Day 2657: Some things can’t be undone

Last night, after spending many hours in online therapy groups joining with people who felt undone by the COVID-19 pandemic, I saw Bonnie Raitt on our TV …

… performing the song “Undone,” with the line “Some things can’t be undone.”

Some things can’t be undone, like the USA’s initial reaction to the coronavirus pandemic, which will result in many more lives lost.

My other photos from yesterday can’t be undone.

 

 

That salmon was perfectly done.

Some things can’t be undone, like my ordering this massager to undo the knots in my neck, shoulder, and back after working every day from home:

Some things can’t be undone, like my having a pacemaker (see warning #7 above).

Some good things can’t be undone, like the incredible acts of bravery and kindness performed every day by health care workers, like Emergency Medicine Physician Halleh Akbarnia:

I have been an Emergency Medicine Physician for almost 20 years. I have worked through numerous disasters, and I’m used to the daily grind of heart attacks, gunshots, strokes, flu, traumas, and more. It’s par for the course in my field. Yet nothing has made me feel the way I do about my “job” as this pandemic has—that knot-in-the-pit–of-your-stomach sensation while heading into work, comforted only by the empathetic faces of my colleagues who are going through the same. I am grateful for their presence, knowing they are both literally and figuratively with me, that they understand and accept so profoundly the risks we take each day. I also hope that my friends and family forgive me for my lack of presence during this time—precisely when we need each other most—and that they realize that their words, their encouragement, and their small gestures that come my way daily are the fuel that gets me through each day. This is a story for all of us.

I met my patient, Mr. C., on my first real “pandemic” shift, when what we were seeing that day was what we had been preparing for. He was classic in his presentation, his X-ray findings, his low oxygen levels… we just knew. And he was the nicest man I had met in a long time. Gasping for breath, he kept asking if we needed anything, and that it would all be okay. He told us he was a teacher but that he was learning so much from us, and how much he respected what we were doing. The opposite could not be more true.

We had to decide how long we would try to let him work through this low oxygen state before needing to intubate him. His levels kept falling and despite all our best efforts it was time to put him on the ventilator. He told us he didn’t feel great about this, “but Doc, I trust you and am putting myself in your hands.” That uneasy feeling in my stomach grew even more in that moment. But he, with his teacher’s steady voice, kept me grounded, where I was supposed to be. I saw his eyes looking at me, seeing the kindness in them, even as we pushed the medications to put him to sleep. To say this was an “easy” intubation is an understatement. It was not. He nearly left us a few times during those first minutes, but he kept coming back. We fought hard to keep him with us. The patience and strength of my team that day, truly remarkable.

I handed him over to my friend and colleague, Dr. Beth Ginsburg, and her team in the ICU, and her calming voice reassured me that they had it from here. And then for the next twelve days, I waited and watched his progress, knowing the statistics, and how sick he was when he got to us. They did their magic, and just yesterday my new friend Mr. C was extubated. I decided to go “meet” him again.

Mr C. was in the COVID stepdown unit, recovering, without family. Nobody was allowed to visit him; even worse, his wife had been home alone in isolation for the past fourteen days, too. My heart broke thinking of how that must have been for her. I cautiously went into his room, donned in my PPE, and when he saw me, he stopped for a second. A moment of recognition.

I introduced myself. “I’m Dr. Akbarnia, Mr. C. I was the last person you saw in the ER. You told me you trusted us to get you to this side. Looks like you did just fine.” He started to cry. He said, “I remember your eyes.” And I started to cry. What he didn’t know is that, at that moment, I realized that we do what we do exactly for people like him, for moments like these. His strength, his kindness, his calming words to me meant everything. At that moment, my heart (which had been beating over 100 bpm since this pandemic began) finally slowed down.

I sat down and we talked. I told him that while he is here, we are his family. He will always have a place in my heart. And whether he knows it or not, he will be my silent warrior and guide as I take care of every patient, COVID or not. He will fuel me until the day I hang up my stethoscope.

(Picture and story posted with full permission from patient)

ETA: I was asked if this can be shared. Please do.

#covidsurvivor #hope #covid19 #advocatehealth #condell #frontliners #inthistogether #heartofaphysician

 

 

Some things can’t be undone, like my daily gratitude to all who help me create these daily posts, including YOU.

Day 2456: Time’s a-wastin’

“Time’s a-wastin'” is a phrase I used during my “Ted Talk” at my 45th college reunion yesterday.

