"The Dental Nightmare"

Before braces

            Have you ever had tooth nightmares? The one where whole teeth keep falling out of your mouth as you go about your day? Or the one where you spit, look down, and find little flakes of your teeth coating the palm of your hand?

            While stretched out in the dental chair yesterday, my mind shifted to those nightmares and then began cataloging all of the dental work done during my lifetime to keep my unique smile happy and true. I thought about the first time the drill hit my six-year molars. That high pitched whine and grind, the sharp tool scraping out the cavity. I can still feel the pressure, pressure, pressure as the dentist packed my tooth with metal. Little flecks pricked against my tongue. Rinse. Spit. Rinse. Spit. Rinse. Spit. Repeated until all of the pieces swirled down the drain of the spittoon sink.

            Most people dread dental visits, but my positive bond began the next time I needed work when I was ten-years-old. Dr. Frank Bond’s gentle hands and constant reassurances calmed my nerves. He explained to my parents that my crowded lower teeth and buck uppers would worsen because my small jaw simply couldn’t fit in everything. He showed them how little room my mouth had and prepped us for the removal of four teeth with my next visit.  Fortunately, he referred us to the orthodontist next door. My long and uniquely close relationship began with Dr. Jack Payne.

Second year

First year with braces!

            The draconian braces of the 1960s included full metal bands wrapped around each tooth. Spacers forced movement, wires held everything in place, and pain became partnered with each and every visit. Sometimes, a wire would break and stab into my lips. Dental wax resided next to my pencils and pens in my desks at school. Unfortunately, every tooth in my mouth needed to move. That required headgear. Dr. Payne explained that the more I wore this horrible device, the faster my teeth would shift into place. The first thing I did each day after school was pull on the  contraption that went around the crown of  my head to hook onto designated teeth. The added embarrassment came from the rubber bands that crisscrossed inside my mouth. Nothing worse for a preteen girl than having a lethal weapon fire off unexpectedly when carrying on a conversation with my crush, Gary Austin.

Retainers!

            The grueling process for aligning my bite took three very long years and a $1,000 loan my parents had to take through the credit union. No one expected the setback that occurred a few months after I became brace-free. Although I had both an upper and lower retainer on my teeth, shifting started up! A quick round of x-rays showed that my wisdom teeth were coming in early, with absolutely no room for them. Because of my young age, the military dental surgeons would only take out two at a time. The excruciating pain, and my unexpected addictive reaction to codeine, meant I suffered with only Bayer Aspirin available for relief. I returned to school bruised and swollen, but undefeated. Dr. Payne sent me Christmas cards for many years with reindeer in braces or angles smiling with wires and bands attached.

            They always made me smile—nice and straight!

 

Me now!

68's Smile!

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

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"Rinse and Repeat"

 

Front garden   

            February in San Antonio plays out in a pattern of freezes followed by temperatures nudging close to 80°. Today’s clear day will top out at 83°. Annually, I use President’s Day to mark the first round of fertilizer on the gardens and yards.
            This morning, I’ll check the bin outside that houses the sprayer to see if it contains enough Miracle Grow to cover everything. If I enough, today’s “exercise” will focus on thoroughly watering all the beds with added nourishment. For tomorrow, another projected day of warmth, I’ll determine the best way for me to clear leaves from the front yard as my right knee still pings warnings if I overuse it. I may simply sit in place and use an old, broken rake to clear the areas needing the most work.

On this week's agenda

          The other part of my spring cycle entails checking the nighttime lows for consecutive 60° or above temperatures. Once the warmer nights hit, the plants being green housed inside will move back outside where I’ll assess their need for larger pots. This annual routine signals the return of spring.
         I love the repetition of life as I move from one season to the next. The reprise becomes my ritual now etched into my daily habits.  Rinse and repeat, year after year, brings comfort to me.

 

Waiting for warm nights

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

I use my love of gardening with its hard work and rituals to handle Life's stresses. I also use music!

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"Teaching Nirvana"

• 

  1990's Me!

            I am a Psychologist certified in the state of Texas to teach Psychology and English. When I began my career in 1980, no other teacher in Bexar County had my credentials. For my first six years in the classroom, I taught seventh, eighth, and ninth grade English. In 1986, the principal from our campus shifted to the high school and took along some of the best and brightest teachers within our district. He wanted me on his campus to design and implement the first course in Psychology offered at the high school level within our Region. I had one stipulation to making this move—that my classroom would be open to all topics initiated by students with his support.

