I’m trying to choose the color for the cover of my book. Which color draws you in — blue, white, or gray? Thanks so much for your help. I have no objectivity about this and appreciate your feedback.

Why the carnation? The carnation is the official flower for Mother’s Day. Pat used to give me and his sisters white carnations on Mother’s Day. White carnations represent pure love. Pink carnations represent a mother’s forever love: “I will never forget you.” My book is dedicated to Pat and his sisters, and to the mothers (millions of them) who fight, every single day, for their children who live with serious mental illness.

P.S. If you receive this post twice in your email, it’s because you’re subscribed to my stories blog and to my diary blog. I try to not duplicate posts often. Thanks for subscribing to both blogs.



Hi Everyone,

I'm back from my blog break and posting more stories on Blog 1 (Your Stories) beginning tomorrow. My blog of Sooner Than Tomorrow - A Mother's Diary: A Memoir About Mental Illness, Family, & Everyday Life. I'm leaving the blog (Blog 2) open for new readers while I get my book published.

While attending a writer's conference, one speaker gave me this good news. She said (to the audience): "The publishing world is changing."
"If you're an unknown writer over 70, don't try to find a publisher."
"If you're an unknown writer of a memoir, don't try to find a publisher."
"If you're writing in diary format, don't try to find a publisher."
"If you're writing about mental illness, don't try to find a publisher."
"If you're writing about someone who died less than ten years ago, don't try to find a publisher."

Hmm? My writing checks all her boxes. What should I do? Give up? Go away? Write something else that means nothing to me? These are fighting words.


I've lots to consider. If I self-publish, among other things, I have to buy an ISBN number, apply for a LCCN number from the US Library of Congress, hire a professional cover designer, hire a professional graphic designer to format the interior pages of my print book and/or to convert it to an eBook, possibly purchase an editorial book review, and register my book with the US Copyright Office. 

Then there's marketing. Posting my book on Amazon doesn't cut it. People have to know it's there. They have to be directed to it.

So I'm asking myself, what do I want to accomplish? I know I want my diary in finished book format per my original intent which was to leave a book for my descendants. Should I defy all odds and look for an agent/ publisher? Should I publish my book myself? If you've read A Mother's Diary on my blog and you have any thoughts on this, please let me know. Your feedback will help me sort out what I should do going forward.

If you haven't read Sooner Than Tomorrow, it's still available on Blog 2. To read it from the beginning, read the Introduction in the navigation bar above, then go to "Scenes from the Trenches" June 14, 2017, in the Archives on the right hand side of the blog page. To continue reading, scroll up in the archives from June 14, 2017.  

I didn't know, as I was writing, that I was capturing the last year of my son's life. In my memoir,  his voice comes through loud and clear. However this goes, I'm grateful. In these pages, Pat will always be alive.

All my best, Dede

P.S. If you aren't subscribed to Blog I, it's continuing. Hope you'll sign on. If for nothing else, for Happy Pics :-)




To read "My Diary" from the beginning, go to "Scenes from the Trenches" June 14, 2017, in the Archives on the right hand side of the blog page. To continue reading, scroll up in the archives from June 14, 2017, and click on each individual diary post. If you have difficulty, message or email me and I'll walk you through it.

I didn't know, as I was writing, that I was capturing the last year of my son's life. His voice comes through loud and clear. For me, in these pages, he'll always be alive.

Pat and me in 1969

Pat and me in 1969

Dear Readers of A Mother's Diary,

I can't believe it's been a year since I began posting excerpts from my book every other week. I can't believe you've hung in there and read each blog entry.  I'm guessing, from your feedback, that the reading has been meaningful for you. I hope so.

First, thank you to my son, Patrick. Thank you for your poetry, your Facebook posts, and your life. You were/are one of the most courageous people I've ever known. 

Thank you to my daughters, Megan Mace, Marisa Farnsworth, and Kerry Joiner, for reading A Mother's Diary and giving me permission to put it out there, sharing our family and their families with the world. Your endorsement means everything to me.

Thank you to everyone I mentioned in the telling of my story. We're all in this thing we call "life" together.

Thank you to early readers whose comments are on the blog Diary Reviews page : Ann Hedrick, Pat West Guinn, Kathy Hayes, Mary Lyn Rusmore-Villaume, Rosemary Sarka, and Irene Underwood. You gave me the cojones to believe in myself.

Thank you to the "cheerleaders," those of you who sent me multiple emails, text messages, Facebook comments, cards, and letters: Joan Andersen, Tama Bell, Chris Biswell, Judy Bracken, Madeleine Cunningham, Bev Chinello, Deborah Fabos, Anne Schmidt Francisco, Heidi Franke, Sheila Ganz, Pat Guinn, Jeanne Gore, Kathy Hayes, Joyce Herrerias, Swannie Hoehn, Rose King, Nancy Krause, Joan Logue, Grace McAndrews, Jan McKim, Mary Murphy, Fran Neves, Liz Noel, Teresa Pasquini, Den Proudly, Karen Riches, Mary Lyn Rusmore-Villaume, Mary Sheldon, Stace Shurson, Sandy Turner, Irene Underwood, Kimberlee West, Annette Williamson, and so many more of you who left "likes" and "loves" on Facebook week after week. You kept me going, especially on the days when I thought, what am I doing?

Thank you to Sharon Lefkov, for proofing my pages for spellings and typos before I hit the "publish" button.

Acknowledgments also to Sue Clark, my first editor, who read every page out loud with me and assured me that "Yes, this is interesting." And to the Lincoln Library Writer's Class who listened, in the beginning, when Pat was still with us.

And finally, thank you to all of you — those I know and don't know — who've read Sooner Than Tomorrow - A Mother's Diary. Readers are the whole point of writing. The why in the what if.

I'm taking a short break from my blogs. About a month. Have to catch up with things like computer maintenance, organizing files, researching publishing options for my book, personal correspondence, spending time with family and friends, and generally giving myself a mental health break.

As we head full-tilt into summer, I wish you relaxing days, mental illness successes, and comfort in knowing you're part of a caring community. Until I return, thank you, again.



