“One Resolution”

         Years ago, every time I started a new volume for my journal, I’d construct a list of goals or plans to guide me though the next couple of months. Sometimes these items would carry specific instructions like to clear one of the credit cards or plant a new garden. Often times, the message became a subtle reminder on how to live my life. Eventually, I stopped making the list and began living it instead.

         With the New Year beginning tomorrow, I have no grand resolutions. Living too much in the future caused me problems in the past, so for this year I pledge to stay rooted in now. Many people live each day without worrying about their five year plan. They embrace and enjoy today. I want that pleasure. I long to watch the sunrise each morning with no expectation beyond appreciating its glory. I desire nothing more than taking each moment and discovering the pleasure within it.

         My mother’s illness has taught me many things about how to live life without projecting too far into the future. The minutiae of our daily routine highlight the wonders of life beyond our four walls. I don’t want to waste a moment of this next year on anything less than loving more and loving better.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“A Little Peach Pill”

         I hold bragging rights on having the highest cholesterol levels known to mankind! Without medication, my lab results shoot over 300 within weeks. Consequently, I started taking medication about eight years ago—at the same time I started teaching middle school again and by coincidence changed my entire wardrobe to smart suits and cute high heeled shoes. Middle school teachers never sit down. For that age group, control in the classroom comes from a mixture of personality and physicality. Sitting behind a desk dooms the middle school teacher to a classroom dissolving into a lunatic asylum.

         For the first few weeks of my new teaching assignment, my feet screamed by the end of each day. I reasoned all the news shoes needed breaking in and soaked in hot water each night. Slowly, the pain crawled up my legs so I reverted to lower heeled shoes or even flats. My feet and legs continued to ache, mainly each morning when I limped out of bed. I attributed the pain to the six hours I spent walking and standing, chalked it up as a hazard for my new teaching slot, and ignored it all as much as possible.

         After a few years, the pain upon waking each morning spread from my feet and lower legs to every muscle in my body. I felt like I’d rolled off a platform and splatted upon the floor. Even my hands and fingers hurt. One weekend, my sister critically observed my hobbled gait as I crawled out of bed.

         “How long have you been like this in the mornings?” she asked.

         “I don’t know,” I shot her a wary look. “Why?”

         “That’s your cholesterol medication. You need to call your doctor right away. Stop taking it. I did the same thing.”

         And so my leg pain and muscle aches vanished as soon as I stopped my medication. It wasn’t, after all, the endless hours spent on my feet, or my “just getting old” that I’d rationalized to myself. Then began the quest for a medication that I could tolerate. All statins had the same results—immediately dropping my cholesterol levels and a reemergence of pain, sometimes within a couple of doses. Using a non-statin drug lowered my results, but not enough.

         During my physical this year, my doctor’s PA asked me if I had fatigue. Once I stopped laughing, I told her I’d been exhausted for years! She decided to run a thyroid test along with the usual junk. Again, I scored high! Another new statin cholesterol medication was prescribed, with more blood work after six weeks. And she ordered another thyroid test. A morning spent on the Internet proved enlightening. Several vague but persistent symptoms suddenly made sense.

         So last week, I started taking a little peach pill, and the quality of my life changed immediately. The pain in my hands and arms upon awakening has subsided, and I no longer feel like mush in the mornings. I’m back to bouncing out of bed with eager vigor. I suspect my fatigue levels will continue to drop—and all due to a little pill. I never realized the quality of my life would change from taking one medication.  

“Zuma’s Revenge!”

         The little frog appeals to my whimsy. I love how he spits at colored balls that ramble through a maze, blowing them up with a conqueror’s fanaticism. With my dexterity, I hop him from side to side to make better shots. Sometimes, I zap a special sphere that empowers my frog with wonderful bombs and blasts.