            That first year, I experimented freely with my curriculum utilizing a couple of old textbooks, my own personal library, and the professional journals available through the APA. During the next decade, my principal sent me to training on Critical Thinking, Cooperative Learning, and Multiple Intelligences with David Lazear. My education included Gifted and Talented certification and Advanced Placement training. Within all of that, I also continued refining my skills as an educator for teaching writing, which I integrated into my Psychology curriculum. The course I developed became one our district offered to other campuses throughout Texas with my availability for in-services and workshops. Because few high schools offered Psychology at their schools, I became the main teacher for student teacher training. Over a few years, I trained seven student teachers from Trinity University, UTSA, and Southwest Texas State University (now Texas State University). My reputation within not just our District and Region, but throughout the state was impeccable.

            You can imagine my surprise when one October morning, one of our counselor’s tapped on my classroom door and said I needed to report to the principal’s office immediately, and that she’d be taking my classes for the remainder of the day. My students did their “Oh, Miss, what you do now?” quarry as I grabbed my purse and headed to the administration building. As they knew earlier in the week a very frank and open discussion on masturbation had been brought up by a student, we all figured we knew why I was heading to the office. Mentally, I began my reminder to the principal that he’d agreed that my classroom was open to ALL topics brought up by students.

            When I entered his office, he waved me to a chair as he finished a phone conversation. His expression stern, he leaned forward and stated, “I’ve been running interference with District Office over a parental complaint. That was the parent. Apparently, you are ‘endangering the students and faculty of this campus by opening the door to Satan.’”

            My jaw dropped. “What?”

            “She says you have your classes sit in the dark and open their minds and thoughts which allow Satan to enter. When I told her that her son’s enrolled in an elective, and we’d change him to a different course today, she refused because it’s her duty as a Christian to make certain evil doesn’t get an opening at this school. Her son’s not the only one at risk. So . . . what have you done that would trigger this woman?”

            “I have no idea!” I began. “Last week I did the heart rate activity. Could that be it?”

            This multipronged lesson integrated demonstrating gathering data (heart rates) after students first entered the classroom, walked the stairs 3 or 4 times, took a second pulse reading, and then did a guided relaxation activity with a taking their pulse rate a third time. I’d done it for several years to teach mean, mode and median with the data derived along with giving my high anxiety students fairly fast method of relaxation that they could do easily at home.

            I explained that the final step to lower student pulses involved multiple steps once students stretched out on the floor, sat at desks with arms and feet uncrossed, or lay across a few desks. With lights off and Pachelbel (usually) playing softly, students tensed every muscle in their bodies. Then I’d instruct them to relax and focus on breathing in a steady, even rhythm with me repeating softly, “In through the nose. Out through the mouth.” Next, I’d have them think of a favorite place and “see it, hear it, taste it, feel it. A warm sun, feathery breeze.” After about fifteen minutes, more heart rate data would be collected.    

            He asked a few questions, jotted notes onto a legal pad, and said he’d take care of the problem. By the end of the day, someone from the main office scheduled an appointment for the next day to observe the activity with one of my classes. Obviously, no gateway to Satan opened through this lesson. I don’t know the details for how the parent backed down, but I never heard another complaint.

            Educators today often ask how I survived for thirty years in education. My years really were different than what the classroom teacher faces today. That one rare incident of a parent challenging my instruction occurs constantly now. The support I received from my principal and the district office personnel doesn’t exist for the teacher today. They face out of control parents threating their safety. They combat dick-less men who fear anything that doesn’t teach that white, Christian males are superior to women and minorities. Their censored bookshelves sit bare in some states.

            The war against public education started while I still worked in the classroom, but the conflict grows daily into open hostilities against every teacher who enters a school. I don’t have any answers to my friends currently teaching except to chant “in through the nose, out through the mouth” as they prepare for a long, hard battle.

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Pairing IOUNIO's "Lost and Found" with today's post. I know many current educators are feeling like this!

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"Caregiving Scars"

 

Edna Abrams 80 yrs.

        Knowing your personal strengths and weaknesses means you learn when to tune in to your inner voice that warns, “Watch your step. Take your time. Give yourself distance from others to think.” Many times, though, the cacophony of other voices drowns out that quieter internal tone. Hours, days, weeks, and even months press by when you listen and respond to everyone but your own ideas and emotions.

            Your life becomes a long list of “To Do” and “Should Do”. Family and friends lecture those of us in caregiver roles to “take care of yourself first” without realizing such advice cannot be taken without another person actually stepping into your home. They throw out suggestions for you to get away and take a break, but it’s extremely rare that they enter into the responsibility you’ve undertaken for any extended period of time.

