Tuesday, December 12, 2017

The Healing Power of Music for Our Mental Health


The power of music for our mental health and for uplifting our spirits( souls) are well documented(A). For example when my wife (Macrine) and I feel depressed or lonely we play our favorite songs. In the case of my wife, she would play her favorite Julio Iglesias Sr songs.

(https://www.billboard.com/articles/columns/latin-notas/5719517/julio-iglesias-turns-70-celebrate-with-some-of-his-best-loved)

In my case I listened to my favorite piano or violin concertos(https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aXYtJB7Qslk).

Our favorite music are either vocal, instrumental or choral music.

Just recently Macrine first cousin in the Philippines ( Rene Nieva) tagged me in Facebook with his piano playing of Some Enchanting Evening from South Pacific. He wrote that this piece has lifted Macrine's feeling of being lonely because of her Parkinson Disease.


Here's a short reprint from Rene Nieva FB page.

"I recall one time when we -- Yong, Oskie, Genny and I -- visited Manong Dave and Manang Macrine in their beautiful Chateau du Mer Resort in Marinduque some years back. Manang Macrine was not feeling well at the time and was quiet at first. But when we serenaded her with "Some Enchanted Evening", which happened to be a favorite of hers, she perked up and ended up singing along with us. We were so happy to hear her doing so that we were on the verge of tears. Such was the power of music to drive suffering and loneliness away, and would always be so ".
(A) https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/brick-brick/201402/does-music-have-healing-powers

Friday, December 8, 2017

76th Anniversary of the Bombing of Pearl Harbor


Yesterday was the 76th Anniversary of the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor that started the Japanese-American War of World War II. The History TV channel had a 2-hour special documentary featuring a few survivors of that historic event that changed the US and made it the most powerful military nation of the world. The documentary also discussed the similarities ( poor intelligence gathering and communication) of the bombing of Pearl Harbor and the World Trade Center.

If you are a history enthusiast the above documentary is a must see. The above documentary reminded me of my award winning trilogy on my childhood memories of the Japanese-American war in the Philippines published in my Hubpages.com account as follows:

https://hubpages.com/literature/my-childhood-memories-of-world-war-2

For details on the 76th Anniversary celebration of the Bombing of Pearl Harbor read:

http://pearlharborevents.com/?gclid=EAIaIQobChMIqfHav5P71wIVhuNkCh1k-gpTEAAYASAAEgKn4_D_BwE

Thursday, December 7, 2017

Three Ways of Retarding Progression of Parkinson Disease


Macrine(a) Nieva Jambalos, my spouse of 60 years has Parkinson since 2013. There is no cure for Parkinson's as of this writing date. However to retard the progression of her neurological disorder- her neurologist recommends her therapy be attack in three ways-medication, diet and exercise. So far this three way regimen appear to be retarding the progression of her Parkinson's.

First is Medication: Currently Macrine takes 3 tablets of carbido levodopa. 25/100mg, 4 times during the day in the following regimem-one tablet in the morning, then one-half tablet after 5 hours, then another whole tablet for the next 4 hours and one-half tablet before bed time. She is also taking a stool softener( constipation as side effect of medication), mirtazapine (15 mg) and metformin ( 500mg) for her diabetes. She drinks a lot of fluids also. For side effects of Carbido levodopa read :http://davidbkatague.blogspot.com/2017/07/side-effects-of-carbo-levo-dopa-sinemet.html

Second is Exercise: Occasional swimming( summer time), sitting exercises and playing the piano.

Third is diet( nutrition): Macrine eat a lot of fresh fruits and vegetables and seafood products. She drinks lots of water for her constipation- a side effect of her medications.

For more information about nutrition recommended for Parkinson Disease patients read the following:



https://www.michaeljfox.org/understanding-parkinsons/living-with-pd/topic.php?nutrition

Saturday, December 2, 2017

All You Want to Know About Skin Cancer but were Afraid to Ask

My mole/wart on my face looks like the one above but slightly bigger

Yesterday I went to see a Dermatologist at the urgings of my son and spouse worried of my mole/wart under my eyes that appeared to be growing might be cancerous. So two weeks ago, I went to the Urgent Care Center near us. The Center sent me home since they do not do dermatology and advised me to see my physician or a dermatologist. I immediately called my family physician and was able to make an appointment two days ago. She advised me to see a dermatologist. The dermatologist she referred me can not see me until February, so I googled a list of Dermatologist in our area. I was able to find one who saw me yesterday.