To read "My Diary" from the beginning, go to "Scenes from the Trenches" June 14, 2017, in the Archives on the right hand side of the blog page. To continue reading, scroll up in the archives from June 14, 2017, and click on each individual diary post. If you have difficulty, message or email me and I'll walk you through it.

I didn't know, as I was writing, that I was capturing the last year of my son's life. His voice comes through loud and clear. For me, in these pages, he'll always be alive.




After you had taken your leave,
I found God's footprints on my floor.

                         Rabindranath Tagore

Pat in 1988 before our world came undone.

Pat in 1988 before our world came undone.



An intricate hand manipulates the roar
until the spout ceases, providing
only drips, a minuscule rhythm,
and steaming ripples are interrupted
by toes, feet, and then, an entire beast.

Inspiration, expiration: the level
of water shifts with the lungs
and soon sleep overtakes the creature.
Ripples, steam, drips: all continue.
Our man and the window perspire.

Salt-filled beads push through tight tunnels
and emerge from a taut face to soft light.
Released from epidermic passages
they scatter a mandibular stretch to the chin,
dangle, then leap with a microscopic yelp.

They hit the abdominal runway, and sometimes split
before wiggling off to waterline.
It is here that they become something other than alone.
Once submerged, molecular dialogue occurs,
rumors regarding pending demise, lost friends,

and hints of a nexus beyond this container.

Patrick Ranahan
Published in
Latitude on 2nd
Cool Waters Media, Inc



June 17: Have a lunch date today with my 96-year-old maternal grandmother, Evelyn Funk Moon. I treasure these lunches with her.

June 18: Ok, so I caved and did something I swore I was never going to do. I played Candy Crush Saga for like two minutes and now I'm being inundated with Candy Crush requests. Please folks, I doubt if I will every play that stupid game again.

June 21: My schedule doesn't really provide any days off. So six days a week I have to be ready for work. Some days are marked with a B for backup which means that you don't know until morning if you have to work that day until your phone rings. Makes it hard to plan things or get things done. Today is a backup day for me so I am praying that my phone does not ring this morning from dispatch. A day off would be much appreciated.

This is how smart I am: I got up this morning and emptied all of my garbage from the house into the garbage can outside. Then I got in my car and drove to work without putting the garbage can out for collection. So it will sit for another week:
Chris: At least you remembered to get the garbage in the can.
Pat: So I've got that going for me.

June 22: Let the dog in, let the dog out, let the dog in, let the dog out, repeat.

June 23: One of the best lines from the Mother Hips new album, Chronicle Man is, "You can't win, but you can feel good trying."

June 24: Why do I have to leave the toilet seat down, why don't you leave the toilet seat up?
Tanya: What??
Patrick: Girls vs. boys
Brandi: We pee and #2 sitting down, so majority rules.
Patrick: That sounds like a personal problem.
Brandi: So...You #2 standing up? You have the problem
Patrick: Equal rights ma'am.
Erin: Plus you had 3 sisters and no brothers. Majority rules again!!! And I guess it's worse to fall into a toilet than to have to lift. But I've wondered about this before haha!
Shawn: Question I've had for years.
Patrick: Yes, Erin, precisely for the reason that I had to suffer through a childhood full of crazy women and no brothers, I am entitled to the privilege of leaving the toilet seat up.
Shawn: I've never understood how anyone sits down on anything, including a toilet, without looking where they are sitting.

June 28: At pre-High Sierra Music Festival meeting last night, learned that our campsite will be equipped with an air conditioned RV with a full kitchen, a full drum kit, numerous guitars, and other percussion instruments.

July 1: If you're in traffic and you have the right of way at an intersection, you're not doing anybody any favors if you wave other cars to go ahead when you're the one who is supposed to go.

July 3: Going offline for a few days at the High Sierra Music Festival. Time to face the music.
Chris: Have a great time Patrick.
Geoff: The Music Never Stopped.
Patrick: For a while it never started.
Lisa: Have fun Pat!!
Beth: Have fun!
Donna: Have a great time!!!

July 6: Just had one of the most restful, refreshing nights of deep sleep I've had in a long while. Outside in a tent and sleeping bag on the cold hard ground.

July 10: My next band is going to be called "Boobs Make the Package."



I had no idea, of course, when I began writing in June 2013, that not only was I recording my 70th year, I was also recording the last year of my son's life. I had no intention of including a "Before" or "After" section of my book. And then events necessitated a change of plan.

On July 9, Pat called about Lexi. "Hi, Mom. I think I have to take Lexi back."

"Why? What did she do?"

"She's destroying the house. She's torn up the bathroom floor. I think the whole thing will have to be replaced. I've got an appointment at four o'clock to take her back to the SPCA."

Pat was crying. This made me cry. "I feel stupid crying," he said.

"No, no. It's okay. This is hard. This is sad. I'd be more concerned if you weren't crying."

"I phoned Dad to see if he could take her on his ranch. He said, 'no.' I've failed her. I've let her down."

"Pat, you haven't failed her. No one's tried harder with this dog. And it's not fair to her to be cooped up all day while you're at work. She needs to be outside in a big space where she can run around. You're making a really tough decision but it's the right decision. Give yourself credit for doing the right thing."

"I feel like I'm not doing anything right."

"Well, from the outside looking in, you're doing many things right. Do you want me to go with you to take Lexi back?"

"No, I want to do this myself."

"Will you call me when you get home from the SPCA?"


At 5 p.m. Pat called again. "Hi, Mom."

"How did it go?"

"It was awful. I had to fill out lots of paperwork and the lady kept asking me, 'Are you sure you want to do this?' And I found out they're not a no-kill shelter. If they can't place her they'll put her down. The woman asked me if I wanted to be notified if they decide to put her down. At first I said, 'no' but then I said 'yes.' I'd have twenty-four hours to try to find a place for her. The lady wouldn't stop with her questions and I was about to break down, so I left."

"Do you want to come over for dinner?"

"No, I think I want to be alone tonight."

"Don't forget to take good care of you."

"I'm trying, Mom."

I was afraid to go over to Pat's house, my mother's property. I suspected I'd find much more damage than Pat had told me about. Whatever damage there was, it could be handled later. My son's emotional well-being came first.

