Every time I enter our bathroom, I smell stale coffee. This is because one of the first things I managed to do yesterday at work was let my travel coffee mug (mind you, it was a travel mug, and it was sealed as tightly as it could be) tip over on my music cart and spill itself onto one of my beloved books of music. (Notice I wrote, “let my travel coffee mug,” which actually incorrectly implies that I had something to do with it, as if I saw it tipping, and allowed it to follow through. This was not the case. Something knocked it from its secure position, standing freely in the middle of a moving cart. Not secure; I shouldn’t have let it there, and I am sorry.)
Sorry doesn’t adequately describe how I felt about it, because as I was trying to save the book and my water bottle (that should have been inhabiting the space) from coffee, I was also fully aware that I needed to start my group within minutes, and that there was an alarm going off nearby as a resident was falling out of her chair. Of course (and I hope you didn’t question me), I attended to the resident first and fully.
Which leads me to wonder how in the future I can better lead a group and attend to those residents in the periphery who are clearly experiencing problems of one kind or another. Triage. Needs must be met, by everyone, and in what order is an interesting dance I will continue to learn.
So the coffee-stained book is now hanging by its spine in the bathroom. I love coffee, but I hate smelling it as it stales on the pages of a book that is very important to me.