Music Heals: Jason Crigler's Story

I remember being on stage when it happened.

I was to the right of the singer, playing electric guitar. A telecaster. It was a decent sized band - drums, bass, a second guitar. I knew the songs well - they weren't mine - the songs were all written by Sandy Bell. But I'd been playing with her for at least two years at this point. It was August 4, 2004.

We only made it through two songs before things started getting weird. Have you ever had a physical experience that you've been completely unable to explain? Something happens - a sensation, something in your field of vision perhaps, something out of the blue - that makes no sense? At the time of this show, I had played hundreds of gigs, with scores of different musicians. But I had never had an experience like this.

It was weird, psychedelic even. I kept thinking it would pass, that it was just a momentary occurrence. I knelt down, fiddling with effects pedals, buying time. It didn't pass, in fact it seemed to be getting worse. At this point I was playing without hearing, because I couldn't trust my ears anymore.

I threw down my guitar and ran offstage - it was that bad. Monica, my wife, was in the audience two months pregnant. I rushed over to her and said, “I need help.” Then we were out on the street. I was lying on the sidewalk. An ambulance came. I was lifted into it on a stretcher, and that was the last thing I would remember for about a year and a half. That was the abrupt end of my first life: the beginning of my second.

I had had an arteriovenous malformation, commonly referred to as an AVM. A collection of tangled blood vessels in my brain had burst, causing massive bleeding. There were no warning signs that this would happen. The situation was extremely dire. The doctors told my family that I would probably not survive the night because the bleeding was so severe. If I did survive, I would not be the same Jason my family had always known.

Numerous complications followed the initial injury – meningitis, seizures, coma. The situation went from really bad to even worse. I was hospitalized for over a year. Because I didn't start rehabilitation until six months after the stroke, most of the doctors we came into contact with were pessimistic about my chances for any kind of real recovery. I was told that I probably wouldn't walk again. I was told that I probably wouldn’t play the guitar again. Numerous doctors believed I would always need permanent, around the clock medical care.

My core family, however, my wife, parents and sister, believed in my ability to recover. They were with me as much as possible, and they had an unshakable faith. Even when I was mostly non-responsive, they believed that I was there and that I would come through. Their support helped me find the strength to recover. They were also very sensitive to any music that was played in my hospital room. Even while I was unconscious, they wanted any sounds I might hear to be pleasing to me. Occasionally they would play records that I had played on and my sister Marjorie has told me that sometimes I would start playing “air” guitar to the sounds of the recording. It was like I was playing my parts as I heard them.

For many weeks I was in a coma and then minimally responsive. It was during this time that my mother bought a CD called Ayurveda, Art of Being. It was a collection of music from the soundtrack to the film of the same name, with a lot of classical Indian music overtones. The film and the soundtrack were released in 2001. My mom knew of my deep love for Indian classical music, and that I had scored a film using a lot of Indian inspired sounds and approaches. For weeks, every time she visited me in the ICU she would play this CD at night before leaving. As I was completely uncommunicative during this time, I didn't give her any acknowledgment that I enjoyed the music or that I had even heard it. My mom just thought it had a mood and tone that I would appreciate.

It was probably three or four years later, after I was home from the hospital, when we were driving and she put on the CD. I knew every track! I thought at first that I recognized it from listening to it as a kid, but then we realized what had happened. My mom and I were both stunned. Clearly I had been hearing the music during that time when I was not communicative. It had made a deep impression on me, even though I made no outward signs that it had done so.

It's very strange to have almost two years missing from my memory. Interestingly, there are a couple of experiences from that time that have “poked through.” One of these was when my family took me to see legendary bluegrass musician Ralph Stanley play at Sanders Theatre in Cambridge, MA. I can't put together a solid memory of that event, but I have a strong sense of what it felt like to hear Ralph play that night:

My primary occupation of almost 20 years before my injury was playing music with other people, mostly live. After my injury and all that time in the hospital, though, when I first picked up my guitar again, it was incredibly difficult to just play on my own. It felt so awkward, like I was wearing clothes that were too small for me. I just couldn't get comfortable with the instrument, couldn't feel comfortable on stage. I had no concept of my sound, or how my sound interacted with the other sounds around me. I felt lost.

Looking back now, I think it was just a matter of getting the motor running again. After a few shows that felt really awkward I had one amazing show with a singer named Rachel Loshak whom I had played quite a lot with in the old days. I remember feeling a little nervous beforehand. I had practiced the music and I knew I could handle that side of things, but all of my physical issues had me concerned. Could I actually get on and off the stage? Would I be able to see what was going on? Would I be overwhelmed by the sensory information from the music and the lights?

At first it was a struggle due to my physical condition: my vision had been affected by the bleed, so I was seeing double images of everything which made it very difficult to get onstage and set up. I was very thin and weak, physically frail. I felt overly sensitive to the sounds and stimulation of the club environment but overall, it turned out to be a very zen experience, actually. All I could do was just deal with where I was in that moment. Yes, I was seeing double images of Rachel and the other musicians. I had to just focus on one of the images and ignore the other. Yes, it was unnerving being up under the lights, with sound bouncing all around me. I had to just focus on what I was playing. In my mind there was no way of getting offstage but to finish the gig. It was that simple. And luckily the actual exercise of playing the guitar calmed me down and made me feel comfortable, made me feel at home.

Though I was still limited physically, it didn't seem to matter. After a few songs I became incredibly hooked into the music and the show. I felt connected, I felt aware of my sound in relation to the other sounds around me. I felt like I was making a meaningful contribution to the whole. Feelings cascaded into other feelings, spiraling and tumbling, creating something bigger. My feeling of connectedness along with a huge sense relief made it a really great night.

Once I felt comfortable on stage again, I began to experience a feeling of present-mindedness that was extraordinary. Not only that, I was able to arrive in that present-minded state relatively easily. There was less clutter, less interference in my head. I began to feel a more direct connection between my head and my hands.

This freedom I felt was intoxicating but unfortunately it didn't carry over into all areas of life. As soon as a gig was over, I was myself again. I had an unbelievable amount of physical and mental hurdles to jump through every day - exercises to do, doctor’s appointments and therapy sessions to go to. Recovery was a full-time job for years and my energy was extremely limited. I think my body was working so hard to recover that I didn't have a lot left over for anything else. Because so much of it was spent on recovery activities, I would welcome opportunities to play music with other people. It was always such a huge relief because it was energy spent on something I wanted to be doing.And so, music soon became, again, what it had always been to me: the ultimate therapy, the most comforting escape from the trials and struggles in this life, this life which is much too short and entirely too delicate to take for granted.