Pat had enjoyed a wonderful weekend at the High Sierra Music Festival, a festival he'd wanted to go to for a long time. On Friday, July 11, Pat stopped by my house. He'd squeezed his money every which way to make it to the festival. "Mom, I mailed a check for my car's DMV renewal. Can you loan me one hundred twenty-seven dollars to cover it until my next pay day?"

Pat talked about having trouble sleeping. "I went to the hospital emergency room a couple days ago to get sleeping medication and I had a terrible day at work yesterday. I keep forgetting things. I had to go back to the store three times to pick up the parts I was supposed to deliver. I think it's because I'm so upset about Lexi."

I noticed Pat's slacks were hanging off of him. "Are you losing weight?"

"Yeah, well, I didn't realize how much working full time and trying to take care of Lexi were going to take out of me."

I gave Pat a check and invited him to stay for dinner but he said he had to get home because a friend was coming by. Later that evening, Pat called. "I meant to ask you earlier, but I forgot. Do you think I should tell my boss at work about my bipolar disorder?"

"Why are you thinking about this now?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I feel like I'm not being honest."

"Do you remember, Pat, the last time you confided to a supervisor about your illness, you lost your job? Why don't you wait and think about it?"

On Saturday, July 12, Pat collapsed at work. An ambulance took him to the hospital where he received anti-seizure medication. In the evening, Pat called to tell me what happened.

"The hospital didn't want to keep you overnight for observation?"

"No, they told me to go home and rest."

"Pat, do you want me to come over?"

"No, Mom. I'm really tired. I want to go to bed."

On Sunday morning, July 13, I texted Pat and asked, "How are you his morning?"

He texted back, "Do you want me to call you?"

"If you want to. I didn't want to wake you if you were sleeping."

Pat never called. Sometime later that day, he was 5150d to the hospital in an agitated state of manic psychosis. The hospital didn't call to let me know about Pat's admission. I found out he was in the hospital psych ward when he called my brother, Jim. Pat had filled out an Advanced Care Directive listing Jim and me as his preferred contacts. 

I hired a cleaning crew to clean Pat's house and a carpet cleaner. I wanted to see if something would salvage the carpet which reeked of dog urine. I picked up Pat's dirty clothes, towels, and bedding and brought them home to launder them. I bought a new frying pan to replace his old grungy one. I wanted everything to be as nice as it could be when Pat got back to his house. And I went to the SPCA to check on Lexi. She'd been adopted, already, by a couple who lived out in the country.

On Thursday, July 17, Kerry and I went to the hospital to see Pat. We didn't know how he would receive us. When we walked into his room, he was sitting up in a hospital bed with his wrists in restraints. He didn't look like the same person I'd seen the week before. His hair hung stringy and unwashed, and his face, pale and thin, was unshaven. His eyes gleamed wildly but he was glad to see us.

"Mom, the nurses don't believe me. You can tell them. Tell them I have a black half-brother."

My heart sank. After six days in the hospital, Pat was still delusional. I shook my head. "Pat, you don't have a black half-brother."

Pat was also upset because he couldn't find his wallet. Although we'd already been in his house to clean it, Kerry was concerned that he'd be angry when he found out we were there without his permission. "Pat," she said, "Do you want us to look for your wallet in your house?"

"Yes, that's a good idea."

The nurses were getting ready to move Pat onto a different floor. Kerry and I waited in the hallway until they wheeled his bed out of his room. As they pushed him away down the hall, I yelled to the back of his head, "I love you, Pat."

Without turning around, he yelled back, "Love you too, Mom."

Those were the last words we'd ever hear each other say.

Kaiser told us they would be transferring Pat to an outside psychiatric facility when a bed became available. It turned out, without our knowledge, they transferred him out of the county to Woodland Memorial Hospital - over 50 miles away. We found out where Pat was when he called Jim again.

Meanwhile, I was trying to get through to a doctor. Jim told a doctor who'd spoken him that I was also on Pat's advanced directive and it was okay to talk to me. But no one called. I called Kaiser Membership Services. Since Pat was no longer in their care, they said they couldn't help me. I called a number for Woodland Memorial asking to talk to Pat's doctor. I was told, "The doctor spoke with your brother. He doesn't have time to talk to everyone in the family."

On Tuesday, July 22, a woman called me from Woodland Memorial. She asked, "What is your discharge plan for your son?"

I lost it. "I have no discharge plan. No one has updated me on his status. What's happening with him?"

"Well," this woman said, "your son is very ill and needs long-term housing in a psych board and care facility. Does he receive disability to pay for his care? Do you know what medications have worked for him in the past?"

Now I was sobbing. "I don't know what worked for him in the past," I screamed. "I wasn't given that information. Don't you have his psych records from Kaiser?"

The woman wasn't sure. She said she'd check.

I hung up the phone. I could barely put one foot in front of the other. My legs felt like lead. All we'd worked for, all Pat had worked for was gone — his dog, his job, his independent living, his mind. How could he face all this loss when he came home?

Tuesday evening, Pat called Jim again. "Uncle Jim, they're killing people here. You have to help me get out of here. I have a car and a driver waiting behind the hospital. Help me get out of here."

Jim said, "Hang in there, Pat. We're working with your doctors to get you home as soon as possible. Do what your doctors say."

When I went to bed Tuesday night, I despaired. I said out loud to the walls, "I give up. I have no idea what to do."

Wednesday morning, July 23, as I sat at my kitchen table, the phone rang. It was a nurse from Woodland Memorial.  "We're moving your son to the ICU. A doctor will call you shortly."

The ICU? What was happening? At last, a doctor was going to talk to me. Twenty minutes after the first call, my phone rang again. This time a doctor spoke. "I'm sorry, your son, Patrick, died fifteen minutes ago. We believe he had a seizure. We tried for thirty minutes to save him. I'm sorry."

I froze. My son wasn't hoping to die. He'd told me, when he was admitted to the hospital for a possible seizure that recent Saturday, the doctor gave him a prescription and directed him to go "down the hall that dead ends in double doors to the pharmacy." The phrase "dead ends" rattled Pat. "I couldn't wait to get home," he said.