         My adventures with this little amphibian began Christmas morning once I loaded the game into my laptop. Now I find myself slipping back into my room, once Mom’s settled down to watch one of her shows, for a quick leveling up in my challenges. Normally, I use the time when Mom’s watching a rerun to fold laundry or do other housework, but this week I’m drawn to the little frog and the next obstacle he faces.

         My habit from the past, reading a book to take a break, has shifted this year to playing computer games. I realized that I don’t have the time to peruse bookstores or libraries anymore to discover a new author, or to reacquaint myself with an old favorite. I don’t own a Kindle, or an equivalent. Friends tell me I need to get one so I can download all the books I want. Of course, I’d blow my budget for the month if I had such easy access to novels! So for now I’ll stick to my little frog that lets me hop into escapism with one single purchase.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Parental Love"

Guided through life   

by a silver thread   

that winds through the   

mazes our minds create    

Fine and delicate   

it’s a spider’s soft silk   

that gathers the morning dew   

and catches the sun’s warmth    

A gossamer of spun fairy’s hair   

touched with magic and dreams   

as fragile as a hummingbird’s egg   

yet strong with love and faith   

Copyright 1989 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Running on Empty”

         My son voices his worry that David and I will sap our energy too much in caring for my mother. He knows about the middle of the night aid to take Mom to and from the bathroom, realizes she wakes up at the crack of dawn; he understands her need of someone being constantly within calling distance. When he expresses his concern, I remind him we spend a huge portion of each evening enjoying our own interests. We spend time together watching something mindless on television while munching popcorn.

         But I do worry about those days when I’m snapping at everyone and everything because that’s an indication that I’m feeling neglected or overwhelmed. When my siblings come to give us a break, we try to sleep late and head out of the house to our favorite places like browsing through the shops in Gruene, Texas. If my brother or sister arrives early on a Friday, we sometimes escape to the cabin in the hill country. That perfect retreat always offers the respite we need. If we don’t get a long break, we find ourselves overtired.

         I love the advice everyone gives about David and I needing to take care of ourselves and get adequate breaks. What people don’t realize is that unless someone volunteers to come over to sit for an evening, we can’t take off for a stroll through a mall or an evening movie. We count ourselves fortunate that our son lives in the neighborhood. He spends an incredible amount of time “hanging” with Grammy. If I have a doctor’s appointment, I know he’ll come over. I don’t like to overuse my son, though. Is this a normal response? I don’t know. I fear the months in the future when Mom’s needs will increase, when my need for breaks won’t fall into the “occasional” category. I think on some level, I don’t want to misuse my son’s offers for help now because I may need him more in the future.

         As we enter the second year of caregiving, we’ve reached our stride. This morning, I ran Mom’s bath while David started his pre-work routine. He stepped in to help Mom into the tub. While I stayed with her as she soaked in her bubbles and listened to her new Susan Doyle cd, David packed his lunch. Then he returned to help lever Mom out of the tub, dashing from the room to get dressed while I toweled Mom dry, applied lotion to her skin, and dressed her. Entering the family room, we found David already munching on his morning cereal.

         Our lives have a steady routine that flows most days in surprising harmony. Those days where I can’t do anything right for Mom sprinkle throughout the month. Those moments when she drives me crazy because she doesn’t want anything I’ve cooked happen infrequently. Those nights where we get up two or three times with her occur no more than once or twice a week. So, for now we’re holding our own.

         And when I find that we’re “running on empty” I think we’ll fall into music, or books, or hobbies to recharge ourselves.     

Camera in hand!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman          

"I Want to Give You the World"

I want to give you the world   

with its promise     

with its pleasure   

with its plenitude   

I want to give you the world   

without the doubts   

without the debt   

without the desperation   

I want to give you the world   

with its splendor   

with its sunrises   

with its surprises   

I want to give you the world   

without the worry   

without the weaknesses   

without the wantonness   

I want to give you the world   

with its hope   

with its humor     

with its happiness   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Crack of Dawn”

           “Santa came!” rang throughout the house.

