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Author Archive for Pat Grigadean

Schrödinger’s CAT (Scan)

Posted by Pat Grigadean on
 December 4, 2022
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[This was something I wrote in May of 2018 but apparently hid it from myself at the time, perhaps for reasons that will become obvious.]

Schrödinger’s Cat is a thought experiment, sometimes described as a paradox, devised by Austrian physicist Erwin Schrödinger in 1935. In the simplest terms, it illustrates how, if there are two possible states of being (e.g., dead or alive), and an observer can’t actually observe which one is true (e.g., because the cat is in a sealed box), then two different realities exist simultaneously (i.e., dead cat and alive cat).

Besides being an interesting mental exercise – and something to talk about when you want to sound smart – I’ve discovered it can also be a great source of peace.

A few days ago I had a biopsy taken from a small itchy spot on my back. The results came back as squamous cell carcinoma – skin cancer. I had this on my arm many years ago and back then the dermatologist just cut it out, stitched me up, and sent me on my way. No big deal. But this time – either because it’s more serious or because a different dermatologist is more conservative – I was referred to a surgical oncologist and have spent this week talking to doctors, nurses, physician’s assistants, medical technicians, appointment schedulers and insurance providers. The current plan is for me to have surgery in a couple of days to remove the offending cells, but not before multiple tests have been conducted to see if the cancer has spread to or from other parts of my body. In other words, they’re trying to determine if this time it IS a big deal.

Naturally, the word “cancer” used in relation to me, personally, gets my attention. And while I think I have a pretty good attitude about it all, it would take someone a lot more Zen than I not to feel a little freaked out and anxious. Especially as I go through this battery of unfamiliar tests.

Today I had a combination CAT scan/PET scan. You can look up what that involves, but the best way I can describe it is to say it’s like having a member of the Star Trek medical team check you out head to toe with a Tricorder. Basically, they’re looking at every nook and cranny in every one of my organs to see if there’s anything growing in me that shouldn’t be. Tomorrow I’ll learn the results, and depending on what they are, it could be life changing.

Before and during the scan, I was terribly nervous. I had to keep reminding myself to breathe and used multiple techniques to try to keep my mind off the implications – without great success, I might add.

But tonight, with the test complete and the results likely sitting on the surgeon’s desk in a dark office somewhere, I feel a great sense of peace. Like Schrödinger’s Cat, I’m existing in two realities: I am both seriously ill and perfectly healthy. And at this moment there is no way for me to know which. There’s also absolutely nothing I can or need to do about it…except wait until tomorrow when we open the box.

Addendum: The scans showed that except for the already identified squamous cells – which were weirdly wrapped around a subcutaneous nerve – no cancer was found anywhere in my body. I had day surgery to remove the squamous cells and all was and continues to be well. So I guess the cat really was alive!]

Uncategorized

On Being Sick (Pre-Covid)

Posted by Pat Grigadean on
 September 30, 2020
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[I wrote the following essay sometime last year, well before Covid 19 changed all of our lives. I haven’t been able to visit any eldercare facilities and sing with my sweet dementia friends in over six months. And the whole idea of being sick, and especially, being healthy, has taken on a much deeper meaning for me. But I decided to post this anyway if only to give myself a look back at the good old days when sentiments like mine could perhaps seem novel and vaguely humorous. So with apologies to anyone who may be offended, I offer my pre-pandemic musings.]

I love being sick. There. I said it. Now, let me immediately qualify that by saying I’m not talking about being “sick” sick. I have nothing but compassion for people who are really, truly sick with painful, debilitating, scary, and life- or quality of life-threatening illnesses. And I’m enormously grateful that I’m not – and never have been – that kind of sick. I’m talking about this cold I have right now.

It’s just a cold. But it’s a bad cold. The worst in my admittedly failing memory. I’ve been sneezing, blowing, and coughing up all kinds of yukky stuff. My head hurts, I ache, I’m weak and I just generally feel like crap. And I love it.

I have loved being sick – and again I stress, not really sick – since I was a child. And small wonder. Being sick in our house was kind of like being a rock star! You got to lie around, watch TV during the day, eat in bed – granted not everything you wanted, but who doesn’t love chicken noodle soup and saltine crackers served on a tray? But the two best things about being sick back then were that you got lots of attention and you didn’t have to go to school.