Before I gave my talk, all the speakers at the event received an email explaining what would happen if we were a-wastin’ too much time during our 5-minute talks.

To help you keep track of the time, we will be holding up a sign for: FIVE minutes. Then SIX minutes. Then a buzzer at 7 mins.

I wrote to the organizers:

You can count on me to do what’s right.  Since I’ve got my speech pretty much memorized, please don’t rattle me with fingers or timers.

I also wrote this:

Mine is between 5 and 6 minutes. Okay?????

I was sure I wouldn’t be a-wastin’ people’s time by going over the limit because I had timed myself several times.

Because several people (including somebody with the same rare heart condition as mine) had asked me to record my speech, I left my phone running under my chair when I spoke, despite the no-taping request at the event.  I also recorded the speech for all of you, because  this blog was part of my “big finish” (as I’ve been spending much time discussing here, in previous posts).

Then I gave my speech, totally from memory.

When I checked the tape, I realized that I had slowly taken my time and taken up 10 minutes and 47 seconds!  So much for expectations.  I also realized that the organizers had respected my request and not held up signs or interrupted me with buzzers. If they had, it would have  upset me so much, I know, that all my preparation would have been wasted.

Because I always try to keep my promises, I wasted some time feeling bad about going SO MUCH over the limit.  I apologized to one of the organizers, and she said, “No worries.” (She said more, but I won’t be a-wastin’ your time with that.)

Without any further time-wastin’ ado, here is the “bootleg” of my speech yesterday:

 

 

In case any of that is difficult for you to hear, here’s the “5-minute” speech I had written:

I want to start out with a question to you. Raise your hand if you remember where you were on November 22, 1963. I’m different from all of you. I have no memory of that day because I was having heart surgery to get my first cardiac pacemaker. While you were being traumatized by the assassination of President Kennedy, my family and I were being traumatized by my unexpected surgery, by hospital rules preventing parents from staying with their kids, and by medical staff not knowing how to answer the questions of a confused and frightened l0-year-old girl like  “What is that coffin on the TV screen?” and “What is this giant thing sticking out of my body?”

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I’ll tell you how I got there. I was born with the rarest of congenital heart conditions. My heart is essentially backwards, with the ventricles, great vessels, and valves switched and doing jobs they weren’t designed to do. Plus, the electrical impulses that control a heart’s rhythm are completely blocked in mine, which means I need a pacemaker to survive. However, pacemakers hadn’t been invented yet.

Luckily, I did well enough until I was 9, when my heart rate got slower and slower. You can see it in photographs from that time: I look like a ghost child in a family of mortals. The doctors tried speeding up my heart with yucky medicine that made me sick. Pacemakers were too new, too untested, and way too big for children to be even mentioned as an option.

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Which brings us to November 1963. I was in the hospital for observation when my heart stopped and then started up again. That changed everything. The doctors told my parents they’d have to put in a pacemaker immediately, which would “stick out like a sore thumb.” When my mother expressed doubts about this new plan, the surgeon asked, “Do you want to lose your daughter?”

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They didn’t lose me, but I had to struggle not to lose myself, as the pacemakers kept breaking down in every conceivable way. Once, when we were back in the hospital because my pacemaker had failed just two weeks after the latest operation, the surgeon called another one of my doctors on the phone and said, “The Koplows are here with their lawyer” — as a joke. My father and I used our senses of humor to mix things up — that December I went into the operating room wearing a sign that said, “Do not open until Christmas.”

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Despite my many absences from school, I excelled academically, ran for class office,  read voraciously,  and appreciated the few benefits of being so different from my classmates, like getting out of gym class, which all my friends hated.  I read a book about Helen Keller who had also overcome physical differences with a palpable appreciation for being alive. Right then, I decided I wanted to go to Radcliffe, just like her.

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When I was at Harvard, pacemakers had improved enough that I needed far fewer visits to the hospital. And just as I had avoided gym class, I managed to graduate without passing the swimming test. That’s another way I’m different from you.

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Before, during, and after Harvard, I’ve lived my life with a deep sense of my own mortality — there’s no telling how long my very unusual heart will last. This makes me pretty impatient —time’s a-wastin’ and too precious to spend on small talk or on anything I don’t love. That’s why I changed careers until I found my soul’s best work as a wounded healer. I’m a group therapist who specializes in trauma.

And while I got enough personal training in trauma when I was young, I’ve had major heart-related crises in the latter part of my life. My poor, overworked tricuspid valve leaked badly, causing several bouts of endocarditis and also weakening my heart. Some doctors said I needed that leaky valve replaced, another doctor said that valve replacement would change the pressure in my heart to a catastrophic effect. Nobody seemed to know, because of the rarity of my condition.