         Sometimes, these words resounded as early as two or three in the morning. I know now that often my parents stayed up late into the night assembling the pink cardboard sink and refrigerator set (with burners that glowed when you turned them on) or the various bicycles we received throughout the years. Never once did they complain. Never once did they tell us it was too early to get up or send us back to our rooms. Christmas day began the moment one of us bounced out of bed.

         I carried on the same tradition with my son, Paul. His excitement fueled our energy as we’d open all of our gifts in the dark of the predawn, warmed by the tree lights and the pleasure of surprises. Everyone oohed over various presents. Someone clicked on the television to Christmas movies, and our day piddled along with food and family, and a long and lazy afternoon nap for everyone.

         I have friends who have rules for Christmas. I cannot imagine why a day of indulgence should have rules. One friend insisted her kids let her sleep late as part of their gift to her! Another friend has the entire family sit down to a scrumptious breakfast before a single gift can be opened. Then every dish has to be washed and put away before her family opens their presents from family members. Santa gifts sit untouched under the tree until after their dinner later in the day.

         I believe teaching delayed gratification is an important lesson, but not on Christmas day! I love our mad dash to the tree, the ecstatic squeals of delight as we rip through the wrapping paper. I love the sea of paper, tissue, and boxes that lap knee high around us in the living room. I love our lazy afternoons of catnaps and idle chats.

Copyright Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 2011

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Reason for the Season”

Showering those you love with acceptance       

Holding tenderness within your heart       

Surrounding yourself with kindred spirits       

Collecting diversity to honor and cherish       

Fostering creativity, individuality       

Nurturing peace, grace, dignity       

Protecting humanity       

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Sometimes"

sometimes the sun shines, oh, so bright, and sometimes the air is       sweet and clear       

   

sometimes my world glistens and glows, and sometimes the future feels so near      

 

then one day the sun doesn’t shine; one day the air is closed and too hot       

then one day my world's dull and dim; one day the future that was, is not          

 

I cannot cry for lost sunshine, and I cannot long for cool, sweet air       

I cannot see the world I know, and I cannot touch the future bare       

so I dream of gold lights of warmth; I dream of breezes in the dark night       

so I dream of my life's freedom; I dream of magic futures of light   

  

Copyright 1976 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The First Christmas”

         Tonight I labor to find the words that will ease the spirits of several friends and family members as Christmas approaches. For the first time, these friends face Christmas without a father, mother, brother or son. The recent losses of these families weighs me down, and even my fingers find it hard to search out the right keys, form the best words, offer comfort within the grief.

         All of the platitudes and well wishes voiced through love and concern cannot ease the ache or fill the emptiness. The next year becomes nothing but an endless list of “firsts.” Christmas, the New Year, Mother's Day and Father's Day, birthdays—every day. Every day will take effort to breathe and move. Every day will require unbelievable strength to simply make it from sunrise to sun set.

         Everyone processes loss differently. You’d think it would be easier to find acceptance with the loss of an elderly or ill parent, but loss is loss. Sorrow slips into the room at unexpected moments and silently taps you on the shoulder, whispers into your ear, “Remember how much Dad liked that?”  or “Mom’s favorite song’s on the radio again.” And the mourning stays fresh.

         Within the last week, we learned of the death of one of the younger members of our family. I watched the suffering of his father, mother and brother. I stood witness to the weeping of his aunts, uncles, cousins and friends. I shed my own tears for the living as well as for him. Now, their lives demarcate into before and after. I hope this separation of their lives won’t rip them apart. I long to pull them tightly into an embrace that can bind their family together and protect them from this anguish.

          Tonight, another branch of the family sits at the bedside of their father. The hospice nurse tells them it’s time to take care of the final details. They, too, face the first Christmas with an empty chair.

The Empty Chair By Dena Cardwell

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

“Liz and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day”

         Confession time today. Some days, nothing goes right. No matter how hard I smile, or what lilt I put into my voice, everything I say or do rubs my mother wrong. No matter how much she may struggle to hold onto a good mood or try to lever herself into or out of her wheelchair, Mom still needs a tremendous amount of help. And it frustrates both of us. Some days.