After going round and round with Woodland Memorial for a week after Pat died, trying to get an autopsy and a toxicology report, the county coroner stepped in and took charge of the process. Six months later, the coroner's report would say the cause of death was inconclusive: "Possible seizure or possible cardiac arrest."

I could write more about the last few weeks of Pat's life, my frustration and anger with our mental illness system (there is none), and the drastic need for change — sooner than tomorrow. I'd make a case for effective, compassionate care for our seriously mentally ill. I'd point out tragedies that could have been prevented and the urgent need for beds and housing. I'd challenge outrageous HIPAA laws that prevent moms and dads like me from giving and receiving life-saving information. I'd talk about our missing and homeless children and mothers and fathers. I'd tell stories about our sons and daughters in jails and prisons and solitary confinement without treatment and on and on... My writing would turn into a tirade and that rant is for another time. Not here. Not on sacred ground.

When he died, Pat had one dollar and fifty cents in his checking account. The first day I went to pick up his mail, I found a postcard from a student at Hampshire College, his alma mater. The young man thanked Pat for a ten-dollar donation he'd recently made to the college.

Pat's donor certificate.jpg

On August 26, what would have been Pat's 46th birthday, a certificate arrived in the mail. Per Pat's instructions on his Advanced Care Directive, his eyes had been harvested. The certificate read, "In deepest gratitude we honor and remember Patrick Sean Ranahan. Thank you on behalf of all transplant recipients whose eyes were touched by your generous heroic gifts."

On September 7, over 130 family members and friends attended Pat's Celebration of Life. I put million bells, their one-gallon containers wrapped in burlap and tied with raffia, on each of 20 tables. Twenty million bells for Pat.

Ten months since Pat's passing, I'm still stuck in disbelief. My grief's raw and, at times, overwhelming. We both tried so hard for so long. In spite of all the ups and downs, I liked the world better when Pat was in it. I miss him and want him back. Some days I feel like I'm suspended in jello and moving in slow motion. This morning, however, I'm heartened on my morning walk.

The killdeer is back on her nest in the same brown and gray rocks as before, one block over. No trees shade her. No bushes hide her from predators. She sits on her four new eggs — faithful, vulnerable, determined. "You inspire me little Mama Bird, and I wish you the best. We mothers have to stick together."

As I'm writing, The Jazz is tromping back and forth in front of my computer screen. "It's time for us to go outside," she says.

Guess I gotta go. I have to end, for now. I'll close with an image from the distant past. An image that — for some reason — lingers in my memory:

Pat called. Out of the blue.
He'd been homeless and missing for over a month.
"Mom, can you come get me?"
Pat was waiting for me at the Pleasanton BART station.
I drove there, immediately, around 11 p.m.
In the dark, I spotted him at the far end of the empty parking lot.
He didn't notice my car approaching. 
His attention was on something else.
Standing straight and tall, with his arms at his sides and
his head tilted back, 
Pat, my son, was looking up at the stars. 



JULY 23, 2014

Kerry Ranahan Joiner: Dear Facebook Friends of Patrick Ranahan, Pat passed away this morning. We miss him so much! We will celebrate his life — details later.

Marilyn: Kerry, what happened? Please let me know if I can help.

Emma: Kerry, love to you and the entire Ranahan family. You are all in our prayers.

Anna Lynn: My heart is in my throat. I am shocked. Please let me know if there is anything I can do. I send my love to all the family.

Jen: Ron and I are in shock. He just said a few minutes before I read this that he needed to call Pat. So very sorry for your loss. Our thoughts are with your entire family.

Steve: I can't believe this. So very sorry, we had just started communicating again. Wow. My thoughts are with you as well.

Mara: We were so shocked and sad to hear this. Much love from the Johnson family.

Barri: I am so sorry.

Veronica: I'm so very sorry to hear. My thoughts and prayers to the family.

Lara: I'm so heart broken. I'm so sorry for your loss.

Steve: So sad. We had just started talking again via Facebook. My thoughts and prayers are with your family.

Lauren: So sorry for your loss. This is heart breaking.

Chris: So sorry for your loss. I have just announced it to all of our classmates in our Cal High group. He will be missed.

Shannon: We are so very sorry to hear this. Our thoughts and prayers are with you and your family.

Laura: My heart and thoughts are with you and your family. I have enjoyed seeing Pat on FB, his posts and have great memories. Thank you for letting us know though it is sad, sad news. We will celebrate his life.

Paul: I love you Pat. You will always be with me.

Dana: What a shock! He was working and playing, enjoying life, which I know was a tough journey for him. Thank you for informing everyone. How sad.

Angie: So sorry to hear. I am glad to have had this time reconnecting with him through Facebook.

Pam: I am so sorry about Patrick's passing at a time when it seemed he was enjoying life. His creativity and love for music was very compelling and created so much meaning for him. I will always remember his engaging smile and beautiful bright eyes.

Elissa: I'm so, so sorry to hear about Patrick Ranahan. We met in the early 90s, through Deb Matson's husband Steve. Pat was a sweet, gentle soul with a wicked sense of humor. He will be missed. Sending love to his family and friends.

Trent: Sad news to hear. He will be missed.

Tanya: Oh this is so sad.

Merideth: I keep thinking of the posts I saw in the last week while Pat was at the High Sierra Music festival and the absolute joy he was expressing in being surrounded by music. Just heartbreaking to know he is not here anymore, but I know that music will keep his spirit alive.

Dan: Very sad to hear. Our thoughts and prayers are with his family.

Brad: Heavy heart today. Very sad news. His family will be in our prayers. Rest in peace, Pat.

Brandi: I'm stunned and saddened. I enjoyed talking with him about music and politics. He could always make me laugh, even when we would disagree. He will be missed greatly.

Ryan: It was always great catching up with Pat at the Ranahan Super Bowl parties or reading his Facebook posts. Good guy so sad to read about this.

Donna: I am so very sorry to hear this. He became one of my great Facebook friends. My heart is very sad at the news. Yes, even as a young boy he always loved music! My love for you Patrick RIP.

Leslie: Oh no! He was such a sweet guy! What happened? RIP Pat!