The last time I saw a dermatologist was about 5 years ago for a mole on my neck. It took me a 3-months wait to see him and I have to drive all the way to mid town Sacramento. The dermatologist I saw yesterday was only a 15 minute drive from our house. The charming dermatologist has also good bedside manners and his nurse is originally from the Philippines. He took the mole/wart under my eyes in less than one minute. It felt like a bee sting and it bleed for more than five minutes, but it is not cancerous after a biopsy. I felt relieved. Here's a video of symptoms whether a mole is cancerous or not.

https://www.webmd.com/melanoma-skin-cancer/video/mole-or-skin-cancer

For All you want to Know about Skin Cancer but were afraid to ask, read the following:

https://www.cancer.org/cancer/skin-cancer.html

Monday, November 27, 2017

Ditas Katague Art Show- Grieving Thru Glee


Ditas Katague, my youngest daughter has been Chair of National Advisory Committee On Racial, Ethnic and Other Populations at U.S. Census Bureau since August 1, 2015 and its member of National Advisory Committee since 2012. She has more than 20 years of experience at federal, state and local government agencies. She serves as Chief of staff to California Public Utilities Commissioner Catherine Sandoval. She served as California's 2010 Census director as well as the 2000 Census Chief Deputy Director, overseeing and directing the statewide outreach and coordination.

Besides her regular job at the Governor's office in the State of California as Director of Census, 2020, Ditas other activities are her art work (http://www.grievingthruglee.com/) as well as her Yoga teachings (http://www.solfirejstreet.com/teachers/).

The video below was taken during her 2014 art show at the Penthouse Floor of Capitol Towers Condominium in Downtown Sacramento. I am really proud of Ditas (and Carenna also) accomplishments. During this show Carenna also sold a couple of her award-winning photographs.

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Guest Article from Susan Creamer Joy

In The Silence, by Susan Creamer Joy.

Today's guest article is from Susan Creamer Joy. Susan is one of my favorite authors in the ViewsHound community. Susan writes, draws, paints and cobbles together art from found objects making a variety of creations from jewelry to religious shrines. She frequently sports burns on her fingers from her soldering iron, paint on her palms and ink under her fingernails, but her hair is usually combed. When she is not losing time in the creative vortex of her studio, she is likely to be putting her knowledge of metaphysics and esoteric principles including Tarot, numerology, astrology and graphology to good use in consultations. Her children are grown, her husband still works and her four dogs believe she needs serious help. The title of her article is "A Matter Of Love And Death". Thank you Susan.

By the time they reached my bedroom door, I was already sitting up – my stomach ratcheted in the tense grip of an unnamed anxiety; my pillow, unburdened of my drowsy head.

To this day I cannot explain how I heard them coming up those stairs in their bare feet or how I knew that my father struggled to hold his composure as my mother unnaturally clutched at the folds of her dressing gown and followed him through the dark just a little too closely.

As the wooden groan of those old stairs tore into my bones that morning like a hacksaw, all I could see between the predawn shadows was the letter I’d written just hours earlier to my boyfriend, Chris, propped against the lamp on my desk across the room awaiting an envelope.

I had not slept well. It was late November and there had been so many changes since the middle of August when he left for the Air Force in Texas to begin basic training and I began my third new school in as many years.

The conspiracy between fate and the last surge of the Vietnam draft had broken apart the every-waking-minutes of our two-year union with unceremonious indifference. All that night my sleep had been infested by difficult dreams and by the illogical fear that truth and reality were merging into a darkness only a martyr could grasp; and at sixteen, martyrdom seemed reasonable only for the nuns among the poor in Bangladesh

I tried to remind myself that he would be home on leave for Thanksgiving in another few days. It was the only tether to calm I could find, but reviewing the facts offered little relief from my baseless fears.

Chris had been girding his pacifist sensibilities preparing to fight in an unpopular war that had not yet slaughtered its last innocent. I was hovering just over the line of inclusion at an exclusive girl’s school – missing him – and finding myself at odds with these young women and their attachment to propriety and with the prep-school veneer that blinded them to the fact that they were no better than anyone else.

