Riff-erral
I used to think there was no such thing as people with no rhythm. I thought we are all born with music in our bones just like we are all born with blue eyes. Perhaps I need to take another human development course.
I grew up surrounded by music. I was raised on Alan Jackson and Queen. Sharon, Lois and Bram taught me what would tragically happen if five little monkeys jumped on the bed and rap music spoke to my white, middle class, soul. But our snazzy six disc CD player wasn’t the only music that filled our home.
Early on I was exposed to different types of music through my Grandpa strumming the guitar reliving his time in an Old Waltz band and whistling as often as he breathes. My Grandma singing as many nursery rhymes as Mother Goose. As well as my Mom and Auntie recording music that sounded like the Dixie Chicks (so my friends tell me).
As I got older, I began to play chords on the organ. My one brother played chords on the electric guitar and my oldest brother wore cords.
As a teenager, I began to dance competitively. At home I learned the the Fox Trot, Two Step, Polka, Schottische and Waltz, but will never come close to my parents’ and grandparents’ skill on the dance floor (even though my jazz moves are a close second).
A few years later my brothers married women who play multiple instruments and can lull anyone to sleep with their singing voices (and storytelling).
Then in University, I continued to attend dance classes and competitions. I spent most weekends dancing to live music, DJ’s and was tossed around like a rag doll by boys who thought they knew how to dance.
Now as an adult, I’ve begun to pluck away at the Ukulele, my niece can play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star on the violin and my Mom sang at Carnegie Hall in New York City. We could be the next Dead South.
We are no Von Trapp family, but after this referral, I was tempted to escape to Switzerland…
In Almost Travelled Down the Road and Back Again, I didn’t know how to pump a tire. Today, I didn’t know I was part of a joke.
As more businesses and attractions re-opened throughout the city, the residents pleaded for our doors to re-open. So the other recreation therapist and myself developed a program to educate residents on how to safely access the community.
I felt like a sex education teacher as we were developing the program. We were going to be providing facts, protection and instructions, but encouraging abstinence to limit exposure.
Once the program was developed (after many hours of throwing pens at one another) an email was sent to all staff informing them that residents can venture out into the community again once they attended a session. The email also asked staff to refer suitable residents to the program. Say it with me: suitable.
The next morning, I was ecstatic to receive a referral as this isn’t a common occurrence. The referral asked for all 53 fourth floor residents who live on the secure dementia unit to be assessed for the education program.
I looked around the room for Ashton Kutcher because I had to be getting punk’d.
To add to the ordeal, when we receive a referral, we need to hand write it into the resident’s chart. So did this mean I needed to document on all fifty three residents stating they lacked capacity to attend the program? I could already feel my wrist cramping up.
I decided to call the Occupational Therapist (OT) to have a laugh, pick her brain and avoid working on the referral.
The OT also giggled at the puzzling request. Without missing a beat she reminded me that I would need to chart the referral into each resident’s record. She then welcomed the Physical Therapist into the conversation. Great, just what I needed, more staff to check that I charted the referral.
It couldn’t have been longer than two minutes before the Occupational Therapist confessed, “we did it! We wrote that referral!”
There was a burst of laughter from both of them on the line. Even though I was aware they were laughing at me, it was music to my ears that I wouldn’t be spending my afternoon documenting.
