The Sun Will Shine Again (story)

 

Since retiring as a family physician 5 years ago, I have been writing music as a way of reflecting upon the powerful experiences shared with patients and colleagues.  I was concerned that I’d suppressed intense emotions in order to maintain a “happy face” from patient to patient during my busy days.  It was not uncommon to impart life-threatening news in one examining room then have a joyful well-baby check in the next. 

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I feared a reckoning would come during retirement. This hoard of repressed feelings might finally demand some closure.  I believed writing music might appease my subconscious and avert any delayed grief reactions.

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It was working well.  As I composed the lyrics and melodies, memories of very good and very bad times came back, and I was able to express both through song.

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One day, one of my listeners asked, “Why is all of your music so sad?”

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This gave me pause.  I hadn’t noticed that my songs were all sad.  I re-examined my music and discussed the issue with some fellow musicians.  The general consensus was that a majority of music deals with or is inspired by difficult issues in the composer’s life.

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Nevertheless, I was determined to write a “happy” song that had NOTHING to do with my medical career.

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I thought that sunshine and hope were a good place to start.  Then I thought my belief that we will emerge from current world problems as better people would serve well. Positive outlook.  Nothing to do with my career.

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My next thought was to include a parallel theme where someone is faced with a personal tragedy but finds hope and resolution.  Fine.

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Then it struck me that writing about today’s troubled world was too easy; what about a global crisis from the past?  How about the day the World Trade Centre was destroyed in 2001 and the whole world was in shock?

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As I began weaving the two themes into the lyrics, I suddenly realized what I was writing about:  my subconscious had brought me right back to a profoundly moving day as a family doctor.

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I arrived at the office on the morning of Sep 11, 2001 to be told that an aircraft had crashed into the World Trade Centre. I was on call that day and expected things to remain quiet as everyone stayed home to watch the news on TV.

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At 10:30 PM I received a page from a home-care nurse.  A 2-year-old boy had died at home from cancer.  All treatments had failed, and he had been sent home to die in the arms of his family.  My job was to drive out to their farm to examine him, complete a death certificate, and call the funeral home to pick him up.

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I recall there was a moonless sky that night and the stars were very bright.  I walked into the farmhouse to a combined kitchen, dining, living room.  An over-sized television lit the room with images of the twin towers falling.  The tv illuminated the faces of the people sitting quietly in the living room.  I asked where Ryan was.  Someone told me his father was taking him for one last walk around the swimming pool in his stroller.  I said I would wait.

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During that short time, sadness enveloped me. Questions filled my thoughts.  How did it feel to experience the loss of this child while the whole world was reeling from a collective grief?  Did they feel it was fitting that the world should be frozen in mourning? Or did they resent the intrusion of world events into their personal day of tragedy?

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After I completed my duties, I walked outside and stared up at the stars for a long while. Then I got in my car and drove home.

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This song takes me through that day.