            Huntington’s disease attacked my mother fairly late in life. In her 60s she stopped the voracious reading she’d done her entire life. Her passion for cross-stitching died overnight. She talked about being depressed, but insisted her “blue days” didn’t warrant a doctor’s visit. Her tendency for anxiety increased. She complained frequently about not going out or doing things, but then pulled the plug on suggested outings and activities. Sometimes, her feet would move in a restless dance, but she’d stop them the moment anyone called attention to them moving. In her early 70s, she still drove her car and walked a mile each day. She had a couple of times when her legs folded up under her midstride, but HD didn’t blip on any of her doctors’ radar. At 78, Mom had a TIA that propelled her into a Huntington’s disease nightmare. The neurologist treating her at the hospital still didn’t recognize HD, but a young nurse caring for her had worked with an HD family. It was her insistence that forced the doctors to run genetic tests, which gave us the diagnosis.

            No amount of research prepared our family for the years of caregiving that became our family destiny. For two years after the diagnosis, Mom lived in an assisted living complex walking distance from our home. I visited her every day unless I was ill. On those occasions, my husband or son spent part of the evening with her. Her motor skills spiraled into a decline that forewarned us that eventually she’d need to move into our home. She went from walking on her own, to using a walker. She broke her wrist, had cauliflower ear from a fall, and split her nose on her coffee table. Her internist shifted her into a wheelchair because no one wanted her to break a hip. During those two years, our lives revolved around making certain Mom never felt alone. She made friends with her aides, threw parties for both residents and staff, and daily insisted that she missed her apartment. She knew, though, that she’d never live alone again.

            My retirement from teaching on year 30 became imperative. No one talks about the extremely high costs of assisted living. Mom’s care during the two years she stayed there increased from $4,000 to $5,000 a month as her nursing needs changed. Shifting her into the 24/7 care that Huntington’s disease would eventually require meant that price would increase out of our budget. The cut in my take home income from retiring to care for Mom was still financially better than moving her into the more intensive care.

            In 2010, Mom moved into our home. For the next two years, life increasingly revolved around her and her needs. My son rented a home in our neighborhood to be close by, and during the last six months of Mom’s life, he moved back home to help me while my husband worked. The bond formed with the three of us caring for Mom still connects us today. Mom’s deterioration once we moved her here slowed down. Her neurologist noted that she felt happier and more secure. Her mental decline never happened as with many HD patients. If she got enough sleep, she stayed sharp and focused. My greatest fear, that Mom would eventually be unable to swallow, started in November 2012. She went three weeks without food and three days without water.

            No one writes about or talks about the scars carved into the caregiver’s heart. Ten years later, I still catch myself thinking that I need to rush over to Mom’s apartment if I’m out running errands. My caregiver’s scar means I listen for Mom’s bell to ring some nights. That scar reminds me that a disease took over our existence as it destroyed my mother’s life.           

Edna Abrams 81st birthday 2011

Edna Abrams with her nephew and his wife 2011

Mom listening to live music with family 2011

Mom at cabin in Leakey, TX 2011 age 81

 

IOUNIO's "Isolated" captures my feelings perfectly.

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Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

"Grandmother's Cookbook"

                        My mother’s childhood showcases trauma and loss. Her father lost their farm during the Depression and moved his family into the small town of Danville, Illinois. Her oldest sister, Lois, drowned while swimming in the local lake within a few years. Around the time Mom turned nine, her mother died. Her father, left with five children still at home, found himself unable to care for his three youngest girls. They ended up within the foster care system. Fortunately, the small town meant all of the Thompson siblings went to school together. She visited her sister Nellie, a newlywed, often. Mom remembered the marble-topped furniture in their home, the lean years of lunch consisting of half a head of iceberg lettuce sprinkled with salt, and the wild antics of her older brothers, known for pranks that resulted in scoldings from the local police. Only a few treasured pieces came into Mom’s possession once she reached adulthood. She received a golden bracelet, which she wore at her wedding. The bracelet became a tradition to wear at weddings with my sister and me encircling our wrists with it. I inherited this lovely piece and used it for the cover art of my novel.

            The other prize from Mom’s childhood came in the form of The American Woman’s Cook Book, edited by Ruth Berolzheimer. All of the frequent moves made by my parent’s military lifestyle meant somethings never made it to the next assignment, but Mom always tucked this cookbook into a box that came with us. Over the years, both of my parents pulled this book off the shelf for recipes. My husband and I turn to it regularly, with me recently vowing to try new-to-us recipes weekly. The volume, though, contains not just ways to prepare various dishes, but also a look into life for the housewife in the 1940s. The thick work contains color plates of finished delights. It suggests menus for parties and holidays. Within its sheets one can find pages of food equivalents. Struggling with ideas for school lunches for the kids? Need a tip on how to set your plates for a fancy dinner? Want the perfect Hollandaise Sause (one of our favorites)? How about the best banana nut bread or pancakes on Earth? You can even find specific instructions on how to help with the war effort.

 

                 This volume represents a life that showcases hardship and hope.

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman      

I am like IOUNIO's "Time Traveler" today, as my fingers trail thought the pages of Grandmother's cookbook. 

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