Lies, lies, lies, lies, lies spew and churn
Havoc and mayhem fester and grow
Impulsivity and egocentricity impede and destroy
Manipulation and dysfunction muddle and disorganize
Irresponsibility and rage mock and punish
Callousness and cruelty injure and kill
Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
The
existence of legal abortion drives many American citizens into an emotional,
and illogical, frenzy that’s spun our country out of control. This one issue on
protecting innocent, unborn babies drives voters to select men and women for
governmental positions based on the litmus test on abolishing Roe v. Wade. The
manipulation of voters on this one issue has deposited us into the mire we face
today.
Potential.
That’s the word that gets thrown around a lot by people wanting to change
abortion laws. They rant and rail that the potential of a fetus is sacred. They
insist that no one has the right to murder that potential.
As
a teacher, I experienced with several students their turmoil and resolution of
unplanned pregnancies. One parent confided that her twelve-year-old daughter
fell madly in love with the fifteen-year-old boy across the street. The girl
didn’t even know what she did to get pregnant. Her mother and father, along
with the advice of their family doctor, opted for a safe and legal abortion
because their living, breathing, vibrant daughter’s potential was more
important.
Although
some anti-choice groups allow for incest and rape, others don’t even want to provide
that choice to victims. The freshman girl I had whose sexual abuse by her
father and brother had her own potential. Would forcing her to
bring to term a baby do more or less harm to her than allowing her choice to
terminate the pregnancy? Her pregnancy revealed her situation and removed her from
a nightmare. The abortion gave her a chance of a better future. Taken away from
her family, coupled with extensive counseling, her potential amplified.
The
women I’ve know who sought safe and legal abortions had various reasons for
their choices. These well-educated women had their own potentials to reach. One
woman and her husband couldn’t afford a fourth child. When their birth control
failed, they determined the financial burden would undermine the future of
their other children. They weighed their decision carefully and used a safe and
legal option to protect the potential of their family. One
woman, a medical professional, had her birth control fail. I remember thinking,
“If it can happen to her, it can happen
to anyone.” She deliberated her career, the relationships the unplanned
pregnancy would impact, and decided that the potential of all of the adult
lives involved outweighed the possibilities of a child she knew she didn’t want
and feared she could never love.
These
girls and women all had choices under our legal system. This is personal. This
is a basic right that each of the women needed at a pivotal point in her life.
None of them made their decisions without deliberation. All of them weighed
their own aspirations and sought out their own potentials to make the
best futures for themselves.
Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
A few days ago, I sniped at my husband over something truly trivial. David clings to two ancient tower Macs. When we ripped out the bedroom carpet and laid new tile, I suggested he donate them someplace. Last year, we purchased matching desks for each of our workstations. Although I suggested he ditch them then, he has them collecting dust on each side of the desk’s lower platform. Last week, David’s company announced they want his department to become permanent remote workers. My nagging about the computers snapped out as we discussed how to fit another system in his space. Almost immediately, I flagged my overreaction. Although we’ve crammed our desks into our master bedroom, the way David organizes his work area really doesn’t impact me.Later in the day, I apologized for snapping at him.He’d forgotten the entire incident.In forty-one years of marriage, we’ve hurled out our frustration and anger in various arguments. In our early years, we flared over lack of money and feeling overworked and underappreciated. My narcissistic in-laws pulled me into and out of their dysfunctional dance so many times that after visits with them I either vomited or escalated into justifiable (to me) rages that took all night for recovery. Once I gave myself permission to walk away from them, my temper flashes sparked over the smaller trials and tribulations that life hands us. David’s easy going nature means he has a longer simmer time before he even heated. I can count on my hand how many times he’s actually reached boiling point in the years we’ve been together. He has a tremendously forgiving nature, always sees the best in other people’s intentions, and can forget transgressions almost as soon as they’ve happened.The pandemic means we’ve spend a shitload of time together. While other friends complain about feeling trapped with their spouses since March, we’ve found a satisfying rhythm to our days. David logs into work by 8:00. I head outside to hand water the yards and garden. Around 9:30, I start my designated daily chore, log blogging time, and we both finish up around noon to break for lunch. During the afternoons, I play computer games, do a limited social media exposure, and then read for a few hours. Sometimes I binge watch on a show that I know David won’t like (lately it’s been Cold Squad a Canadian TV show from the late 90s). Most days, I cook dinner, but not always. I do another run on Facebook while cooking.During that time, I skim over my feed looking for something funny to give me a giggle. Every day, I’ll snigger over some YouTube video, meme, or well written quip and hit the SHARE option to tag to David. Then I realize that the chuckle originated from David’s page! This happens multiple times daily and has been our pattern for the last six months. During the evenings, we indulge ourselves on shows like Schitt’s Creek or our favorite late night comedy.I want to step away from sniping and move into snickering. Arming myself with a sense of humor may be the best way to survive these next few months.Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
Religious rites and rituals take on different meanings for non-believers raised within a faith. When my mother, a Protestant, married my father, a Catholic, she signed papers that all of their children would be raised within the Catholic faith. As she knew very little about Catholicism, she signed the forms required without reservations.