And those are still the two best things. All I have to do is answer the phone or call someone and the first thing I hear is, “You sound terrible. Are you sick???” To which I can bravely reply, “Oh, yeah. I have a bad cold, but it’s no big deal. I sound worse than I feel.” Of course, they don’t buy that for a minute! Of course, I feel awful. And even if I sound worse than I feel, they just said I sound terrible, so I must feel pretty darn bad! Plus, I get points for being tough and not being a whiner. It’s a no-lose situation.

And then there’s the no-school part. As it happens, my job is singing to dementia patients in nursing homes. So there is no way I could go to work. I mean, first of all, when you have a cold, your throat and vocal cords are all inflamed and out of whack, so it’s hard to talk, much less sing on key. And then, no person of good conscience would waltz into a nursing home full of very old and vulnerable people carrying the kind of germs that are an inconvenience for people like me but could be life-threatening for the dear residents I spend time with. So not going to work isn’t just a wise precaution, it’s a genuine act of love and compassion.

Again, don’t get me wrong. I love my job! Getting to sing and have very personal, intimate interactions with people who are in the most difficult and defenseless time of their lives is precious and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. But still, a job is a job. And having a really good and – some might say, honorable – reason for not going to work is kind of a gift.

But besides getting attention and getting to lie around the house guilt-free, there’s another reason. And this is the one that is the most difficult to admit because it could sound like a slap in the face to those aforementioned really, truly sick people: I like the way being sick feels.

I like the novelty of feeling out of my usual state. I like not sounding like myself. I even like the headaches and achy joints and coughing fits. Of course, this is largely because I know it will pass and I’ll get my old healthy body back in a week or so.

And maybe that’s why I enjoy it so much. Because it reminds me of the gift I’ve been given of a mostly-healthy, mostly-strong body that responds to my unthinking and unnoticed commands to breathe, sleep, speak or sing without missing a beat. I like being sick because I’m mostly not. And being sick allows me to appreciate – if only for a short time – the incredible gift of good health that I’ve been given.

But now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go blow my nose.

Pat Pending

Being With Alice

Posted by Pat Grigadean on
 August 3, 2016
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One of my dementia clients is very, very sad.  Alice is 100 years old.  She’s not quite five feet tall, and has always been a very active, energetic person.  Over the years I’ve been visiting with her, she’s told me repeatedly that she weighed just 2 ½ pounds when she was born, surviving against all odds.  She went to work immediately after graduating from high school, and moved from the small town where she was born to the “big city” of Austin as soon as she could.  She worked for 26 years at the same bank, holding a variety of jobs, from teller to head of the safe deposit department.  Her description of trying to control the gigantic vault door, especially given her diminutive stature, is both vivid and delightfully amusing.

She married the love of her life and best friend, and together they raised a fine son who calls her every night to check in and make sure she’s okay.  She and her husband spent wonderful times together camping and fishing at their little cabin on the lake, and later driving all over the country in their motor home.  She told me about the time she was forced to surrender a precious bag of homegrown tomatoes from a roadside stand when they crossed a state line that didn’t allow importation of produce.  She “learned my lesson and hid my tomatoes after that!”  She has fond and happy memories of those times, and dearly misses her husband who passed away several years ago.

Alice’s hobbies included knitting, crocheting, playing cards and reading, among other things.  Later in life she joined a women’s tap dancing troupe, and “just loved to dance!”  She also loves to walk.  Supported by her walker, she parades up and down the hallway of her residence, and if someone is with her, she can go outside to stroll around the garden “and listen to the birds.”

But sadly, in addition to dementia and the hearing loss that’s typical of people her age, Alice has also lost virtually all of her vision.  Consequently, most of the activities she has always enjoyed are no longer available to her.  And her advanced dementia pretty much rules out learning anything new.  (Somewhat ironically, the activity I can offer her – music – is not something that has much appeal for her.)

So Alice is bored.  This vibrant, pint-sized powerhouse is horribly, painfully bored, which has put her in a pretty dark state of mind that makes it hard for her even to enjoy conversations that used to delight her. She receives excellent care in a wonderful facility, and while I’m not privy to her medical treatment, I feel sure that she’s being given whatever pharmaceutical intervention is appropriate.  But that doesn’t relieve her boredom.  Lately her refrain is, “I wish there was something I could do!”