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In May, 2016, I met with the experts on hearts like mine at the Mayo Clinic. They said, “You must have that valve replaced immediately.“ Because my only child — a son with a fabulously normal heart — was about to enter his first year at the University of Edinburgh and we had plans to spend August together in Scotland, I asked for an extension. Well, I made it to Scotland, made it through my son leaving the nest, and made it through open heart surgery to get a new mechanical valve, exactly three years ago today.

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So as I tell my story to you today, I wonder, perhaps along with you, what has allowed me to survive, so intact, through all this? What has helped me pick up the pieces, over and over again? As when I was a child — the love of my family and friends sustain me. Also, seven years ago I expanded my network of friends by starting a daily blog. Every morning, including today, I’ve written about my heart, my son, my passion for the healing power of groups, my song-writing, my cats, my hopes, my fears, this speech — whatever helps gird me and prepare me for the day ahead. The day after my heart valve surgery was the only day I needed a substitute blogger — my boyfriend Michael let my thousands of followers know I had survived the complicated procedure. Their comments included “Fantastic news! I’m in public but I’m dancing all the same,” and “She’s going to be alright guys’ is the best line ever!”

As a group therapist, I know that community is essential for survival. Perhaps because of all the traumas I’ve been through, I need a bigger group than most to keep me going. Thanks for being part of my group, here and now.

After I gave my speech, many people told me that they

• were inspired,
• thought I was very brave,
• had an amazingly polished and effective delivery,
• never knew any of this about me, even though we were good friends in college, and
• were struggling with heart issues.

I guess people didn’t believe that I had been a-wastin’ time with my speech.

Let’s see if I was a-wastin’ time yesterday with the photos I took during the day:

If you leave any comments, that will be time well spent for me.

Time’s a-wastin’, so I will express my gratitude to all those who help me make it through every day, including YOU.

 

 

Day 1706: The best views of Edinburgh

Yesterday, as I took my farewell walking tour of this magnificent city, I saw a sign promising “The best views of Edinburgh.”

I didn’t climb the Scott Monument, so perhaps my views are not the best views of Edinburgh (even though in my view, they’re pretty great).

 

 

 

That last photo is another best view of somebody my son Aaron and I view as the best stand-up comic/improviser/PhD of Mathematics in Edinburgh — Dr.  Tom Joyce.  (Tom is best viewed in my previous posts here, here, here, and here).

Over the  years that Aaron and I have gotten great views of Edinburgh, some of our  best views have been thanks to Tom.  Somehow, we always run into Tom and get to view his kind, comic, creative, and often surprising views.  Yesterday, I got a different and surprising best view of Tom when we viewed each other’s medic alert bracelets and found out we both

• take Warfarin/Coumadin,
• were born with heart conditions,
• have cardiac pacemakers,  and
• got our first pacemakers when we were young (age 10 for me, age 11 for Tom).

The best thing I can say about that is this: even when you think you’ve gotten the best views of somebody, there’s always more to view.

Soon I’ll be getting best views of the friendly skies on my flights home to Boston, so I’ll leave you with these best views of Edinburgh:

In your view, what are the best views of Edinburgh in today’s post?

All my best to those who helped me share the views in today’s post and to all my readers who — in my view — are THE BEST.

Day 1386: Be Audacious

“Be Audacious” seems like audaciously appropriate advice on this audacious Monday in the audacious month of October, 2016.

I mean, so many audacious people are being audacious all around us … why shouldn’t we be audacious, too?

During my audacious recovery from some audaciously recent open heart surgery, I’ve tried to be audacious and focus on my own audacious needs first with doctors and other audacious people in my life. Being audacious in this way has been particularly helpful as I deal with the unexpected and audacious recall of my audaciously important St. Jude pacemaker/defibrillator, which I received 17 audacious months ago.

Indeed, when I saw this audacious flyer, yesterday:

… I immediately thought to my audacious self, “I shall be audacious and make ‘Be Audacious’ the title and the topic of my next audacious blog post!”

Was I being audacious when I took these  other photos on that same audacious day?

Which photo is the most audacious of all, in your audacious opinion?

My audacious friend Carol sent me this audacious photo yesterday, via an audacious text message:

If you are audacious enough to request more audacious info about any of the audacious photos in this audacious post, I shall be audacious enough to answer.

