I’ve never had to stare at the scrawls of a two-year-old and imagine what it actually means when their eyes look up for you for some sort of sign that you are appreciate this ‘artwork’.
I’ve never known what it looks like to put your faith in the hands of others when it comes to looking after your infant child.
I haven’t had any children so know little about what makes them tick. I do know about mortality though, having had a heart attack and also cancer.
I know what it’s like to be very unwell and to wonder what the future will be. It’s hard as an adult; I can’t imagine what it would be like for a child.
As I lay in a hospital bed in 2022 after collapsing with chest pains at my home I thought a lot about the future. For some reason, despite enduring a heart attack that nearly killed me and soon after losing a kidney to cancer, my thoughts weren’t about whether I would make it.
Share your support for our Matildas in the World Cup
Post your message for the team here.
Find out more
That’s despite the body language of my doctors suggested I should not have been as confident about survival as I was.
The idea to donate money to the Perth Children’s Hospital wasn’t on my radar, probably because of the technical lack of my own. I say “technical” because I am blessed with a stepson who I would clone and claim as my biological child in a heartbeat.
The concept grew on me, which is why I found myself in the coffee shop at Perth Children’s Hospital a few months ago.
It was an odd place to see a criminal defence lawyer who is often pictured in the newspaper or seen on TV representing bikies and people accused of dealing drugs.
I was there to meet the hospital’s musical team, who would benefit from my modest donation should I decide to go ahead.
I half expected to see them walk in with clown’s noses and big shoes but what I saw were two professional women who were heavily invested in the benefits of music therapy for children.
I was still a little skeptical, to say the least. There was nothing therapeutic about the sounds I created with the recorder my parents were silly enough to buy me when I was in primary school.
Then one of the women quietly explained to me how there are electronic stethoscopes capable of recording a child’s heartbeat so it could be used as the beat in a song.
A song that could live on when the child could not. A song that could be listened to by a mother or father, and remind them of the precious moments they had with a son or daughter taken from them too early.
I thought about the tragedy of parents leaving the hospital without their child.
I thought about how music had enriched my life — from playing the recorder (I thought I was good but now suspect I wasn’t) to dancing in nightclubs (I thought I was good but now know I wasn’t).
I listened to the two women talk about how music could enrich the often harsh life of an unwell child. It was clear this pair had seen more pain than most people.
They’d probably sat with parents looking for answers that would not come and with children they knew would not leave the ward.
Those parents would be trying to hide their own pain so they were a source of strength for their children.
I’ve seen that pain before. It’s been in the eyes of mothers after I have told them they may not see their child for a long time should their son or daughter be convicted in court. It’s been writ large on the faces of fathers at sentencing.
That look is haunting enough when the parent knows they will eventually see their child again; imagine knowing your child will never get parole from a hospital ward because their condition is terminal.
Having a little music in the air would make life better for anyone in those circumstances. A melody to soften the beep of the heart monitors and distract from the noise of a crash cart going down a hallway.
The modest sum I donated helped buy one of the stethoscopes that can record heartbeats plus a heap of other musical instruments, including a “gathering” drum (no idea what that is); a cymbal and cymbal stand (that’s understandable); something called a “Chimes Classic 35bar and windchimes stand” (I think I know what that is); a mountable tambourine (that’s obvious); Agogo Bells (no idea); castanets (well everyone knows those); a guiro (nope); a two-tone woodblock (nope); sleigh bells (I am assuming these are seasonal); prismatic tambourines (sort of get those); two Yamaha Gigmaker guitars (I reckon they’ll sound good); four Makala ukuleles (not so convinced about those); guitar strings (for when the kids impersonate Slash); and portable Bluetooth speaker and mini speakers (even an old man like me gets why you need them).
I was assured these instruments will bring a little joy to saddened hearts and that’s all I needed to know. But in the interests of transparency I feel I must report that my donation also bankrolled the purchase of some kazoos.
For this I am truly sorry and will represent, pro bono, any parent who wants to sue the hospital for agreeing to this purchase.
I had the opportunity to visit the hospital and meet with eight-year-old Hamish, his father Tristan and the staff who work in this wonderful place.
Hamish was beating on a bongo drum like he was summoning the warriors. He was smiling, despite being paralysed down the left side of his body. Hamish had a seizure a few weeks ago and has since been diagnosed with a genetic disorder in the right side of his brain.
He has a bit of work ahead of him to get all his function back and playing musical instruments helps that process. I was handed a drumstick and after being assured that “what goes on in this room stays in this room” I was banging away like a warlord next to Hamish.
I looked carefully at Tristan while all this was happening but in that moment I couldn’t see any of the stress in his face that must come with looking after a unwell child.
I am not a talented enough writer to describe how seeing Tristan and Hamish lost in that musical moment made me feel. I want to feel that way again, though, which is why I am looking forward to donating to Telethon in October.
Paul Holmes is a barrister and solicitor at Holmes Criminal Lawyers.