Cheryl: Oh no! My thoughts and prayers are with the family. Rest in peace, Pat.

Angela: I am shocked! So sad. He was such a great guy. 1st one to ever buy me room service...yeah 10 year old kid got room service steak.

Cindy: So shockingly sad. Prayers for comfort and strength for all his loved ones.

Stephanie: I always enjoyed Patrick's company, his unique sense of humor, his love for music and his perseverance in the face of adversity. My heart goes out to the family at this sad time.

Monica: I am very sorry to hear this. God's blessing to Pat and all his family.

Kerry Ranahan Joiner: As bizarre as it is to tell people over Facebook we couldn't think of how else to reach all Pat's friends. I want to thank you for the kind words. We are finding it comforting to read while we grieve.

Megan Ranahan Mace: One of Pat's final Instagram posts was a sign at the High Sierra Music Festival; "You are the music while the music lasts." He was very happy at the festival sharing the joy of music with several friends. He also loved sharing his prized guitar in a jam session with his nieces and nephews on July 1. It is with heavy hearts that we share the news of his unexpected passing. Dear Pat, will miss you and your music. Love, Megan

Darrell: So sorry to hear of Pat's passing. Our hearts of out to the entire Ranahan family — great memories with Pat that will last forever. What a great human being.

Penny: So sorry to hear this. My thoughts to you and his family.

Mark: I was lucky enough to be at High Sierra with him over the 4th of July weekend. He really enjoyed it. We all did. Glad I have that memory. RIP Pat.

Kate: Megan, so sorry to hear of this loss. So many memories of Pat. He was a good friend and always made everyone laugh. A very kind soul.

Shawn: My goodness. That is sad news. Rest easy Pat.

Angela: Megan, so sorry to hear of this. I have many fond memories of Pat throughout our childhood and adult years. He always made me laugh! My thoughts and prayers are with you and your family. Love and hugs to all!!

Lisa: I'm so sad. I just saw Pat and spent time with him before the 4th at the Tesla concert and horse races. He showed John how it was done at the track. RIP my friend.

Karin: I am so saddened to hear this news. We had such a nice time at High Sierra Music Festival and you were telling me how well you were doing and thanked me for my support through hard times. I thought the hard times were behind you. What a great guy, with a HUGE heart and a wonderful spirit. I will keep your memory in my heart forever. You will be greatly missed my friend! Truly this planet lost a very special person. May you keep shining your light from above.

Tony: One of the few guys everyone liked. So sorry to hear it.

Dennis: I was here in California with my dad the day Patrick was born in Chicago and made him a grandfather for the first time. Dad's Irish eyes glistened with joy at the thought of Mike becoming a father. While the shock of losing this young man is still raw with emotion, I am comforted somewhat with the thought that Pat is now with both his grandfathers and all their eyes are smiling bright in heaven. By the way, because Patrick called his mother's dad, Pop, his beloved grandmother Evelyn, he quickly named Mop.

Jen: I miss you Pat. Thank you for making me laugh countless times over the past almost 30 years. I love that every time I saw you, you always picked up like no time had passed at all. I'm so grateful that I got to see you a few summers ago at Marisa's. I'm going to miss all of your funny Facebook posts. Most of all, I'm sad for your family because they loved you with all their hearts. I truly believe that you're an angel now, so please watch over and take care of them. RIP.

Daryl: So many memories of our friendship Pat. Garcia's, our venture to start Mad Dash Video, we spent so much work on that. I still have a copy of our prospective. We did a great job but too young for anyone to invest in us. Our idea became Netflix! The great times we spent hanging at your house. The Garcia's Christmas party. It was so great we reconnected on FB. I will miss you my friend.

Dede Ranahan: Thanks so much to everyone who is posting about Pat. Your comments are very helpful to us. I was retrieving papers from Pat's car and I found this undated, handwritten and signed statement. I'm sharing it with you. Thank you for loving him. Dede (Pat's Mom)

I, Patrick Ranahan, forgive and release and wish blessings upon all
who I have held grudges against, or have perceived to have done
me harm. I forget all past condemnation, and wish nothing but the
best and divine fulfillment and inspiration to all of those I have held
in enmity in my mind and soul. God bless all beings.

Chris: I'd like to go into great detail but can't release the flood gates. Patrick was a fantastic friend while he was up here in Oregon; so funny, thoughtful and caring. He had the most entertaining life I could ever imagine.

Roger: So sad that I never got to reconnect. You were a very important person to me in high school. Thanks for everything Pat.

Steve: 4th grade we started to play the trumpet. By the time we went to Pine Valley, Pat was first chair. I was second. The battle was on between Pat, Ron G, and myself. Through 7th, 8th, 9th, 10th, 11th and 12th grades. Cal High had some of the most talented individuals that later became great musicians. Every year at the Reno Jazz festival we won four years in a row. Pat's love for people and music touched everyone he came into contact with. My trumpet that I played with Pat is hanging on my wall in  21, 2018my office. Live to the high potential, treat people with respect, love people and be happy. That was Pat. He never changed. RIP brother. Our condolences to your family.

Anker: I met Pat in 1989 in the first year we both arrived at Hampshire College. He was one of the people I counted on knowing as an old man; tying myself to memories of the beauty and possibility of youth, as only one who has shared the pinnacle of it with you can. The loss of this friendship will leave a hole in me that cannot be filled: Pat's perspective on life and the words he used to describe it cannot be replicated.

Dede Ranahan: I'm reading Maya Angelou quotes. I like to think that Maya and Pat are engaged in a rich discussion about the poetry they both love and are becoming friends.



"So," my five-year-old granddaughter, Ayla,
asks her mom, "we can still talk to Uncle Pat, right?"
"Right," Kerry answers.
Ayla's quiet and then says, as if pointing out the obvious,
"All we have to do is look up."