Therein lies the rub.  And it’s something I’m seeing more, the deeper I move into the world of dementia- and elder-care.  That is, people who have been “doing” all their lives, can no longer “do”.  Pretty much all that’s left is to “be” which, if you’ve ever really tried it, isn’t as easy as it sounds.  (To read about my own challenges with this, check out my post from a few years back, Do-Be-Do-Be-Do.)

But as I struggle to offer something meaningful to Alice and people like her, I take comfort in the advice of a dear friend who is a professional therapist and also one of the wisest people I’ve ever known:  If all she can do is to “be”, then “be” with her.  So I “be” with Alice in her boredom, in her loss, in her sadness.  Because sometimes “being” is really all anyone can do.

Addendum (Aug. 4, 2016):  I just came back from visiting with Alice and she was in the best mood!  Happier than she’s been in about six weeks!  She was chatty, laughing, and very glad to spend time with me, sharing her favorite memories.  I don’t know if some meds kicked in or what, but I am thrilled and had to share the good news!

Addendum (Sept. 12, 2016):  Days after the addendum above, Alice slipped back into despair, sobbing almost continuously and saying she wanted to die and “get out of here”.  During our weekly visits, all I could do was hold her hand, remind her she was loved, and continue to “be” with her. This morning at midnight her prayers were answered and she passed away.  I hope she has gone to join her beloved husband and continue their adventures!  I will miss her terribly, but my heart is soaring at her release.

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Pat Pending

Bugs!

Posted by Pat Grigadean on
 May 23, 2016
  ·  No Comments

One day, Jabo and I were lying on the ground, contemplating life when we began to imagine how things would look and feel from the perspective of insects.  It was not a pretty picture.

I don’t want to die from a sky full of gas
Or be squshed or be mushed by people walking past
Or be stuck on a pin and be put under glass
But it happens to bugs every day.

I don’t want to die on the front of a car
Or be caught by a child and be put in a jar
And I don’t want to fry on an electric wire
But it happens to bugs every day.

Bugs are our friends
They have feelings too
Just be nice to them
And they’ll be nice to you
Don’t use them or abuse them
Or call them dirty names
Bugs may be tiny
But they’re critters just the same.

[Kazoo break]

I don’t want to die with my feet stuck in glue
In a cardboard motel or be squished with a shoe
Or be spotted and swatted and turned into goo
But it happens to bugs every day.

Remember, bugs are our friends
They have feelings too
Just be nice to them
And they’ll be nice to you
Don’t use them or abuse them
Or call them dirty names
Bugs may be tiny
But they’re critters just the same

Yes, bugs may be tiny
But they’re critters just the same

(Written Date Unknown)
© Pat and Jerry Grigadean, 1998

Songs

The Dirty Hippie Song

Posted by Pat Grigadean on
 May 20, 2016
  ·  No Comments

Jabo and I became friends with a street person named Barefoot Bobby.  He was a funny, creative man who enjoyed our music and taught us a lot.  It was Bobby who prompted us to change the second line in the second verse of this song.  It originally read, “It’s better than sleeping on dirt”. Bobby explained with the authority of personal experience that one does not sleep on dirt.  One sleeps in dirt.  We changed the line immediately.

Some people think I’m crazy
For living on handouts and hope
They say, “Here comes that dirty hippie again,
Begging money for wine and dope.”

But you know it can be tough living out on the street
It’s cold and there’s a hole in my shoe
I tried to sell my blood to get something to eat
But the guy said my blood wouldn’t do

My head hurts, I’m dirty, I’m feeling like shit
And I wish I was out on some beach
I’d like a hot cup of coffee and a warm place to sit
But MacDonald’s is out of my reach.

But my life’s not really all that bad
I have more than most people got
I’ve got freedom to do whatever I please
And every once in awhile I get some really good pot.

I don’t like sleeping in doorways
But it’s better than sleeping in dirt
And I’m only asking for a little spare change
Not so much that it’d hurt

But if you don’t want to give me your money
Maybe you could spare me a smile
I don’t get many of them pointed my way
And we’d both feel good for awhile

But you walk right by and ignore me
I’m something you’d rather not see
Maybe ‘cause I’m asking for money
Or maybe ‘cause you’d like to be free – like me!