My parents lived at McGuire AFB when my sister took her first Communion. Her attire, almost nun-like with a long, simple dress and veil represented simplicity and purity. By the time of my first Communion, my parents had moved to Dover AFB in Delaware. I don’t know if different priests or churches have different policies, but my dress of frivolous frills with a stiff crinoline slip, white patent leather shoes, and short veil made with a headband of flowers didn’t look plain or pure. I can remember my mother worrying about the cost of an outfit that would only be worn once. I still see my sister’s deep brown eyes rimming when she saw the fancy dress and hear her murmured comment about how modest her dress had been just a few years.
Many years have passed since that religious passage. As an adult, I’ve moved to atheism. Although family members know my husband, son and I have stepped away from all religious beliefs, they sometimes forget exactly what that means. One sister-in-law took my son to mass with her kids after a Saturday night sleepover. He was probably about seven or eight, the age at which he should have already had his first Communion.
My son came home from his first experience with mass all excited, chattering, “Mom, we got in a long line. Everyone did this with their hands.” He folded his hands as though in prayer. “Then this man up front, the one who did all of the talking before? He gave me this cracker! It tasted really good because we hadn’t eaten breakfast yet. I wanted another one, but he only gave people one. If I get to go to church again with my cousins, will I get more crackers?”
When I called my
sister-in-law to remind her that my son hadn’t been baptized nor had a first
Communion, she belly laughed and exclaimed, “Well, he just skipped a step or
two! I don’t think I’ll get into trouble, but I definitely won’t tell my priest!”
Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
My love for Texas
begins and ends with springtime. Wildflowers swathe farmer’s fields, vacant
plots of land, and every roadway across the entire state. Nothing comes near to
the beauty of meadows crowded with bluebonnets, Indian Blankets and Black-eyed
Susan’s. Nature combines just the right amounts of rain and mild temperatures
to create perfection.
My second favorite time
of year comes in September. The horrendously hot and dry days of July and
August explode into fierce thunderstorms that usher in drops in the
temperature. Out in the Gulf of Mexico, tropical storms and hurricanes brew.
When they make landfall, their bands of rain push into our region to create a
second spring.
Our yards and gardens
honor us with blossoms one more time.
Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
Want to push someone’s buttons? Tell them you don’t intend on getting
any more pets! When our Sassy Cat
died several years ago, family members immediately began pressuring us to adopt
another cat.
Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
Whenever my book
stack on my nightstand dwindles to two books, anxiety creeps into my day. In
the past, I’d peruse local stores for paperbacks from any author. I use these
less expensive choices to try writers unknown to me. We have The Book Rack,
too. A small store snuggled into an ancient strip mall down by Randolph AFB.
This shop sells and trades. I always have enough credit that often I pay a few
dollars for half-a-dozen books. Binge reading all of the books by an author is
one of the advantages of shopping in small shop because they specialize in
carrying all of the writings from as many authors as possible. We have, too, a
small public library. After the pandemic, I plan on volunteering there since I
won’t be working any more.
