I can't believe I'm so good at it
"I can't believe I'm so good at it" Henry said towards the end of his music therapy session.
Henry suffered a catastrophic brain hemorrhage 3 years ago. He was unconscious for many months. As consciousness gradually returned, few shared his daughter's belief that he would walk and talk again. For many many months he lay there, tubes everywhere, no sign of the old Henry who was every body's darling. The Henry who had cared unstintingly for his wife through the trajedy of early dementia.
About a year ago, he was well enough to be able to swallow tiny amounts of food. To his great delight, the tubes came out. He could taste and feel his food again.
Today I watched in amazement as he walked down the corridor of his care home, leaning ever so lightly on the arm of his nurse. No sign of the zimmer today. He walked all the way to the therapy room. Here he played a variety of musical instruments to the sensitive accompaniment of the therapist. He grinned from ear to ear after the three of us all sang a selection of nursery rhymes - practising for when he holds his new baby grand daughter on his knee.
The change in Henry in the last few months has been astonishing.
How can we know which of all the various therapies he receives is the main catalyst?
The truth is, we can't. Not for sure.
How can we know whether the progress to regain cognitive processes would have been speedier if he had followed a course in Feuerstein's Instrumental Enrichment?
We can't.
We can hypothesise.
We can quote carefully documented research.
But in the end, each unique person, with each unique circumstance, produces a unique life experience.
I know though, if I lived nearer to where Henry is being cared for, I would most definitely be taking Organisation of Dots along with me on a regular basis - if only to hear him tell me "I can't believe I'm so good at it".
Henry suffered a catastrophic brain hemorrhage 3 years ago. He was unconscious for many months. As consciousness gradually returned, few shared his daughter's belief that he would walk and talk again. For many many months he lay there, tubes everywhere, no sign of the old Henry who was every body's darling. The Henry who had cared unstintingly for his wife through the trajedy of early dementia.
About a year ago, he was well enough to be able to swallow tiny amounts of food. To his great delight, the tubes came out. He could taste and feel his food again.
Today I watched in amazement as he walked down the corridor of his care home, leaning ever so lightly on the arm of his nurse. No sign of the zimmer today. He walked all the way to the therapy room. Here he played a variety of musical instruments to the sensitive accompaniment of the therapist. He grinned from ear to ear after the three of us all sang a selection of nursery rhymes - practising for when he holds his new baby grand daughter on his knee.
The change in Henry in the last few months has been astonishing.
How can we know which of all the various therapies he receives is the main catalyst?
The truth is, we can't. Not for sure.
How can we know whether the progress to regain cognitive processes would have been speedier if he had followed a course in Feuerstein's Instrumental Enrichment?
We can't.
We can hypothesise.
We can quote carefully documented research.
But in the end, each unique person, with each unique circumstance, produces a unique life experience.
I know though, if I lived nearer to where Henry is being cared for, I would most definitely be taking Organisation of Dots along with me on a regular basis - if only to hear him tell me "I can't believe I'm so good at it".
