A New Chapter: From Hospitals to Elderly Homes

After playing the piano in the hospital for about eight times now, I started to feel bored.

The performances were still meaningful, but everything was becoming more predictable: the same hallways, the same song playlists, and the same routine. I wanted to switch things up, try something different, and put myself in a new environment that would challenge me emotionally and musically.

And that's when the idea of playing at an elderly home came to me.

Unlike hospitals, elderly homes are less likely to have a piano. So I needed to find a way to actually bring the music with me.

So, I started where everything began: with my old piano keyboard.

I remembered that the keyboard was still sitting at my cousin's house, the same house I used to live in when I was younger. I called my cousin to see if the piano was still there, and fortunately, it was. It was a bit dusty, and some of the keys were a little broken, but it still worked nonetheless.

Next, I needed to find the right place—a place that welcomes people to do activities with the elderly. So I instantly went to Google and searched for "elderly homes near me."

There, I was greeted by a plethora of elderly homes. I looked through the photos of each one and found one that was perfect, which led me to TCN Nursing Home. Then, I gave them a quick call, saying that I'd love to volunteer to play the piano for their elders. A few hours later, I received a call back. The manager was kind and open to the idea, as "we never had anyone do this before".

A few days later, I visited TCN Nursing Home for the first time. The atmosphere was calm and quiet, with peaceful surroundings. There was a grassy area outside, where the elderly could gather in the mornings to do simple activities together. It didn't feel clinical like a hospital. It actually felt cozy and like a place where the elders could call home.

I met with the manager in a small office tucked away in the corner. I told her about my mission to bring warmth and joy to the people around me through music. She listened quietly, nodded slowly, and then smiled.

"That's a lovely idea," she said. "We rarely have anyone volunteering to do something for the elderly, let alone play music for them. I think they are really going to enjoy it."

She then explained how some of the elders rarely get any visitors, maybe once a month.

"And because most of them are in their 70s-80s, they have a lot of limitations when it comes to daily activities. So the days can get a little repetitive here," she admitted.

That stuck with me. By playing live music for them and providing new fun activities for them to do, I could break the routine, give them something new to look forward to.

I wasn't just bringing music. I was bringing a change of pace to their routine, a reason to gather, a moment to remember.

We wrapped up the meeting with a quick tour around the elderly home. As I toured around the home, I instantly felt a wave of excitement. I could picture myself playing in this environment, seeing the smiles on the elders' faces, and hearing the soft hum of familiar Thai songs.

Then, she took me to a quieter space. Before entering, she stopped in front of the door and explained, "This is where we care for the elders who are bedridden."

Upon entering, I saw an elderly woman resting under a neatly folded blanket, her body still, and a small photo framed beside her bed.

And in that moment, something inside of me clicked.

She reminded me of my great-grandmother, who had just passed away just a few months ago. After being diagnosed with diabetes, she was bedridden, unable to move much, but still aware of her surroundings. As time went on, her condition got worse, she got quieter, and her once-bright eyes began to fade.

I remember visiting her room, it was always quiet, with the soft sound of the fan and the TV. I would sit beside her, holding tightly to her hand, sometimes speaking, sometimes just sitting in silence. Especially during her final weeks, the silence felt heavier.

Her body was growing weaker, and I could see the pain through her eyes, not just physical pain, but something deeper. The sadness of letting go, the frustration of not being able to move and communicate.

That memory hit me hard. I saw someone else's great-grandmother lying in bed, and in that moment, I didn't see a stranger.

I saw her.

What started as a plan to bring live music to the elderly had grown into something deeper. I realized that there’s a group of people who are often left out—those who can’t leave their beds, gather in the common room, or clap along.

And so, I left the elderly home that day, not just with excitement, but with a new mission: To play for the bedridden elders.

To bring music to their rooms, even if they can't come.

To remind them that they are still seen and cared for.

Stay tuned.

-Team