         One moment yesterday, we sat watching Marley &  Me. Mom likes Owen Wilson, and I reasoned this movie would give me a break from watching reruns-of-reruns-of-reruns-of-reruns of Everybody Loves Raymond.  The next second, Mom insisted I get her into her wheelchair so she could go to bed. It didn’t matter that it was only 2:30 in the afternoon. If Mom gets the idea stuck in her head that she wants to go to bed, then to bed she goes. I convinced her not to change out of her clothes, but to stretch out and take a nap while she listened to her favorite oldies radio station. I snugged her into her beloved green blanket from head to toe and left the room.

I never made it down the hallway. She rang her service bell, calling my name simultaneously. I about-faced and fairly cheerfully asked, “What do you want?”

“Nothing,” Mom replied.

“Okay,” I readjusted her blanket because her jerking left arm had entrapped itself in the fabric.

I made it down the hallway and into the family room before she called me back again. Used to this routine, I still tinted my voice with good will as I asked, “What now, Mom?”

“Nothing,” she responded yet again. This time, though, she burst into tears. Her feet kicked back and forth as she struggled to roll onto her right side. Her left arm flailed a little. Then she started crying. “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” I moved over to her bed, sitting in her wheelchair to bring us eye to eye. I waited. Then I asked again, “Can’t what?”

“Get . . . get. . . get. . . my leg right.” At this point her crying shut down her ability to speak. “Fix it!” she managed to demand.

 I stood next to Mom’s bed in utter exasperation because I can’t “fix it.” She started trying to sit up, grabbing for her wheelchair. “Where are you going? Where are you going?” I asked. “What do you want me to do? Do you need to go to the bathroom? Bathroom?” I asked as she dragged herself into a standing position.

“Which way do I go? I can’t go.” Her frustration wept from her as I turned her into her wheelchair.

“Do you want to go watch TV now? TV or bed?” I waited a few seconds while she regained her composure. “TV or bed?”

“Bathroom.”

And so our afternoon went—round and round, on and on until I found myself yelling at the top of my lungs because I just wasn’t able to get things right. I wasn’t yelling at my mother—well, I was—but I also yelled at the “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.” I screamed at my powerlessness in giving her comfort. I bawled at the unfairness of our bad days and my failure to watch my tone of voice and body language. Some days, I feel hopeless. Some days.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

“Lefty Loosey”

       

           I suffer from a lifelong disability—left handedness. Now, some people write or eat with their left hand, but do other things with their right hands. Not me! I drag the right side of my body along with me as a useless attachment that often gets in the way. My left side dominance dictates every aspect of my body. Not only do I write and eat with my left hand, I also chew on the left side of my mouth, listen on the phone with my left ear, and kick with my left foot.

         My first grade teacher, aka The Battleax, made eradicating my handedness her crusade for the few months I remained in her class. I remember her swooping down the aisle as I diligently practiced my letters with my giant pencil and Big Chief pad. She’d harrumph her disapproval, snatch the pencil from my fingers, and force it into my right hand. My smooth, neat letters turned into illegible, rickety scrawls. When the principal suggested my mother pull me out of school, she took over as the handwriting expert. A lefty herself, she’d weathered the same discrimination as a child. Her handwriting, a beautiful, disciplined script that flowered across the page, became my guideline. My mother taught me to write using a blackboard. With the angle changed, I dropped the lefty hook that many left handed people use. As a teacher, watching me write on the board often disturbed my students. They commented every single time I wrote on the board. As a result, I arrived every morning to place the bulk of information on the board ahead of time. I was one of the first teachers to jump at the opportunity to use a computer and projector in the classroom.

