Recently I saw an advertisement that discussed the importance of “inte­gra­tive medicine” as an approach to the treat­ment of cancer. It advocated a mind-body-spirit approach to treatment that includes medi­ta­tion, nutri­tion, and alter­na­tive therapies as well as the traditional medicines.

It seems that this approach has gained steam in recent years. When my mother was being treated for ovarian cancer in the 1990s, her treat­ment options were very dif­fer­ent than my husband’s options are today. At his cancer re­search hos­pi­tal, I was sur­prised to find that they offered music therapy to patients. They use music therapy for teaching imagery and relax­a­tion techniques to patients as another tool in the total approach to healing.

According to the American Music Therapy Association, “Music is used in general hospitals to: alleviate pain in conjunction with anesthesia or pain medication; elevate patients' mood and counteract depression; pro­mote movement for physical rehabilitation; calm or sedate, often to induce sleep; counteract ap­pre­hen­sion or fear; and lessen muscle tension for the purpose of relaxation, including the autonomic nervous system.”

It makes sense to me that music has these benefits. I studied classical voice in both a performing arts high school and a college conservatory, sang in choirs and theater productions my whole life, and I’ve turned many hairbrushes into microphones. And while the news that music was a sup­port­ive cancer therapy was new to me, I thought that science has legitimized something that I have always felt: for people like me, music is very powerful form of catharsis, coping, and expression.

Truthfully, music has underscored the most memorable moments of my life. It seems that the greatest (and the worst) moments of my life have always been set to moment-defining, lyrical music.

I remember this one time I was at a friend’s apartment when such a moment occurred. I heard this soft, beau­tiful music coming from the other room. Sitting on the floor by the stereo was a contemplative, hand­some young man listening to “Lilac Wine” by Jeff Buckley. He was softly singing along to himself as he read the CD dust jacket, completely absorbed in the lyrics and unaware that anyone was watching him.

The song was a poignant and soulful tune, and watching this young man made it clear that he thought so too. I had never heard of the artist before, a troubadour in the Greenwich Village tradition, but the song was so lyrical and sad – and the young man appreciated it in a way that conveyed something personal about him.

It was an honest, private moment that I wasn’t meant to see – and it occurred without artifice or ego.  As I watched him and listened, I knew not how, or why, or where it would lead, but I knew something was dif­fer­ent with this young man. I felt akin to him somehow.

We were married a year and a half later. I still love that song to this day, and even more so because of the powerful feelings and memories that it has for me.

Music was also there for me when my husband was diagnosed with smoldering myeloma. We were in shock – but we coped as well as we could. He would tell me that it was going to be okay. And I told him the same thing. We clasped hands and became a brave, united front against cancer.

But honestly, there were times when I couldn’t be brave, times when I just wanted to be human.

When it all was too much, one particular song afforded me what I didn’t want to voice to anyone else. It gave me a safe place to express my feelings. That song allowed me to be the real me – a wife scared of losing her husband, not a super-caregiver complete with a cape and psychological armor, impervious to the shocks of bone marrow cancer. It was an outlet for my thoughts and worries, and it gave me the strength to pick myself up each day, keep my fears at bay, and focus on my husband. That was some serious music therapy for me.

The song was called “The Light” by Sara Bareilles. The lines held special meaning for me: “And if you say we'll be alright, I'm gonna trust you, babe. I'm gonna look in your eyes.  And if you say we'll be alright, I'll follow you into the light.” It allowed me to put the pause button on fear and embrace hope.

I’m a caregiver going on two years now, and I’ve learned something very important: myeloma is a marathon, not a sprint. For me, I need a soundtrack for our journey.  I still use it to help me cope with the stresses of uncertainty. When I’m alone, I’ll play music and voice the thoughts and feelings of my heart. I’ll sing in the shower, when I’m alone in the car, or to help me evoke the feelings that I express in my columns.

Some people don’t feel comforted by music, and that’s completely understandable. I wouldn’t be consoled by yoga or the thought of running a marathon. The important thing for caregivers (and patients, too) is that you use your favorite tools to find your center and recharge your batteries. The truth is, the road is long and our journey demands the best from us.

As you might guess, I wouldn’t be able to end this article without a song. Caretakers, I hope that it resonates with you. It’s an old English folk song with roots that date back to the Renaissance. It’s called “The Water is Wide”, and, for me, it voices the mantra of the caretaker. It speaks of steadfastness and love, and it’s not only the message from one wife to her husband, but for all caregivers to their patients.

The water is wide, I cannot get o'er
And neither have I wings to fly,
Build me a boat that can carry two
And both shall I row, my love and I.

Our love shines clearly against the storm,
Turns darkest night to brightest day,
Turns turbulent waters to perfect calm,
A blazing lamp to light our way.

Love is the centre of all we see,
Love is the jewel that guides us true,
No matter what, love, you'll stay with me,
No matter what, my love, I'll stay with you.