There are so many audacious possibilities for an audacious video here, but I shall be audacious and choose this one, for your audacious pleasure:

I shall now audaciously thank all those who helped me create this audacious post and  audacious you (for reading it)  with one final audacious photo.

Day 1133: Shorts

There is no shortage of shorts on my mind, right now, including these:

1. Last night, I saw the Oscar-nominated movie The Big Short,  which (a) was longer than 2 hours, (b) felt short and (c) did NOT fall short of my tall expectations.
2. I am short, at 5’3″.
3. During my shorter than usual winter vacation (starting in a short 11 days), I will not be wearing shorts, because I’m traveling  a short distance to cold Philadelphia and New York.
4. A short year ago, there was no shortage of snow in the Boston area (where my short self has lived for all of my expected-to-be-shorter life).
5. If I come up short when I try out for the TV show “The Voice”in Philadelphia on February 21,   I hope my disappointment lasts for a very short time.
6. Shortly after that “Voice” audition, I’ll be attending an American Group Psychotherapy Association  (AGPA) conference for a short two days.
7. If my very short try-out for “The Voice” on 2/21 is successful, I’ll be expected to return within a short time (one to three days) for a call back audition, which may short out my AGPA conference plans.
8. I’ve had a pain between my short ribs for a short two weeks.
9. Since my short mind can jump to worst case scenarios in a short amount of time, I’m wondering if that pain could indicate that one of my old cardiac pacemaker wires is shorting out (or otherwise shortly causing problems for short me).
10. I think there a very short chance my fear about short pacemaker wires shorting out are true, but if that pain doesn’t resolve, I’ll notify one of my short or tall doctors shortly.
11. When short or tall people don’t get back to me within a reasonably expected short amount of time, I can get short with them.
12. When people don’t respond to my short requests, it can remind me of when I was a short child, in the hospital, feeling powerless and alone.
13. I can have a short amount of patience and comfort with my own shortness.
14. Two of my charging cords for my Apple products and one pair of headphones have frayed wires, which might result in a short. 
15. Before this short day is over, I’ll be meeting with the piano teacher of my no-longer-short son, who will be laying down a short keyboard track for the short and beautiful Todd Rundgren song “Soothe,” which I will shortly take with me for my short “Voice” try-out.
16. Right now, there is a total shortage of new photos on my iPhone, because yesterday was too short a day for short me to seize any short moments to take any pictures at all.
17. If you wait a short time, I’ll return with some photos of something short which is a short distance away from your short blogger.
18. For some reason —  which I hope to understand and resolve shortly — my iPhone camera app (CP Pro) now pauses for a short time after I push the button before it takes photos of anything, short or tall,  a short or long distance away.  That can short out my attempts to capture what I want, in the moment.

If I take a short moment to breathe, I realize a short photographic pause doesn’t prevent  my getting good-enough photos of a short cat with short paws.

If you take a short pause to leave a short comment about this post, I’ll get back to you shortly.

Short thanks to short Oscar and all other short or tall creatures who contributed to this not-so-short post. And thanks to you — of course! — for taking whatever time you needed — short or long — to read it.

 

 

Day 1104: Getting around

Getting around to my WordPress statistics page, yesterday morning, I noticed that the daily stats about my blog readership were getting around to some surprising numbers. There’s no getting around how odd these numbers were, as follows:

1. There had been only ONE visitor to my blog,
2. the blog had been viewed  THIRTY-THREE times, and
3. the THIRTY-THREE  views were from the United States, New Zealand, Puerto Rico, Canada, United Kingdom, France, India, Belgium, Hong Kong, Kenya, Romania,  Switzerland, and Germany.

When I was getting  around to leave for the day, I got around to check my WordPress statistics one more time  and there was still only ONE visitor and now SEVENTY-SEVEN views from even more locations around the world.

Wow. That one visitor of mine was really getting around.

Now I’m getting around to asking you this question:  Were you my single visitor, yesterday morning?  And how did you manage getting around to all those countries AND reading my blog that many times?

Now I should getting around to showing you the photos I took yesterday, as I was getting around to (1) a pacemaker clinic appointment at one major Boston hospital,  (2) my work at another major Boston hospital, and (3) home. Because I’d finally gotten around to getting orthotic supports for my feet two days earlier, it was noticeably easier getting around by foot.

One of yesterday’s photos inspired me to title this post “Getting Around.”  If you get around to guessing which photo that is, I hope you’ll be getting around to sharing that guess in a comment.