My son, our designated
shopper, problem solved the issue of grabbing books for me. Whenever he enters
our local HEB, he snaps a quick photo of their books and sends the picture to
me. I’ve read several new novelists and returned to a few old favorites over the
last few months. I delighted in The
Andromeda Evolution, based on Michael Crichton’s notes and given life by
Daniel H. Wilson. Paul also brought home The Guardians
by John Grisham, an old favorite.
One day an unexpected
package arrived from a friend in Atlanta. She sent two books that she thought I’d
enjoy. I chuckled in amusement over one title, as I had already read it. She
definitely knows what I like to read. I am reading the other novel right now by
a new-to-me author, Andrew Mayne. Yesterday, two more books arrived: Too Much and Never Enough-How My Family
Created the World’s Most Dangerous Man, by Mary L. Trump, PhD. and the ever
hilarious latest Janet Evanovich adventure with Stephanie Plum.
Unlike many readers,
I read only one piece at a time. I have friends and relatives reading multiple
novels, biographies, and non-fiction tomes simultaneously. The thought of
juggling multiple works throws me back to my college years where reading for
pleasure almost met its death! I linger
over passages and marvel at unexpected nuances of characters. Sometimes, the
writer in me steps back in awe at the perfection of one single word. In my
mind, I believe reading one piece at a time gives homage to that author’s craft.
Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
Sometimes, I pretend
my quirks of organization keep our home running smoothly, but I suspect my
husband and son view my penchant for orderliness as tremendously irksome. Right
now, the kitchen desk sports hand sanitizer sprays lined in a militarily
precise row. Next to them, a black box contains a pair of rubber gloves, three “back-up”
face masks, and the four thick masks that we all prefer. Those masks, washed in
hot water after every use, get rotated into the box to prevent us from
overusing any one mask since they are identical. There’s been tons of joking
that having a pandemic gives me a valid excuse for my love affair with bleach!
This period of pause is the longest I’ve ever gone without working or being a caregiver. It allows me to indulge my need for tidiness. At the beginning of the year, we got rid of our ancient, heavy bedroom furniture and picked up something functional that feeds into my growing need for simple lines. Imagine my delight when I found wonderful fabric bins that fit our drawers perfectly. I Marie Kondo-ed everything! Folding clothes, once a ho-hum chore, now delights me. Everything has its place because there is a place for everything.
I blissfully
structure other things in my daily life. Do I hunt for keys? Never! My house
keys reside in their own separate pouch that gets tucked into a zipped section
of my purse. Naturally, I buy purses with similar features to keep searching
for anything in my purse to a minimum. Other women do that, right?
When I leave the
house for the day, my routine never strays. I make certain my tote contains the
necessary items for the day. Pens, journal, book, water, lunch. I check the bag
twice before zipping it up and heading out the door. Before returning home at
the end of each day, I repeat the process twice. I figure a little time with
upfront coordination saves me time. If something gets left behind, that means
trip backtracking. OCD, or efficient use of time? You decide.
Copyright Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
Early on in the COVID-19 shutdown, I participated in the COVID Research Team, Ferkauf Graduate School of Psychology at Yeshiva University study. The initial in-depth survey covered many different aspects of how I handle life events that predated COVID-19’s initial impact. A month later, another survey appeared in my email for me to relate the continuing impact of the virus on my life. This follow-up delved into changes in my personal behavioral patterns, variations in our economic status, and even differences in how much I thought about the virus as it rolled through our country. Another survey appeared at the three month mark and asked very fine-tuned questions about more specific aspects of my life and family as we continue on this uncharted path.
The
researchers probe various qualities on how I process problems and manage the
different world in which we all now live. The psychologist that I am, I
appreciate the multileveled purity of each questionnaire. When I participate in
each response, I take my time. Usually able to block out music or television in
the background, these surveys require focused attention to each weighed
response. I want my answers to be accurate and true to honestly represent my
experiences with COVID-19 as it impacts my life and the lives of family and
friends.