(Wit, Wisdom, and a Big Hug from the Universe)







I think it's a special kind of talent you have in making people feel what you write. That's a powerful gift and I hope you continue using your writing skills to paint the picture of what life is like for many people with SMI and their loved ones. Thanks for what you do!  Channin Henry Williams

I so love you, and I have grown to love your son Pat as well. It is a part of why I cherished the Diary. The other reason is, because you speak so well from your heart, the grief, the anguish, and the love that I feel for my son too, Masai. Crying with you. Tama Bell

Dede, you have put words to heart breaking loss and frustration with our system failure like no one else. Thank you for sharing. Joyce Herrerias

Keep up the good work on sooner than tomorrow and keep up your brilliant diary. When is it coming out in book please? I would love a copy. Den Proudly, UK

I can so much relate to what you and the rest of us mothers are dealing with every day. 22 years for me and it just gets worse year by year. Dale Pupkin Milfay

If only this was all contrived drama. It's so visceral. Your writing is crisp and fresh. I love how you have your day mapped out on the page that makes it easy to read. Having it in sections. You are an artist. "I didn't know, as I was writing, that I was capturing the last year of my son's life." This breaks my heart. Heidi Franke


To read "My Diary" from the beginning, go to "Scenes from the Trenches" June 14, 2017, in the Archives on the right hand side of the blog page. To continue reading, scroll up in the archives from June 14, 2017, and click on each individual diary post. If you have difficulty, message or email me and I'll walk you through it.

I didn't know, as I was writing, that I was capturing the last year of my son's life. His voice comes through loud and clear. For me, in these pages, he'll always be alive.

If you're reading and liking "A Mother's Diary," please let me know. I'm building a case for getting it published — one way or the other. Thanks. 

Please share my blog/book with "other wayfarers who might catch a resonating echo while wandering in my woods." Thanks.



After you had taken your leave,
I found God's footprints on my floor.
Rabindranath Tagore

Patrick Ranahan


I had no idea, of course, when I began writing in June 2013, that not only was I recording my 70th year, I was also recording the last year of Pat's life. I had no intention of including a "Before" or "After" section of my book. And then events necessitated a change of plan...


"So," my five-year-old granddaughter, Ayla, asks her mom,
"we can still talk to Uncle Pat, right?"
"Right," Kerry answers.
Ayla's quiet and then says, as if pointing out the obvious,
"All we have to do is look up."

(Wit, Wisdom, and a Big Hug from the Universe)
I love you forever.

To subscribe and receive email notices of new book posts every other week, enter your email address in the box on the right at the top of the page, and hit the Sign Up button. If you have any trouble subscribing, send me an email and I'll sign you up from my end :-)

Pat and me in 1969

Pat and me in 1969

A MOTHER'S DIARY by Dede Ranahan JUNE 1, 2014 - JUNE 14, 2014

One of Those Days * MRI Scan *Specialness Everywhere * Time is Ticking By * D-Day * Thinking of you, Pop * Patrick's Facebook Post *  Patrick's Facebook Post * Patrick Facebook Post * When There's a Need, Do Something * Ending

To read "My Diary" from the beginning, go to "Scenes from the Trenches" June 14, 2017, in the Archives on the right hand side of the blog page. To continue reading, scroll up in the archives from June 14, 2017, and click on each individual diary post. If you have difficulty, message or email me and I'll walk you through it.

I didn't know, as I was writing, that I was capturing the last year of my son's life. His voice comes through loud and clear. For me, in these pages, he'll always be alive.



More and more often I find myself saying, "For crying out loud." Some "crying out loud" examples from my recent past:

A red sock slipped out of my sweater sleeve in front of the checkout clerk at Safeway. I felt better when I recalled, at duplicate bridge, a man shook his pants leg and his wife's undies fell on the floor.  I assumed they were his wife's.

I tried on a bathrobe at Target and it left white, clingy lint all over my navy blue sweatsuit. I hurried out of the store looking like a scruffy bird in molting season. A big, scruffy bird.

Which brings us to today.

This morning I scampered around the neighborhood with my t-shirt on backwards. And right now, I'm  searching high and low for a bag of books. There are only so many places in this house that it can be. I've rifled through every drawer, cupboard, and closet, and looked under every bed three times. I remember thinking, I'll put the bag here so I'll know where it is.

The question is, where is "here?"

Gotta get off the computer and get back to the hunt. For crying out loud. It's one of those days.


JUNE 2, 2014: MRI SCAN

It's 7:45 p.m. I'm sitting in my car in front of Pat's house waiting for him to come out. I'm here to drive him to Kaiser for his six-month MRI to check if his brain tumor has returned.

We're quiet in the car. Pat gives me directions. "Turn left." "Turn right."

Walking into the hospital, Pat's six strides ahead of me, hands in his pockets. What's he thinking? Is he afraid? He'll take an Ativan, when he checks in, to make himself drowsy through the MRI scan.

I sit in the waiting room. There's one other woman reading a magazine and a young boy occupied with an electric game. The TV's blaring. I'm trying to read but it's impossible to concentrate in competition with the TV. I get up and ask the woman and the boy if they're watching the television. They're not. I turn the sound off. The new distraction, with the TV off, is the repetitive beeping of a monitor. Do hospital personnel get used to this sound and tune it out? Who and what is being monitored. Is it serious? There's an announcement over the intercom.

"Rapid response team report to 2 North, room 2106. Rapid response team report to 2 North, room 2106."

Again, who and what is being attended to. Is it life threatening? After forty-five minutes, Pat returns. "How did it go?"


As we walk through the hospital's empty corridors, I'm struck by the cold decor — the green and gray walls, the predominance of glass and steel. Feels like a prison, not a place of healing.

Back at his house, Pat get out of the car. "I have to take Lexi for a walk. Thanks for the ride. Talk to you later."

So much unsaid. So much hanging in the balance.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Let's hope that today I can avoid the mistake I made the other day of working for a couple hours in the ninety degree heat with two miniature chocolate bars melting in my pants pocket.



A woman with gray hair is writing out a check as I arrive at the thrift store. She's ecstatic. She's found a 1980s prom dress with puffy sleeves and yards and yards of pink satin. "It's perfect. I'm Mother Goose for the twenty-fifth anniversary of my hometown library. I used to be Mother Goose there, years ago, and I was afraid I wouldn't find the right dress to turn into a Mother Goose costume."