 

 

Because I was on “Quick Response” at work  yesterday, which involves getting around the huge Primary Care Practice  and responding whenever a patient needs the support of a psychotherapist, I got around to taking only one photo at work, which I’m now getting around to showing you for the second time:

Despite being on Quick Response yesterday, I got around to hanging up that getting-around double helix a patient had gotten around to giving me earlier in the week. If your mind is having difficulty getting around the significance of those going-around coils, here‘s a post I got around to writing my  first week of WordPress  blogging (when I had at least four visitors, judging from the comments there).  If you get around to reading that earlier post, please get around to letting me know.

Finally, I’m getting around to ending this post, with gratitude to all who are getting around as best they can, including you!

Day 1103: I am aware that I am not ____

I am aware that I am not kidding that this post was inspired by this sign, seen yesterday at work:

Yes, I am aware that I am not:

• Phyllis,
• Adam, who is now sitting where Phyllis sat for years,
• a marketing writer any more, now that I’m a psychotherapist,
• sick with a cold,
• perfect,
• as young as I used to be,
• one to stop growing,
• responsible for other people’s feelings,
• writing more than one blog post every day,
• nervous about my audition for “The Voice” next month,
• focusing on the past,
• living with a dog,
• tall,
• a delicate flower,
• a mythological creature,
• too cold,
• too hot,
• in Kansas,
• in Paris,
• going directly into work this morning, because of a pacemaker clinic appointment,  and
•  regretful about the many, many things that I am not.

I am aware that I am not including any other photos from yesterday, yet. I am aware that I am not one to hesitate, once I realize a task is due.

I am aware that I am not a professional photographer.

I am aware that I am not directly asking for comments about this post. I am also aware that I am not unaware that you might have some thoughts and feelings about it.

I am aware that I am not ungrateful to Adam, Phyllis, and all those who helped me create today’s post. I am aware that I am not forgetting to thank you — of course! — for reading it.

 

 

Day 1098: Apricity

Yesterday, after appreciating the warmth of the sun on a winter’s day, I learned the definition of the word “apricity” at a taping of the National Public Radio show Says You! in Weston, Massachusetts.

Says You!, according to the show’s official website, is …

…a simple game with words played by two teams in front of live, enthusiastic audiences from coast to coast.  For two decades, we’ve offered our listeners the best quips, quotes and questions that public radio has to offer, all scored to the rhythms of our musical guest performers.

One of the segments of Says You! is similar to the game you might know as Dictionary or Balderdash — that is, people try to choose the right definition of a word among phony-baloney, made-up definitions. Yesterday, one of those words was apricity. 

I’m not going to make up phony definitions for apricity in this post, but I am going to ask you to guess its meaning.  I’ll give you a hint: I’ve already included the definition of apricity, above.

I’m also going to use “apricity” in a real-time, real-world paragraph, as follows:

Up until today, the combination of apricity and the malfunction of a heating system (or any other machine) would cause me significant stress and despair. (For more about that, see this previous post.)

Which of these photos, taken yesterday, are good-enough representations of apricity?

Do you think that the following two photos — which I took earlier this morning before I called for help with our heating system — are  visual representations of apricity?

In conclusion, I’d like to express apricity  — ooops!  I mean appreciation to my son Aaron and my ex-sister-in-law (ESIL) Deborah, who both accompanied me to yesterday’s taping of Says You!; to the witty, wise, and wonderful panel members of Says You!; to the late and greatly missed creator and host of Says You!, Richard Sher; to yesterday’s terrific host, Barry Nolan (who used to be a clinical social worker, like me);  to the New England Gilbert and Sullivan Society (who provided the enjoyable musical interludes during the taping of Says You!);  to the awesomely responsive and reliable Tom Prendergast of Prendergast Oil Company; to Oscar the laptop cat; and to you — of course! — for any winter warmth you bring here, no matter how you define this post.

Day 1092: Dreams

Here are some of my associations with “Dreams” on this Monday of the week between Christmas and the New Year of 2016:

• This time of year feels particularly dream-like to me,
• I think and talk a lot about dreams, at work and elsewhere.
• One of my favorite books is Where People Fly and Water Runs Uphill, about the amazing healing that happens when people share dreams in groups.
• Even though I’ve been living the dream of blogging daily for (almost) three years, I’ve written only four previous posts with “Dreams” in the title (here, here, here, and here).
• When I got my first cardiac pacemaker at age ten in 1963, my being alive and well over fifty years later was just a dream.
• I’ve had several dream jobs — including creating the recruitment video for Berklee College of Music in the 1990s — but nothing more satisfying than my current work as a psychotherapist.
• When I was 44 years old, I consciously gave up the dream of ever having a child.
• One month later, I found out I was pregnant with my dreamy son, Aaron.
• Two nights ago I had a dream when I was falling from a great height to certain death, but because I knew I was dreaming, I wasn’t afraid, at all.
• If a dream comes true and I get a call-back when I try out for The Voice on February 21, I’m going to sing  Mad World, which has this line:

The dreams in which I’m dying are the best I’ve ever had.

