cello only came with an 18" endpin--about three inches short of what he needed. I tried setting some wooden blocks underneath the endpin in lessons to give the instrument some additional height. JC outdid me by using his woodworking skills to engineer a custom rockstop, which had a similar function but was more stable and aesthetically pleasing. Then he outdid himself by getting a screw extension and connecting piece to manually extend the length of his current endpin.

Still, he wasn't satisfied. He wanted to get an instrument of his own so he could have the freedom to make his own alterations and adjustments, beyond just extending the endpin. He and Lucinda ended up driving to Denver to buy a used cello off of Craigslist with a beautiful, mellow tone. The bow that came with it, however, was sub-par, so he spent time researching various bows and then shopped online to find the best deal on an upgrade. All of this instrument troubleshooting never appeared burdensome--on the contrary, it seemed to invigorate him and excite him.

An old tailpiece that JC removed from his cello when he determined that it was the cause of some unnecessary buzzing

My favorite part of lessons with JC was our discussions about the physics of sound and relating some of the basic laws of physics to obtaining an optimal sound on the cello. I learned so much from this scientifically-minded student. He was always full of questions, brimming with insights, and eager to formulate the fastest route to becoming proficient on the instrument.

JC's daughter took a few piano lessons with me that year, and sometimes, when he felt well enough, he drove her over to my house. During one lesson with his daughter, my baby was fussing, so he took him and held him on his chest. By the end of the lesson, my boy was contentedly sleeping in his arms. JC said tapping out some repeated rhythms had immediately calmed him, and predicted that my son would be a drummer someday.

At the one-year mark of cello lessons, JC was learning to play "Castle on a Cloud" from Les Misérables. Although this piece had more technical demands than I would normally recommend for a first-year player, both his motivation and patience levels were so high, we moved forward with the music he had chosen. He was apologetic with every error, and I know he must have felt frustration with his physical limitations. But as we worked, there were moments when the music he produced was truly angelic. I encouraged him to play his piece for the next studio recital.

But then he sent me this email on April 3, 2017:

Ivy,
My health took a turn for the worse. I cannot make lessons this month and most likely will miss the recital.

We will talk more. I hope that working with the doctor's I will feel better but for the short term I have to deal with it.

Thanks

JC Sousa

He spent several days in the hospital and even ended up in hospice at the end of April. It was looking as though he wouldn't make it, and I made arrangements to visit him in the hospital to play cello for him. He treated me like an honored guest in the hospital lounge, and despite his waning figure and pale complexion, his eyes still lit up as he listened to the cello and we talked about the music. 

Miraculously, his body regained enough strength to return to treatments, so he was released from hospice and made it back home. He wasn't able to restart lessons, but I visited his home to play my cello for him again one more time in May.

The last conversation I had with JC was in July, not long after we had returned from our Mount Rushmore trip. He felt well enough to come to the community pool and sit in the shade while his kids swam in the water. I came over to chat with him, and as I shared some experiences from our travels in South Dakota, he shared several of his own. Then I saw one of my children straying too far away, so I had to say goodbye. I didn't know it would be the last time--I guess I was hopeful that this time he would pull through and beat the cancer. Then in August I heard from Lucinda's sister that things were looking grim--that he was in so much pain, they decided to sedate him so he could find some relief until his body gave up the fight.

On the day he passed, I spoke on the phone with Lucinda. She told me that earlier that week, when she asked JC what he wanted for his funeral, the first thing he said was, "I want Ivy to play." It was a joyful message for me at a sad time--I felt so honored that I would be able to participate in his memorial through music.

He also wanted a string quartet, if possible, naming a few musicians from church. The specific songs requested were "Bring Him Home" from Les Misérables and the hymn "Be Still, My Soul." Lucinda mentioned that when his illness made things especially difficult, he would listen to the version of the hymn by David Archuleta.

I got to work right away. There was less than a week until the funeral service, and I wanted my offering to be the best I could give. After contacting several musicians, a string quartet was organized, and I found a pianist, as well. I decided to play "Bring Him Home" as a cello solo with piano accompaniment, straight from the vocal score of the musical. Once I had listened to David Archuleta's "Be Still, My Soul," and looked over the piano/vocal score by Kurt Bestor, I determined to arrange the hymn for string quartet, using Bestor's piece for inspiration.

For two days, I thought of little else. The dishes were undone, laundry piled up, and children were under-supervised. I spent hours in front of the laptop plugging notes onto the staff and moving them around, reviewing changes, trying sections out on the piano, playing parts on my cello.

Finally, I felt like it was complete. The piece starts out with a solitary cello line playing the melody of the first verse, which for me represents the loneliness JC must have felt at certain points in his struggle. The viola joins in next, then each of the violins. Although this was his trial, there were several loved ones who stood by his side and suffered with him, helping him carry his overwhelming burden, so I wanted the gradual addition of voices to depict that effort. The second verse shows the escalation of everyone's struggle at the same time there is an abiding faith that God is watching over them. As the music transitions to the final verse, I tried to paint it with a more serene and ethereal quality. The cello plays a harp-like pizzicato accompaniment, and the harmonic tension from the previous verse has dissipated. I wanted to illustrate the feeling of a heavenly reunion beyond this life, as described by the final words of the hymn: "All safe and blessed we shall meet at last."

I sent parts out to the string players, and we all met to rehearse the following day. It took some effort to fit things together and learn the piece, but by the end of our rehearsal, the music had come to life, and we felt ready to perform it.

The funeral was held Tuesday morning, after Labor Day. I had been hopeful the service would feel more celebratory than grief-stricken--but the sense of loss and mourning was very strong. The void left behind, where he once was, seemed enormous. I prayed that I would be able to keep my emotions under control and get up to play the two pieces of music without letting my nerves come unglued.

After JC's sister got up to present his life sketch where it began in São Paulo, Brazil, it was my turn to play "Bring Him Home." It's kind of a melancholy piece to begin with, so planting it in the middle of a funeral inevitably brought many tears and sniffles to the audience. But I don't think JC intended for the message of the piece to be one of despair. Why did he choose this piece, I wonder?

Bishop Bashford got up next and shared some poignant thoughts about grief. He explained that grief comes from love, so although it is painful, it is good to grieve. Perhaps as we grieve together, we can retrace that love where the grief first began, and try to find healing there.

After he finished his remarks, I picked up my cello again and Paige, Jean, and Cosette joined me to play "Be Still, My Soul." As the piece unfolded, the music seemed to take us a little closer to the world JC had entered, and I felt convinced he was there with us, listening. 

JC seemed fearless about death. He was unshaken in his belief that there was more beyond this life, and that he would see his friends and family again. Maybe he chose the song "Bring Him Home," with the interpretation that our ultimate home and resting place is with our Creator and God. A place we have somehow forgotten, but where we all want to return someday.

Dear JC,

    It was such a privilege having you in my studio. You were many things in this life, but I will never forget that you were a cellist, too. I don't know if there are cellos in heaven, but I am hopeful that someday I will have another opportunity to hear you play "Castle on a Cloud." I can almost hear you playing it now.

Ivy