Another woman, who's joined the mental illness support group, walks in. She gives me a hug. Her young son is coming from his group home to be with her for his birthday. For the last three weeks he's taken a new medication and there's a change. My friend says her son tells her he's feeling more confident. He says, "You know, Mom, how I told you I didn't think I could make it in life? Now I think maybe I can. I'm feeling kind of normal."

I'm tearing up. My friend's tearing up. She buys a coat for $1. She buys a pair of shoes for $2 for the eight year-old daughter of a friend. "The little girl's in fifth grade, already wears a size eight shoe, and is over five feet tall. The other kids are giving her a hard time. I want to give her some individual attention."

A trim, stylishly dressed woman steps to the counter holding a black, sleeveless dress. "Is there someplace I can try this on?" I direct her to our restroom/dressing room.

A man and his daughter buy Indian jewelry, a boomerang with Indian designs on it, and an Indian doll for $20. "We're from the Central Valley and every time I drive through Lincoln I've wanted to come in this store."

"What will you do with all the Indian motif?"

"I live out in the country and have a room decorated in Indian decor. Something different for when my neighbors drop in."

During a lull, I poke around. I find a quote on a small plaque. "God put me here to accomplish certain things. Right now I'm so far behind, I'll never die." I buy the plaque for $1. I'll hang it on the wall beside my computer.

The woman with the black dress comes back. "Looks like it worked for you."

"Yes, but I may only wear it one time."

"Is it for a special occasion?"

"My son-in-law's memorial service. He was killed last month in a snowmobile accident. Yesterday, my daughter woke up from a medically induced coma, thank God. Now that she's awake, we can hold a celebration of life ceremony for her husband."

It's hard to find words. "I'm sorry for your loss. I'm glad your daughter's recovering."

With people coming in and out, time goes by quickly. At 2:30 p.m., Pat sends me a text. "MRI results came in. No sign of enhancement or disease in any area."

I text him back. "Awesome!!!!!!"

Another ordinary day. Yet it's remarkable in so many ways.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Got the results from my routine follow-up six month MRI which state: no sign of disease or enhancement in any area. Good news indeed.
Shannon:  Awesome news Pat!!
Angie:  So happy for you!
Anker: The force is strong within you Pat!
Patrick: Sometimes I feel like I deserve a friggin' medal.



I'm almost to the end of my year-long journal. Soon I have to go back to the beginning and read what I've written. I'm aware of the responsibilities inherent in this personal recording. A few of the questions I'm mulling over:

  • Which entries need to stay and which need to go?
  • Will anyone I've written about be hurt or offended?
  • Should these pages stay hidden away until everyone mentioned in them is gone?
  • How can I write about my life without including others? Like a vine, I can't tell my story without noting the supporting framework.

Have to sort out the answers to these and other questions. Time is ticking by.

Midnight housework giving me the blues,
daytime job pays for my shoes,
Eight solid hours of carrying another man's load,
such is the life of a previous toad.
Time at home should be filled with mirth,
but most of the time it dwindles to filth.
What to eat, what to wear,
when to speak, when to care,
these are the thoughts that action the air.
What kind of comedy show is this?


JUNE 6, 2014: D-DAY

Some days should never be forgotten. D-Day is one of them. Today's the 70th anniversary of D-Day in World War II. In 1944, Hitler's forces occupied France, held Poland, and were bombarding England with German rockets. The situation looked grim.

To turn the tide, the largest sea, land, and air invasion in history took place at Normandy, France, on June 6. One hundred and seventy-five thousand Allied soldiers stormed the beaches. Twelve thousand soldiers sustained wounds and over 4,000 US and Allied soldiers died. At the end of the day, the assault was proclaimed victorious. It changed the course of the war.

On D-Day, I was 17 days old fighting a battle of my own. A preemie, born six weeks early and weighing in at four pounds, five ounces, I was clinging to life in a hospital incubator. My little lungs needed time and an assist to fully develop. It would be over a month before my worried mother could pick me up and take me home. A year later, On V-E Day (Victory in Europe), May 8, 1945, my mother would wrap me in her arms and cry as the end of the war was announced on the radio.

I came into the world at the same time many brave American and Allied citizens were leaving it. I wasn't aware of the historic events swirling around me or of the sacrifices of my grown-up countrymen and women. The youngest soldier on D-Day would be about 88 years old now.

I'm pausing to honor the few still living survivors and those who fought and died to make the world a safe place for me, my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. I insert my flag into the metal holder attached to the side of the house by my garage door. I look up and down my street and see one or two flags flapping in the breeze. Shouldn't there be more? Shouldn't the street be decked out like the Fourth of July? Could it be we're beginning to forget a day we should always remember?





Pop, you've been on my mind a lot in the last few weeks leading up to today's 146th Belmont Stakes. In the past couple of months, California Chrome, a California born and bred horse, has whipped up new excitement for the fading sport of horse racing.

This muscular, chestnut horse oozes star appeal. He basks in attention and poses for photo ops. He's won the Derby and the Preakness. A win today will give him horse racing's Triple Crown, the first time a California horse has won it.

I can hear you cheering him on, Pop. "Run Chrome, run. Go. Go. Go."

I'm screaming the same words myself. "Run Chrome, run. Go. Go. Go."

But no, it's not to be. Our Chrome has lost his historic bid and tied for fifth place. It's not his day in the sun.

The last time a horse won the Triple Crown was in 1978, six months before you passed, Pop. The Triple Crown was not on my radar then, but you relished watching Affirmed and jockey Steve Cauthen win that day. You talked about it for weeks.

You loved horse racing. Every time you sold a house, you'd stash five $20 bills in your wallet and head for Bay Meadows Race Track. Sometimes you won. You'd burst through the front door with a twinkle in your eye, grinning from ear to ear. "I won five hundred dollars today, Mama." Sometimes you lost. Then you'd slink in the side door like a guilty little kid who'd lifted a pack of gum from the five and dime.

The first time you took me to the races, it was at Santa Anita Race Track in Arcadia, California. I was ten years-old and too young to bet. You told me to pick a horse and you'd place a bet for me. I studied the racing form in the newspaper. I read about the jockeys and the odds. Before each race, I closed my eyes and ran my fingers up and down the racing program. I was waiting for a sign.

