【推荐2】Normally, I loved birthdays. When my son and three daughters were little, my husband, Charles, and I always made sure to have dinner, followed by a big cake and presents.

Later, when the kids grew up and lived in different states, they always called to wish me a happy birthday. But this year I could have skipped the whole day, knowing there was one call I wouldn’t be receiving, the one from my daughter Patty. She’d passed away unexpectedly just a month before. One thing which made me feel a little calm was a voice message that she’d left on my cell phone the night before she died, telling me she loved me.

Over the following days I played her message of wishes over and over again, listening to the last words she said. “I love you very, very much, Mom.” Then, a couple of weeks before my birthday, while I was doing laundry (洗衣服), I accidentally dropped my phone in the washing machine. Quickly I pulled it out and dried it off, but when I checked my voicemail, Patty’s message was gone. I cried, heartbroken. Day after day I kept checking my voicemail, hoping Patty’s message would reappear. It never did.

On the morning of my birthday, I received my son’s wishes. However, all I wanted for my birthday was to hear Patty’s voice again. “Happy birthday.” Charles said, “let’s go out for dinner and a movie. It might help take your mind off things.” Charles was right. I turned off my phone, settled into my seat in the movie theater and let the film take me away. But the minute it ended I started thinking about Patty again. As we were walking out of the theater, I turned on my phone. It rang, signaling I’d gotten a voice message. Probably just my youngest daughter, Leslie, calling to wish me a happy birthday, I thought.

I dialed up voicemail and the message began. It was Patty’s voice, clear as a bell, saying again, “I love you very, very much, Mom.”

【推荐1】Have you kept the secrets in your heart? Have you tried to hide anything from others? Is it all right if you don’t tell the truth? You’ll find the answer after reading the following passage.

Marie was Joey’s mother. There was something wrong with her son’s feet. The doctor told her that Joey would be able to walk like others, but would never run very fast. At the age of eight, Joey ran around with the children in his neighborhood. His mother never told him that he wouldn’t be able to run as fast as the other children. So he didn’t know.

In the seventh grade, he decided to try out for a runner on his school team. He ran more than any of the others in order to be chosen. Joey practiced running four to five miles a day--even one day when he had a high fever. Although Marie was worried about him, she never told him he couldn’t run with such a high fever. So he didn’t know.

Two weeks later, Joey made the team. Marie never told him he couldn’t do it. So he didn’t know. He just did it.

Although sometimes we don’t tell others the truth, it can make them optimistic and meet the challenge of their lives bravely. Why not go for it?

【推荐2】Three months ago, I broke a vertebra (椎骨) in my lower back. Staying in hospital, I longed for the football pitch like never before. I even joked: “So I have to wear a brace (支具) now when I play football.”

Now came the moment! Waiting for the doctor, I became unbearably impatient. I had waited for three months to find out whether or not I would be cleared to play football again, but the thought of waiting another five minutes seemed impossible. Then Dr. Pittinger entered the room. The question remained unasked and unanswered as we went through the procedures of a physical. The time had finally come. He spoke slowly and softly, but still rather matter-of-factly, as he told me that I would never be able to play football again.

The realization sank in immediately. I wasn’t surprised, but I opposed the idea wholeheartedly. For months after I was released, I continued to work out with the football team. I woke up every morning at five for rehab (康复训练). Even though I was ashamed to wear my back brace, I wore it devotedly. At night, I slept on the floor because my doctor told me that sleeping on a firm surface was good for my back. I was determined to play again.

However, in the end, just as the doctor ordered, I never played another quarter of football. After several nights of coming home from training barely able to walk, I finally gave in. For a while, I felt that giving up was like an admittance of defeat rather than the acceptance of a truth. But over time, I realized no matter what happened, life would go on. Rather than focus on what was undeniably unachievable, I understood that even though this particular option was no longer open to me, I had countless other choices to make in its place.

【推荐3】阅读表达

During the final term of my theater and performance degree at the University of Leeds, I found myself standing outside Berkeley Court care home with three classmates and an underdeveloped idea. We planned to hold some interactive workshops with the residents to try to inspire memory and social engagement.

I remember being nervous, aware that we were working with people who were vulnerable, and that I had no idea what I was doing. Some residents were almost nonverbal, some were clearly not with ability. Some were happy to see us, and some were not.

I had decided to play music at the end of the session. We went with the song My Way because the residents, all roughly 80 years old, were probably listening to the hit song in their late 20s.

Once I pressed play, it was as if a spell had been cast. Nearly everyone in the room stood up and sang what seemed like every word. I was so profoundly moved. Many of them were communicating much better. It looked and felt like magic.

Off I went to drama school, but I thought about that experience almost daily. So when we were given the opportunity to write a script for a theater festival, I created a love story about music and dementia (痴呆), spanning 50 years of a couple’s life.

And now, 10 years later, the show I made is running again in London thanks to the Music for Dementia campaign.

When my grandma was diagnosed with dementia toward the end of her life, I didn’t struggle to communicate with her in the way that other people in their might have done. I felt more able to tune into what she needed and better equipped to see her underneath the disease.

I now know that music-based intervention reduce the need for medication in more than 60% of people living with dementia. I don’t know what My Way would be, but I certainly think we should all strive to find our song and do our best to stay connected to the people we share it with.

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