Yeah, my life’s not really all that bad
I probably have more than you’ve got
I’ve got the freedom to do whatever I please
And, brother, that’s a hell of a lot.

(Written October 1981)
© Pat and Jerry Grigadean, 1998

 

Songs

You Coulda Told Me

Posted by Pat Grigadean on
 May 22, 2016
  ·  No Comments

This is the story of how I learned that my boyfriend was seeing another woman. It was the third of three songs about that break-up, written over a six-day period.  We began to call them “The Heartbreak Trilogy”.  I guess it took me a long time to heal, because about a year later, a fourth song was added to the set, which we now refer to as ‘The Heartbreak Quatrain”.  

You coulda told me it was coming down to this
You coulda told me you were looking for some other lips to kiss
I couldn’t see it coming; I can only watch you go
You coulda told me it was coming down to this.

I stopped by to see you in the middle of the day
Just to hold you in my arms and see you smile
But you were with another; you were walking hand-in-hand
And I never saw it coming all the while.

You coulda told me you were coming on to her
You coulda told me you were leaving; you coulda told me where you were
You say you never left me, but I’m lying here alone
You coulda told me you were coming on to her.

I know you need your freedom, just like I need mine
And I never meant to keep you tied to me
But I thought I was enough for you to keep you satisfied
You coulda told me what I was too proud to see.

[Kazoo break]

It wasn’t that you left me. I knew someday you would
I knew I’d have to share you by and by
But you know I hate surprises, or by now I guess you should
So don’t be surprised if you should see me cry.

You coulda told me it was coming down to this
You coulda told me you were looking for some other lips to kiss
I couldn’t see it coming; I can only watch you go
You coulda told me it was coming down to this.

(Written Nov. 24, 1983)
© Pat and Jerry Grigadean, 1998

 

YOU COULDA TOLD ME

(November 24, 1983)

This is the story of how I learned that my boyfriend was seeing another woman. It was the third of three songs about that break-up, written over a six-day period.  We began to call them “The Heartbreak Trilogy”.  I guess it took me a long time to heal, because about a year later, a fourth song was added to the set, which we now refer to as ‘The Heartbreak Quatrain”.

You coulda told me it was coming down to this

You coulda told me you were looking for some other lips to kiss

I couldn’t see it coming; I can only watch you go

You coulda told me it was coming down to this.

I stopped by to see you in the middle of the day

Just to hold you in my arms and see you smile

But you were with another; you were walking hand-in-hand

And I never saw it coming all the while.

You coulda told me you were coming on to her

You coulda told me you were leaving; you coulda told me where you were

You say you never left me, but I’m lying here alone

You coulda told me you were coming on to her.

I know you need your freedom, just like I need mine

And I never meant to keep you tied to me

But I thought I was enough for you to keep you satisfied

You coulda told me what I was too proud to see.


[Kazoo break]

It wasn’t that you left me.  I knew someday you would

I knew I’d have to share you by and by

But you know I hate surprises, or by now I guess you should

So don’t be surprised if you should see me cry.

You coulda told me it was coming down to this

You coulda told me you were looking for some other lips to kiss

I couldn’t see it coming; I can only watch you go

You coulda told me it was coming down to this.

Songs

The Way Home

Posted by Pat Grigadean on
 May 21, 2016
  ·  No Comments

Jabo and I went to the Kerrville Folk Festival.  As we drove through the entrance, I realized I wasn’t in the mood for camping with lots of people, so I hitched a ride back to Austin with our friends, Jerry and Nancy Stevens.  When I offered to help navigate, Nancy said, “That’s okay.  Jerry knows the way home.”  And I knew it had to be a song.

Why do you love him?  How can you stay?
I asked her when we were alone
She smiled at me sadly but all she could say was
“Because he knows the way home.”

Where is the lover when love is long gone?
Where is the child when the woman is grown?
And where does the singer go after the song?
It’s a long way home.

Home is where the heart resides
Home is where the truth presides
Home is where the love abides
It’s a long way home.

[Instrumental verse] 

So will you come walking or sing me a song
To delight me, or write me a poem
Or tell me a story of loving and light
And when night comes, come follow me home.