In the eighth race, I opened my eyes and saw my fingers squarely fixed on entry number six. I'd found my horse. For The Best. I knew it. I just knew it. You held two one-dollar bills in your hand, Pop. You'd place the bet or give me the cash. The betting windows were closing. What to do?

I chose the sure thing. I stuffed the two one-dollar bills in my coat pocket. For The Best, a long shot, won easily and paid 40 to 1. The crowd roared. I dropped my head on my knees and curled up in a ball. I wanted to turn back the clock and ask you to place my bet. I wanted to bet on another horse but I didn't have another hunch. The bitterest blow was still to come.

James said, "Place my bet, Pop," and his horse won. While you pulled our car out of the Santa Anita parking lot, my cocky little brother sat in the backseat counting and recounting his eighteen dollars in winnings. I stared at the cloudy sky out my side window. I was afraid if I looked at James I'd kill him.

California Chrome is kicking up these memories. I'm my deflated ten-year-old self again. I want to turn back the clock, reset today's race, and watch California Chrome bring home the Triple Crown. I want to see Chrome and his jockey, Victor Espinoza, bedecked with roses in the Winner's Circle.

Wherever you are — on a cloud or a star — like me, you're reeling. Another horse-racing broken dream. I'm thinking of you, Pop.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: Northern California is going nuts over California Chrome. So as the horse race was about to begin, the parts department became vacant of parts workers. Everyone more or less abandoned their posts and gathered in the aisles of the auto parts store with their necks flexed so they could look up at the live broadcast of the race.



I'm thinking about what to do with my dog Lexi while I am at the High Sierra Music Festival for four days in July. And I'm thinking maybe about leaving her with my mom or my sister or a friend and then I realize no, this is Lexi, and she deserves a five star experience. So Lexi has a four day reservation at the West Roseville Pet Resort where she will play with other dogs, get exercise, eat well, be comfortable, and even be treated to a massage, hot bath, blow dry, and yes, honest to God, an anal gland stimulation before being dusted with a gentle perfume and awarded a brand new royalty bandana.
Cody: I want to stay there.
Patrick: I'm sure that can be arranged, Cody.





I know I am on the right track when I encounter pregnant women.
Connie: Please explain
Patrick: I know I'm in the right place when there are pregnant women around. They are the epitome of free, healthy space.



Bucket List: Play guitar with Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers.



A little over a year ago, I started a Family Mental Illness Support Group for Sun City Lincoln Hills residents. I put a notice about a first meeting in the local newspaper and in the SCLH magazine. I had no idea if anyone would show up.

Twenty-two people arrived at my house. Some decided the group was not what they needed. Others found regular attendance hampered by complications in their lives. I decided I'd continue posting meeting times and locations in the newspaper until no one appeared. Then I'd give it a rest. Some months seemed iffy. Six people would show up. Other months there'd be ten. Working in the Snap it Up thrift store, I met a woman not from Lincoln Hills. She asked if she could come to the meetings. I ran it by the group and they said, "Of course."

Today is our 14th meeting in a conference room at a local grocery store. There are 12 people in attendance. Five of them are new to the group. The woman from the thrift shop is here. She's telling of her ongoing challenges with her eleven-year-old adopted son. She's a single mom. Her son wants to come home from his group home.  She wants him to come home but he has to get through summer school first. A new man asks, "Does your son have a male role model?"

"No, no one seems to want to take on this kid with issues developed in utero. His mom was a meth addict. My son's cells produce meth. Sometimes he has no impulse control. His little body has ballooned from forty-five to ninety-five pounds from all the meds he's taking. He's paying the price for his birth mother's addiction."

She continues. "I'm being christened tomorrow into the Mormon Church. I'm not sure yet about all aspects of Mormonism, but I'm impressed with the young missionaries who keep coming to my house to teach me about their religion. I'm hoping the social network in the church will provide a mentor for my son."

The group moves on to other people while the mom and the new gentleman quietly continue a private conversation. Our meeting ends. On the way out I tell my friend, "I respect your decision to be baptized into the Mormon faith." She says something that blows me away.

"The new couple who came today are Mormon. They're attending my christening tomorrow. The man's offering to spend time with my son. To be his big brother or acting grandfather. Dede, it was my lucky day when I met you in the thrift store."

If nothing else comes from this little support group, it will have served its purpose. You never can tell where one small effort might lead. When there's a need, do something. Anything. Then wait and watch what happens.


JUNE 14, 2014: ENDING

Right foot. Left foot.

Right foot. Left foot.

Footstep after footstep I configure my life.

Right foot. Left foot.

Right foot. Last foot.

Footsteps and life end so soon.

In May, 2014 I turned 70. I've kept a written record of my milestone year. Today, I feel like I've stepped out of a forest into a clearing free of shrubs and underbrush. I don't know how long I'll idle here or what type of terrain is waiting 'round the bend.

I intend this recounting as a gift for my myself, my descendants, and other wayfarers who catch a resonating echo while wandering in my woods.

It's later than I'd like but sooner than tomorrow.

Maya Angelou said, "There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."

Let's see.

PATRICK'S FACEBOOK POST: I currently reside at Latitude: 38.7934560. Longitude: -121.2900540. Elevation: 45.45.m.




After you had taken your leave,
I found God's footprints on my floor.
Rabindranath Tagore

Patrick Ranahan


I had no idea, of course, when I began writing in June 2013, that not only was I recording my 70th year, I was also recording the last year of Pat's life. I had no intention of including a "Before" or "After" section of my book. And then events necessitated a change of plan...


"So," my five-year-old granddaughter, Ayla, asks her mom,
"we can still talk to Uncle Pat, right?"
"Right," Kerry answers.
Ayla's quiet and then says, as if pointing out the obvious,
"All we have to do is look up."

(Wit, Wisdom, and a Big Hug from the Universe)
I love you forever.

To subscribe and receive email notices of new book posts every other week, enter your email address in the box on the right at the top of the page, and hit the Sign Up button. If you have any trouble subscribing, send me an email and I'll sign you up from my end :-)