"Life imitates art far more than art imitates Life." Oscar Wilde
The gymnasium was swollen with people. Several made their way forward with chairs in tow, looking for the best seat in the house. Some were pushed in wheel chairs to their spots. Many attended with volunteers, parents, family members, nurses and friends from the ward. Young, old, firm and infirm gathered with great excitement.
I watched with anticipation. People mulled about and whispered to each other excitedly. Several young enthusiasts pulled their chairs up as close as they could be without being rude and getting in the way. A deep bellow came from the back of the room, "Ell-vis, Ell-vis, Ell-vis!" And a few others chimed in with squeals.
When the show finally started the crowd erupted with peels of delighted. For two weeks the posters had been creating a buzz in the hallways. 'Elvis' would be making an appearance just for them - and it was going to be good!
The crowd came to life with the music. 'Elvis' was joined by a variety of dancers, peppered with hugs and overcome with affection. Some barely shuffled over the dancefloor. A couple didn't move their arms. One hip bumped Elvis almost continually through one entire song.
The brain injury unit staff had raised the money for this show by paying a dollar each to wear jeans to work over several weeks. They'd raised sufficient money to hire an 'Elvis' impersonator to come in and perform for the patients and residents. And not just any Elvis - this was an award winning Elvis... (I realize this is a wierd sentence.)
Down's Syndrome, dementia, brain injury, Alzheimers, mental illness, cerebral palsy... male, female, young, old (like 100
- silenced by an unseen assailant or heckling from the second row, they were diverse; they were exuberant; they were alive with laughter and song and dance.
One song into the show, I was disappointed that I hadn't brought my children to watch. When Elvis hit the stage, a young woman with Down's Syndrome in the front row, could hardly contain her excitement. Her hands shot up to her mouth and she rolled her eyes as if she would faint. I could tell she wished to run to him and hug him, but she glanced around and appeared to decide that she didn't want to ruin the view for anyone else - and so stayed put. Occasionally her hands would vibrate and she'd give into the music and she'd dance in circles.
What an eyeopening and blissful experience.
As I gazed around the room, I felt as though I was surrounded by a very pure energy. I saw blank stares, empty faces and locked expressions. There were some who didn't move, whose face stayed quiet, whose eyes blinked slowly. There were some whose contorted backs and necks forced their hands in the air and their muscles taught with tension. There were some who turned their heads slowly as if to try to speak to me, but the words stuck like glue in their mouths as saliva slipped out of their mouth and onto their shirt.
But I saw movement and dance. I saw laughter and joy. And I was so touched by them all. There was no ego in the room. There were no pretenses, no uncomfortable or awkward moments. No puffed out chests, no designer outfits.
And I was immensely proud of the man doing the show. He wandered in and out of the rows of chairs, reaching out to them openly, grabbing their hands and embracing them easily. He knelt down in front of the wheelchairs, kissed weathered cheeks, high fived the men and shaking hands. He accepted hugs and slow danced several star-struck patients around the gym floor. He encouraged them to sing their hearts out. He allowed them the opportunity to be fully alive and full of joy and joined them in their celebration. He was entirely genuine. Unafraid of tired and broken bodies and brains, he opened his heart to them and they reciprocated.
It was magical. The stuff goosebumps are made from. Like they were angels in my presence.
Music is transformative. A weekly volunteer approached me after the show and remarked, stunned, 'I am here once a week, I never see these kinds of smiles.'
And I feel blessed. I feel lucky.
And I am filled with gratitude.
I don't know how it is that we are born into our life. How is it that I ended up on this side of the brain injury unit?
I am grateful this life is mine.