Home is where my heart resides
Home is where the truth presides
Home is where my love abides
And besides, I know my way home.
Beside you I’ll find my way home.

(Written May 27, 1984)
© Pat and Jerry Grigadean, 1998

Songs

Thoughts On a Thinking Man

Posted by Pat Grigadean on
 June 8, 2016
  ·  No Comments

This may be disturbing.  When I tell you Ted’s story, you might think, ‘Oh, that’s just so sad and tragic, I don’t want to hear about it.’  To which my response is, ‘Get over it.’  Yes, it’s sad and tragic when people lose their memories…or their minds, or their sight, or their mobility.  But it’s a reality of life.  So let’s talk about how to handle it, and how to help.

Ted is one of my favorite people.  He’s bright, funny, and very, very smart.  He also happens to have dementia.  I’ve mentioned before that my Musical Memories sessions are “musical conversations” and that some people are more interested in the conversation part.  Well, that’s Ted.  Not that he doesn’t occasionally enjoy bringing his full baritone to a song or two, but mostly he likes the give and take of a good verbal exchange.  And he likes to think.

I realized early on that although he rarely seems to know where he is – sometimes we’re on a train, sometimes in a hotel, once we were in some sort of swamp surrounded by boats – he knows how to evaluate, analyze and communicate.  It’s what I’m sure made him highly successful in his military and industry careers; it’s something he’s proud of and clearly gives him great pleasure.

Like many dementia patients, Ted can no longer do most of the things he enjoys.  He can’t play golf or bowl because he’s unsteady on his feet and can’t see well.  He can’t read or watch a movie because he can’t follow and retain the storyline.  And believe me, you will not see Ted at bingo or arts and crafts.  He’s also a bit of an introvert, so he doesn’t seem to seek out groups of people to socialize.  But he likes one-on-one conversations that allow him to stretch and exercise his considerable brainpower, despite the fact that what he’s discussing may not, in fact, be “real”.

So when we get together, I just ask him what’s going on.  He’ll immediately start describing what he believes to be his current reality.  I never try to convince him that, no, we aren’t on a train.  Instead, I simply follow his train of thought, as it were, and let him lead us in an intelligent conversation about how we’ll be able to get off at the right stop and be sure we get back on again when we’re ready to leave.  In the “swamp”, Ted had some fascinating insights about what kinds of crops grow best in that environment and why.  These aren’t memories; this is real-time thinking.  And for Ted, it’s fun.

I should note that I always make sure he isn’t feeling frightened.  And if he seems to be spiraling down into a dark or depressed place, I’ll do some redirecting to help break that descent.  (This is where a songs or two can come in handy.)  One time he was very worried that his military supervisors wouldn’t be able to locate him because all his “paperwork” lists his name as Edward, but he’s been introducing himself as Ted.  So I took out a pad of paper and  very officiously wrote down his full name and birth date, and assured him I would see that the correct information got to the proper authorities.  And then he was fine.

Ted is a thinking man for whom intelligent, thoughtful conversation is a favorite pastime – one of the few that are still available to him.

So here’s my thought:  If you know or love someone with dementia, someone who is a thinker and has always enjoyed intelligent conversation, engage them.  Let them talk and follow their lead.  Converse, but don’t challenge or correct their perceptions of reality.  Banter and joke with them.  Ask questions, but don’t dig for facts they may not remember, like how old they are or how many children they have.  They may not recall the details of their lives, but the person you know is still there, thinking.

And if you are a thinker and enjoy intelligent conversation, you might think about sharing this with your loved ones now.  Because you never know.

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Pat Pending

Fear Facing Fun

Posted by Pat Grigadean on
 February 21, 2011
  ·  No Comments

Fear wears a different face each day.
Sometimes it’s deadlines or bills to pay.
Sometimes it’s sickness or being alone.
Sometimes it comes by letter or phone.
Sometimes it comes on the six o’clock news.
Often it tells me how much I can lose.

The face of the fear is never the same.
But the fact is, the face is just part of the game.
For when I face not the face but the fear
I feel every frightening face disappear.
And once that I know it’s a game, I don’t run
And facing my fears is becomes part of the fun.

©Patricia Rose Grigadean, 1988

Poems

Sugar Rush (1984)

Posted by Pat Grigadean on
 May 24, 2016
  ·  No Comments

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