Because I was dreaming so much yesterday, I forgot to take many photos. Which of these images seems the most dream-like, to you?

It’s always a dream for me that people feel safe enough to share their dreams,  here and elsewhere.

Dreamy thanks to all who helped me create this post and to all those who read it, here and now.

Day 1006: It Takes Two

It took two earbuds, yesterday morning, to deliver to my two ears a great Stephen Sondheim song — “It Takes Two.”

It takes two exceptional actor/singers — Chip Zien and Joanna Gleason — from the original Broadway production of Sondheim’s Into the Woods to sing “It Takes Two” in that YouTube video.

It takes two things very dear to my heart — seen on October 2 — to create the first  “It Takes Two” image of today’s post:

It takes two happy moments for me to tell you that’s my wonderful friend  (and ex-co-worker) Mary next to my new yellow car.

It takes two — I and my iPhone camera — to notice and capture pictures I think relate to my blog posts, every day.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

As I’m typing this post with my two hands, it takes about two moments for me to come up with more than two associations for “It Takes Two.”

• It takes two parents to help our son Aaron negotiate the college application process, so I’ve asked Aaron’s father, Leon, to meet with us today after 2 PM, to discuss all that.
• It takes two days for me to come up with all the wonderful things I can say about my son Aaron, so I’m probably going to spend two hours today at the keyboard creating a “Parent Brag Sheet for College Recommendations.”
• It takes two people, or more,  in a therapy office to come up with effective ideas for dealing with anxiety, depression, and many other challenges to people’s mental health.
• It takes two cardiologists — Drs. Deeb Salem and Mark Estes — to give me the level of care I need for my very unusual heart.
• It takes two doctors — my Primary Care Physician and a sleep specialist — to help me figure out how the heck to treat my mild sleep apnea.
• It takes two sleep machines for me to conclude that I really dislike wearing a medical machine at night.
• It takes approximately two minutes for me to attempt to explain why I dislike wearing medical machines at night. That experience is way too close to too many memories I have of being attached to medical machines before the age of 12, when it took two parents to take me and leave me at Children’s Hospital to receive more than two pacemakers between the ages of 10 and 12,  to keep me alive.
•  It takes two months to reschedule an appointment with the sleep specialist at Tufts Medical Center, so I’m too grateful that I’m finally seeing seeing him, in not too much more than 2 x 2 days.
• It took two tickets to Boston’s Symphony Hall last night to get me and my boyfriend Michael in to see Mozart’s Requiem  — which I sang 2 x 2 decades ago with the MIT Chorus.  Musical scholars think it took two people to write Mozart’s Requiem: Mozart and Franz Sussmayr to complete it after Mozart’s untimely death at age 35.

It takes two people (at least) to create a legitimate Wikipedia page, and it takes two sentences from the Wikipedia entry about Mozart’s Requiem to show that it takes two of several different instruments to play the Requiem:

The Requiem is scored for 2 basset horns in F, 2 bassoons, 2 trumpets in D, 3 trombones (alto, tenor & bass), timpani (2 drums), violins, viola and basso continuo (cello, double bass, and organ). The vocal forces include soprano, contralto, tenor, and bass soloists and an SATB mixed choir.

When I sang the Requiem with the MIT Chorus  two years after I had graduated from a college not too far from MIT,  I was an “S” in the SATB (Soprano Alto Tenor Bass) mixed chorus.

Yesterday, it took two people to have this conversation about the Requiem:

Me: Perhaps the best music ever written — Mozart’s Requiem — is playing at Symphony Hall tonight.  Do you want to go?

Michael (after a pause):  Sure, baby.

It takes two words from my boyfriend to make me really, really happy, sometimes.

It takes two seconds for me to decide to share this part of the Requiem (which everybody agrees was written only by Mozart).

It apparently takes two musical numbers for me to successfully complete this post.

It takes way more than two people to help me create every post I write here. Thanks to all of them and to you — of course! — for taking the time to read this.