Neither one of us was coping well with the worlds into which we were respectively summoned, and although we both knew that the best hope for any future together depended upon our individual successes apart, it was far from comforting most days.

But in spite of our discomfort, we each did our best; and, of course, there were the letters: Thin, plain-paper sheets with row after row after row of inky blue words penned with the intensity and awkward locutions of a love learned too soon. It had come down to just that little, but without them, I would have had nothing.

Chris was learning to fly. I was learning to drive, and both of us were aching to transport our souls to an earlier time through the hallowed intercourse of memories and dreams. Of course, as with all progress, there was the positive element: We were both clean and drug-free for the first time in years.

Now, without pretense, both healthy cognition and sincere motivation surfaced regularly in my psychology and prompted me to care about myself and to arbitrate against all temptation for a better standing in the world, in school and in my own eyes. I even did my homework.

No longer was I escaping today but, instead, living for my day of escape. Lying still in the dark of my room, I listened to the slow, padded footfall of my parents approaching and looked to the floor and to my history book half hidden beneath the nightstand where I’d tossed it the night before. Even in this early morning dark I could make out the swirls and stars in colored marker and the bubble-formed letters that spelled C H R I S in soft, juvenile curves on the torn book cover I’d fashioned out of a brown paper grocery bag.

I vaguely remembered throwing it there somewhat hastily. I had been doing my homework when a sense of urgency struck and I realized I had not written him as I promised I would and glancing at the clock, I noted it was nine-twenty-three. Why that mattered I had no way of knowing in that strange moment, but within hours, it would be one I would never forget; and although I was becoming drowsy and still needed to finish my work, I felt beyond reason that my letter to him could not wait.

So, I wrote. I would always write. I would always be there. He would always be there.“Suzi."It was my name spoken in the smooth and familiar voice of my mother, although weighted and slow, her head bowed to her chest almost as though she were speaking only to herself.

"Suzi.” She said it again, this time with sharp gravity, like a chisel against stone.

As if on cue, I leaned forward, flanked now by my parents who were sitting on either side of my bed.

I had been waiting for them. I don’t know how. I didn’t know why. The lights in my room remained off, but it seemed that the darkness clung more to them than to me, as though they were holding it there – away from me to give me enough light to see through the next moment. They were crying. My father was crying. My father. “Suzi. We have something very, very bad to tell you." Chris has been in a car accident." And he was killed."

If the world moved forward from that moment, I could not know it. f there were air around me worth breathing, I could not take it in. And if there were another sound beyond the leaden bellow of my own raw grief, I could not hear it.

"Who am I going to talk to? Who am I going to love?” I wailed. Who will love me? In that sodden moment violated by the intrusion of a predawn light that had no business rising, everything I ever believed about happiness, hoped for in life, trusted in or held as my own was annihilated.

After that – there was no after that. After that came months of hollow redundancies that would inform my way of being in the world for years to come. A serial commitment to waking up each morning, remembering he was gone and dedicating the remaining hours to forgetting. To that end I would try anything, drink anything, ingest anything, inject anything. It was a slow and arbitrary suicide by indifference.

Many years later, at 25 years-old and in the midst of a pharmaceutical free-fall leaning dangerously close to terminal, I discovered that I was expecting a child, and after a decade of forgetting, I remembered. I named him Griffin after the legendary winged lion, a symbol of the divine because what he inspired and the miracle that he was, were nothing less. I remembered and I loved again, and I went on to marry and to the gift of two beautiful daughters.

Today my son is struggling not to drown in the same well of drug abuse and apathy that almost swallowed me – his great, divine wings clipped by his own hand; and while it is up to him to restore his place in the sky, I will do my best to help provide an open runway.

In the meantime, I will continue soaring for both of us; bequeathed as I have been, with a determination to fly from a boy whose ragged fate precluded that dream.

Death took one young man from me once upon a dark time. If it has any intention of coming for this one, it will have to go through me. And trust me, it will be in for one hell of a fight.

Note: If you enjoy this article, please let me know.

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I love gardening, play duplicate bridge, has collection of orchids, bougainvillas, hibiscus and other tropical plants