Taking
part in this study reminded me of the importance of critical thinking. For some
of us, being able to assimilate and accommodate information comes naturally.
Back in early January, my curiosity led me to reading about SARS-CoV-2 in
several journals. I began tracking the virus using data provided by different
sites and finally began using www.worldometers.com for daily information. I
understood early on that COVID-19 would develop into a nightmare because it’s
easily transmitted, infects many asymptomatically, and has a mild or moderate
impact on most of its hosts. That type of virus lulls people into falsely
believing it is “no big deal” when in reality (because it’s so easily
transmitted from person-to-person), it will do exactly as nature designed it to
do. During the past nine months, I’ve continued to hunt down peer reviewed
research to enable me to make educated decisions about our daily life.
Some
of those choices will have long-term impacts. I quit my part-time job as a
substitute teacher. Returning into a classroom doesn’t make sense. If I
contracted COVID-19, I could end up seriously ill and possibly hospitalized,
which would result in enormous bills from employment with a job that pays
$12.50 an hour! I will NEVER go anywhere without wearing a mask until there’s a
vaccine in place. Because we have a “designated shopper” for groceries, I
haven’t entered a store since March. At first there wasn’t data on how long
COVID-19 remained on surfaces. I disinfected everything that came into the
house: groceries, take-out containers, mail, shoes. More data has allowed me to
shift to a more relaxed approach. I no longer drown our mail with Lysol spray!
I don’t feel anxious. I don’t battle depression. Instead, I have confidence
that science will do what it does best. My choices over the next year to
eighteen months will come from gathering information provided through reliable
research.
In the meantime, I await the next installment of the survey on how COVID-19 has touched my life. I can report that twelve of my in-laws (who don’t follow science) have been infected. I can state that my husband’s department will work remotely even after the pandemic (amazing how some companies are finding that option really can work), and I can state with confidence that for me, knowledge is power.
Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
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| VOTE!!! |
The final
week of May, while mopping, I stepped back onto a slick spot and fell.
Actually, I did a slow motion slip and slide that twisted my left knee as I
went down. Water spewed over the kitchen floor and doused me entirely. I sat in
frustrated sogginess and complained loudly as I sopped up the mess. By evening,
all I needed was a couple of Tylenol to ease the pain. The next morning, my
knee didn’t nag at me one single bit.
For the
next week, I knelt to pull weeds and rebuild our fire pit. I raked leaves from
both yards and filled half-a-dozen bags. I detailed both of our cars inside and
out, which meant hauling out the ladder and going
up-and-down-up-and-down-up-and-down since I’m too short to reach the tops of
either car. I added a thirty minute walk to my daily routine because the gyms
were closed indefinitely.
Almost a
week to the day of my undignified mopping fail, I decided to do an extra-long
walk through our neighborhood. The morning’s light filtered through trees
softly. Many spring flowers lingered in neighbor’s gardens, and roses scented
the air. I meandered at a slower pace as I rounded the corner of one street to
enter the final stretch of my stroll. I took one step down and heard a soft pfffft from my left knee. I stepped one
time into excruciating pain. I eased onto my right foot and attempted another
left leg tread. Severe pain seared through me, and I ungracefully lowered to
the ground. I knew immediately not to put any more weight on my knee. Instead,
I called my husband. Fortunately, he’s now working remotely and could rush to
my side. I love our neighborhood! Within two minutes, a concerned lady stopped
her car and offered aid, or at least to sit with me until David arrived. As I
could already see his car, I waved her on.
My knee, as
I sat on the ground, didn’t hurt. I assured David, when he arrived, that it
couldn’t be that bad because it already felt better. Using David as a crutch, I
attempted to put the slightest amount of weight on my knee. The pain returned tenfold!