         My left side dominance often causes challenges. I do not always approach the physical world in the same way. Many little things in our lives put the lefty at a disadvantage. Cabinet doors open to the wrong side. As I sit at my desk, the drawers run down the right side to make opening and rummaging easy for the right handed person. For me to access the drawers, I have to turn sideways. My mouse, too, rests on the right. I’ve learned to maneuver it by practicing with games like Bejeweled. I practice every day. For some reason, placing keys in locks often creates a challenge. The angle of approach, geared for the right handed person, means I’m battling the door frame as I insert the key. And don’t forget the ignition in cars or the gear shifts!

         Discrimination against lefties is centuries old. I could rattle off many different taboos associated with right versus left. Also, left handed people live shorter lives because they have more accidents. Check your statistics if you don’t believe me. It’s not because we’re klutzes, but because our entire day we must compensate. I figure all of the disadvantages accumulate over our lifetimes, resulting in the false reputation of being clumsy when we’re not.

         So as you cut your Christmas wrapping paper in straight lines with grace and ease I hope you remember your lefty friend’s struggle with right handed scissors. When you examine the not-so-perfect wrapping on the gift you receive, keep in mind the challenges of snipping and folding for the left handed.

                  

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“His Easy Smile”

They believed his easy smile   

the laughter at all the right places   

while he cloaked his deception through necessity     

as the world within him clung to distortions   

Illness subtly ate at his reason   

making it impossible to disguise the turmoil within   

unless he buried it under the things he loved:   

games, computers, politics, religion   

Intellect guided him to delude   

to use his words to hide his thoughts   

Need shepherded him to security   

safety with the familiar:   

church and keyboard, childhood ritual and digital certainty   

where he shared with his surrogates     

the Truths he let them see   

Security in his world narrowed down   

into a box of silent despair   

broken only by the words, “I love you”   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“A Field of Flowers”

The seed   

planted deep into the warm womb   

protected by shell and earth     

softens under ground   

as skies weep and weep   

it feeds upon itself   

drawing upon stored energy   

until a fragile spout forms   

roots, like fairy hair, seek purchase   

security   

they hold tightly to the nurturing mother   

confident of her care   

the shoot breaks into sunshine   

unfolds tender leaves   

trusting in the gentleness of spring   

when killing frosts   

die   

sheltered from whips of wind   

buds bloom  

into the glorious promise of life   

sprinkled with morning dew   

blossoming with hope   

for a field of flowers   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Weddings and Funerals"

Best friends      

sharing whispered secrets late into the night     

laughing at inside jokes     

crying at sentimental Hallmark card commercials     

dreaming     

Best friends     

writing voluminous letters across the years     

freezing moments with photographs     

offering comfort and strength     

supporting      

Best friends     

visiting at weddings and funerals     

revealing superficial news     

concealing heartbreak and disappointments     

surviving     

Best friends     

reconnecting despite differences     

creating new laughter      

rediscovering commonalities     

hoping     

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Time"

Time   

Puzzle pieces piled upon the table   

Moments carefully measured and cut   

Respites sandwiched between what is and what won’t become   

Not wandering in my mind anymore into tomorrows   

I flail helpless against the inevitable   

I choke on my burning unshed tears   

I grieve the erosion of self   

I step away from plans   

Now my focus sharpens upon the fallen leaves under my feet   

Instead of next Spring’s buds   

How cruel, to lose the future   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“For the Camera”

The old photos reveal nothing   

         show no hint of the abuses   

                     that darken your future   

         Gape-tooth smiles, youthful   

                     mugging for the camera   

                                 don’t predict   

                                             anorexia   

                                             drugs    

                                             despair   

         The childish arms that hugged   

                     friend and family   

                                 Now   

                     hang skeletal   

                                 by your sides   

         While your sunken eyes   

                     and forced and frozen smiles   

                                             lie   

                                             lie   

                                             lie    

                                                         for the camera    

         Pretending your world glows   

         Making believe he’ll finally   

                                             notice you   

                                             love you   

                                                         fit you into his small and selfish life   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman