Don’t wait to tell your people that you love them.
Written By Chris Grannen
It's May 30th, 2020.
Our dear friend, Patrica Rice passed away last night. She was born on May 4th, 1944, and was 76 years young.
Since March, she had been living in hospice care at a facility near Clifton in Cincinnati. I was very surprised to learn of this when I did, as many of you have been surprised to learn of her passing, and it took a minute to re-orient myself to what was being told to me when I received the call in Chicago from an unknown 513 number. I was informed that as her "emergency contact on file", I was being contacted so the hospice facility could share that there were no known COVID-19 cases in the facility. It was a courtesy call, but more than that, it was my first contact into Pat's life in a number of years. I moved to Chicago in 2013 and have returned to Cincinnati primarily for family functions. I lost my association with the Cincinnati music scene around the same time, and as a result, unfortunately, I lost my association with my good friend Pat Rice over these past years as well. When I realized the gravity of what this courtesy call meant, and the specific situation to which they were speaking of, a wave of guilt washed over me . "Hello, sir? just calling to inform you that your good friend, who you haven't spoken to for a number of years, is in a facility to manage her transition towards passing on. Also, she has elected that you are the primary, and sole, contact for her during this time. In spite of this, because of the COVID-19 pandemic, we are unable to accommodate your request to come and visit her. But, on the positive side, there are no COVID cases in our facility, so it's not all bad news!" But mostly bad news.
Obviously, the pandemic has had a disproportionate effect on the elderly, but it's changed the fabric of life for nearly every person on the planet, you and me included. I was comforted to know that she was in a facility to receive whatever care that she needed, but my own insecurities and guilt about losing contact with her kept me from playing a more involved role. I told myself that I would find the moments of attention needed to initiate a contact and discover more about her condition and offer what I could. But an internal fear gripped me. The distractions and mental occupations that have become "essential business" during this pandemic kept me from rising to meet this specific challenge of real life. I was taken by surprise with the call, and didn't even write down the name of the facility she was at. Some light googling found the facility, a place I had visited her years before in a different situation... another small comfort. I made commitments to myself that I would call tomorrow.... ok maybe this weekend.... after I finish this project for that one guy... once i remember, in the moment... when I'm available and I'm not self-medicated. You can see how it played out. I don't know what I would have said. I don't know how she would have felt. I don't know how I would have handled it. I didn't want to find out. Fear paralyzed me. I distracted myself out of perceived self-preservation.
A chaplain, who visits various hospice facilities in Cincinnati, called me a week or two later to touch base about his services. He said Pat had elected to receive prayer services with him, and that he would come spend a bit of time with her once a week where they could pray and he could do some Bible readings, and he could try to offer her some comfort. His gentle demeanor and compassion came through without effort over the telephone. She indicated to him that she wanted him to make visits, and that she did believe in God. The chaplain relayed this news to me, and when asked if there were any special considerations for this woman, I gladly volunteered a digestible version of who she was to the Cincinnati music scene for the last 2 decades. I felt the sense that he didn't, and couldn't, appreciate the full scope of what she meant to us, but being asked to advocate for her, and taking that opportunity, brought me closer to her in my heart. It felt like an extension of the relationship I had left in Cincinnati 7 years prior. The guilt waned just a bit, though I still hadn't spoken to her. I took down the number to the facility. As I again pledged, and then again delayed, to actually step to the plate and check in on my friend, the guilt grew.
In early May, I receive another call from a social worker who had been assigned to visit and advocate for Pat Rice while in hospice care. She was an incredibly gentle and empathetic woman, and in her, i found my liaison into Pat's present life. The social worker (we will call her Penny) called, like the chaplain, to introduce herself and to make an initial outreach to the persons on file in the event of any downturn. She told me that Pat seemed comfortable, and that while she was tired, and losing weight, she was staying hydrated and did not seem to be suffering at this time. We made a tentative plan to try a FaceTime call the next time she was with Pat, which excited me. The possibility of seeing Pat Rice while talking, instead of just only being able to hear her labored voice on the phone, seemed less scary. I could see the face of a woman who I loved and cared about, and she could maybe see mine, and perhaps she could find some solace in the experience. It seemed worth a shot. At the very least, I could tell her that she was loved, and hopefully she would be in a position to hear it.
Because of Penny's scheduling conflicts, our FaceTime call had to be postponed for a few days, until Thursday, May 28. It was a little chaotic, and a bit confusing in the moment. Penny told me that Pat was feeling incredibly tired that morning, and that she didn't have the desire to engage via FaceTime at that time. I gave Pat my message of love through the speaker phone, but couldn't discern her response. This remains one source of calm for me, that she was aware enough to hear and understand me through the phone, and that despite the pandemic restrictions, she could know that people on the outside were thinking of her. Penny said that Pat was comforted by the message, and we hung up until Penny could find a more quiet place to talk. A few minutes later, Penny called me back and I was able to learn more about Pat's real condition. Pat was not doing well, very frail, no appetite, though she was drinking fluids. Penny shared with me that Pat did, in fact, have cancer, and while Penny is not an oncologist, she said that it was aggressively affecting Pat's body. Pat had limited time left, and the moments left were precious. Penny told me that once the hospice care center makes an evaluation and transitions Pat's status to "actively dying", the facility will allow visitors on a one-on-one basis. It could be weeks, it could be days. With no other friends or relatives on Pat's file with the hospice center, the writing was on the wall. I told Penny that whenever that moment comes, contact me and I will head to Cincinnati immediately to be with her.
The rest of the day, I spent time thinking about all the many folks in Cincinnati who had played a large part in her life, and who would be interested in being alerted to the situation. I remembered about the documentary that Pat and I made together in 2009, and I told myself that I would go find it on YouTube, re-watch it for the first time in years, and then look to establish contact with all of those people, and more, as an effort to build a "responder list" to help spread the news and manage the memorialization. A good starting point, i thought. I would get started on it tomorrow... ok maybe this weekend... or after i finish...
Less than a day later, Friday May 29th, I was helping my sister-in-law move and my phone rang. It was from Penny, and it was time to stop moving and get on the move. That morning, Pat had been designated "actively dying" and this was it, the last chance to see her before she passed on. She told me to get to Cincinnati as soon as I could. I got my arrangements set, packed a small bag and began driving directly to the hospice center, not having any clue what I was driving towards. How would she be? Would she recognize me? Would I recognize her? Would I be able to be what she needed from me? Could I hold her hand? How long would she have left once I got there? So many questions swirled in my head, all the familiar thoughts of the guilt and the shame of abandoning my friend starting to creep forward, jeopardizing my focus and determination.
My wife, Jenna, helped me to recover my composure. This isn't about me, or us. Once I make this event about me and my own shortcomings and fears, I lose the ability to make it about Pat. This is for Pat. Today, every minute will be in honor of her, and with intentions to honor everything she would have wanted, and nothing more. To bring my own baggage to the experience would only serve to insulate myself from the opportunity to just genuinely be there for my friend, OUR friend, in her last moments of life. I accelerated towards Cincinnati.
During that car trip, I learned a lot about Pat's last months. Her stage 4 cancer diagnosis in March, her check-in to a hospital, but also, the fact that she was in fact being cared for by people she knew in her last years. I learned most of this from the family that I knew existed, but whom I had never met in my years of knowing her closely. My worst fears of her living alone and without love were quieted. I found that she had been spending holidays with loved ones who made sure she was being checked on. I also found out that the independent spirit of the woman who we all loved dearly was still in abundance through all of these years. She continued to provide for herself, and to handle her personal business in the ways in which she saw fit, on her own terms. A way of life that drew me to her during our time as close friends in Cincinnati. Things that now, as an adult that has given up dreams of music as a full-time career, I admire even more. My fear began to dissolve as I realized what my mission was. I just needed to show her love in the most real way that I could. No cliches, no sappy moments, nothing forced. My job was to arrive and just be comfort to a dying woman. I imagined being able to be next to her bed and holding her hand and talking to her about shows and venues and people and Cincinnati and how much everyone cares for her. I would stay with her in her room and give her what I had to give until her body decided it was time to go, hopefully in a gentle manner. I drove on into the evening, arriving into the hospice center in Cincinnati at 957pm.
Patricia Rice took her final breath, relaxed and resigned, at 950pm. The staff at the hospice center said that Pat knew all day that someone was on their way to see her, and that in that knowledge, she had comfort. I hope what they tell me is true, and, perhaps out of self-interest, I believe it to be. It makes the truth of the matter more palatable to us, as her survivors, but doesn’t change the fact that nobody could be there during her whole time in the hospice center. It breaks my heart.
To be sure, the worst elements of Pat Rice's situation are artifacts of the unequal suffering that the COVID-19 pandemic has brought upon the world. It breaks my heart into tiny pieces to have to accept that she died alone when so many people in this world loved her so much. It is absolutely heartbreaking and unfair that when it all came down to the end, none of us were able to hold her hand or offer her something that would have made her smile. She never had any children, but she thought of all of us, the young people who played music onstage each night in Cincinnati, as her chosen family. It just breaks my heart that nobody could visit her, and that her colorful, one-of-a-kind life was unable to be relived in her presence through the people who had participated in it for the last 20+ years. It hurts to know that while Pat was never infected by the coronavirus, her last months on this earth existed as a victim of it's carnage.
Pat has passed, and now we have only memories. She didn't have much in the way of possessions or resources, but she made up for that with her ingenuity, her resourcefulness, and her insistence on being her own person, in a world that is forever trying to impress upon us the ways in which we ought to be instead. As is often the case, I didn't realize how strong these characteristics were in her until hindsight had a chance to have a wider perspective. In her room in the hospice center, she had a modest collection of belongings that she had brought with her. Among these items, all of them double plastic bagged to protect against rain and the elements (in the daily possession of a 75 year old woman!), were a neatly stacked set of Cincinnati bus route maps, housed in a modified Kleenex box, with a self-laminated sign that said "I need the ramp" so the driver could extend it for her. It brought a tear to my eye to think of this old woman, a friend of ours, still riding the city bus each day as she was fighting cancer on her own, but once I withdrew my own self from the equation and realized that this is what Pat Rice chose, my tears transitioned to a smile. She didn't need our help, she didn't need our pity. She was her own woman, who lived her life on her own terms. I think that she was drawn to us as a community of local musicians and fans because we knew how to allow and celebrate that spirit in each other. We were more than happy to welcome her into our lives, our places of gathering, vulnerability and community, as someone who just wanted to be allowed to live her own truth. She didn't need to be told how to live or how to enjoy her time. She knew what made her happy and arranged her life to surround herself with it. Again, with the help of hindsight in 2020, it really makes me realize that when it comes down to it, I want to be like Pat Rice when I grow up.
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Let this be a lesson to all of us, that there is no other time to take care of those we love. The time is now. There may not be a next time.
Please continue to love and support each other through this life, and avoid taking for granted the best things in life.
Rest in peace, Patricia Rice.
You were, and are, loved.
You deserved so much more than this.