David
carried me into the house from the car, we did a quick Google search on what
needed to be done to immediately for my knee, and I began RICE for an entire
week followed by a second week of heat instead of ice on my knee. At first, I
needed help with everything. I repurposed a small, wheeled office chair into a
temporary wheelchair to make it into the bathroom. For two weeks, I tried my
best to keep all weight off of my knee. I didn’t go to a clinic because I already
had my annual checkup scheduled with my doctor. I decided that if my knee still
looked bad after two weeks, she’d decide the next step.
Exactly two
weeks from the injury, I hobbled into the doctor’s office wearing a brace I’d
used from a previous tumble (down the stairs at work years ago). On the
examining table, the PA moved my knee in every possible direction, all without
pain! My residual discomfort only happened when I put weight on my knee. She
advised me to make “slow and steady” my new mantra. The knee probably has
arthritis. The twisting fall followed by a week of major chores and long walks
simply made it scream, “No more!”
The pace
proved to be extremely slow and steady. If I kept my knee bent too long while
sitting at my computer, it whined. I couldn’t water the entire back yard
without wearing a brace—and then could only do half of it before needing to sit
down. At the three month mark, I finally put away the brace and compression
sleeve I relied on heavily for months. I rolled up the ACE wrap, used nightly,
and shifted back to sleeping without a pillow under my knee. Every day, I find
myself able to do something more or longer than the day before. The other
night, I realized that I sat on the couch with my knee bent, tucked under me. I
shifted it immediately, but felt smug satisfaction that I have that range of
motion back.
I set a
goal for next week to walk down the street to the STOP sign and circle back.
That’s only five houses down and then back. It will be the longest trek I’ll
have done since June. Once I accomplish that small feat for a week, I’ll try to
make it around our block as it offers enough of a slope to get a full picture
of my recovery.
During all
of this pain and suffering, my admiration has grown for friends and family
members who truly suffer on a daily basis with conditions that won’t go away by
gentling your routine for a few months. I marvel at their strength and endurance
as they face each day.
Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
I can’t pinpoint any specific reason
why my last blog post occurred five months ago. Having spare time, the usual
culprit for not writing, definitely doesn’t enter the picture. Since March,
like so many people worldwide, I’ve hunkered down to stay safe and stay well.
My Spring Break extended first by a week and then a month until finally word
came out that schools wouldn’t reopen at all. For the first time in my adult
life, I didn’t have obligations to an employer nor responsibilities as a
caregiver. With this unexpected luxury of abundant time and no accountability,
my days should have shifted to my passions—writing and photography. Yet I
pursued neither.
I spent my days searching out scientific
information on COVID-19 while keeping a hawk’s view on data as it shifted through
the world. My admiration for this infection grew with each scientific paper I
read as it’s a wondrous virus that has a high infection rate, keeps asymptomatic
with many people, and leaves a huge segment of the population with a mild
enough illness that they can proclaim, “It’s no big deal!” This virus’s controlled
by keeping distance from other people, keeping hands clean, and wearing masks.
All very simple things to do to curb its spread unless it becomes politicized
as has happened in the US.
Each day, I do a personal mental well
check. Anxiety? None. Depression? None. Worry? Certainly a tad each time my
husband’s company did a round of layoffs (the last set will occur next week).
Have I fretted over my brother’s status as “essential worker” as he’s employed
at a hospital? Of course. Are these ripples enough to account of my inability
face the blank page and share our experiences as we move onto this unexpected
path? I don’t think so. Nothing we experience right now compares to the challenging
years of care-giving we did with Mom.
And maybe that’s why I don’t feel
the need to share this journey. Mom’s illness compelled me to write every day
as though that tethered me to the world around me. I needed to share the
loneliness and burdens with friends and family in the intimate way my blog
allowed.
Although these months test my resilience, they are only an echo of the life as a long term caregiver.
Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
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| Staying Safe and Well |
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| Poulna brone Dolmen: 6000 year-old dolmen in The Burren, County Clare, Ireland |
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Cottage on Inisheer, one of the Aran Islands, Ireland September 2010
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Cottage at Bunratty Castle
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Cottage at Bunratty Castle
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Cottage on Inisheer
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