Shredding the Banjo

I’m working on the telemetry floor my second semester of nursing school.  The patients on this floor are very similar. Almost all seventies-plus white men. Their names are Bill, John, and Bob, and they can be difficult to keep straight.  I’m working with a patient, though, who has an especially sweet personality.  He came into the hospital, like many, through the ER.  Came in for shortness of breath and has been here for two weeks being monitored for heart failure.

I’m doing my assessment and two of his fingers don’t move well.  I ask about them and he says he tore a tendon playing the banjo.

“You were shredding so hard on the banjo you tore a tendon?” I ask.

He thinks for a moment, “Well, you know what?  I guess I was!”

“Do you still play?” I ask, and he tells me he does but not as well as he used to.  He plays with a band, a big group, and it has been one of the best parts of his retirement.  He’d played by himself for many years before but never in front of other people.  Finally playing with other people made him realize he had been off with his timing and never noticed.  It also opened up so many doors, he met good people and it’s been nothing but fun.  He hasn’t been playing as much lately because he’s just been tired.

I tell him my friends used to play and we talk about groups and songs. He gives me a list of his favorites - Paddy on the Turnpike, Fisher’s Hornpipe, Kentucky Mandolin, and I tell him about mine, Shady Grove, Rocky Top, There is a Time.

“You know something?” He says, “I’ve been here over two weeks now and this is the first conversation I’ve had that isn’t about my heart. It’s hard here without visitors, you know, and this is just, refreshing.”

I thank him for the talk and realize I hadn’t thought about that. It was very evident the patients I worked with were lonely.  When we are lonely, we are needy, and many patient requests for general things from nursing staff were pretty see-through desires for company.

But erase your friends and family and then only allow one topic of conversation, and of course that’s hard. There isn’t time for a lot, but that interaction made me realize a lot isn’t needed, and it made me see value in small talk, which is something I’d always looked at as a chore. Anyway, I think about him when Doc Watson comes on a playlist and hope he ended up getting the hell out of that hospital and had the chance to shred the banjo some more.

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Review

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This story is gentle, heartfelt, and beautifully captures the profound humanity in small, ordinary moments. It’s a reminder of how the simplest interactions—sharing music, exchanging stories—can break through isolation and restore a person’s sense of dignity and connection, even in the most clinical of settings.

The isolation of patients in hospitals, particularly during extended stays without visitors, is depicted in a way that’s subtle but deeply affecting. It highlights how the clinical focus on illness can sometimes strip away the parts of life that make patients feel alive. Music becomes more than a hobby—it’s a symbol of joy, passion, and connection that reminds both patient and caregiver of life outside the hospital room. The realization of the value of small talk reframes what compassion in nursing can look like. It’s not always about solving medical problems—it’s about making someone feel seen and valued, even for a moment.

This story is gentle, poignant, and beautifully captures how the simplest human connections can bring light to lonely places. It is a subtle yet powerful reminder that in the middle of all the clinical tasks, it’s often the quiet conversations—and not the vital signs—that leave the biggest impact.