“I’m the Old Dog”

            This past year or two, I added new behaviors to my daily routine. First, different medical needs meant I needed to remember to take blood pressure pills twice a day. Often, I’d glance at the clock in the evening, and realize I’d missed the time for my dose by an hour. My barely used iPhone shifted to a different relationship level. I set the calendar with reminders for my evening meds. That worked perfectly! With background noise sometimes drowning out the sound, I changed it this week to an impossible to ignore tone.  I use this tech to remember Koi’s Nexgard on the 14^th of each month and his Heartgard on the 26^th.

            The old me logged everything down onto a planner and a backup wall calendar. My phone now fills the need for a calendar. When I leave the doctor or the dentist, the next appointment goes directly into my phone. Upon returning home, I’ll notate the information into my planner. Their appointment card goes into an envelope with a physical file I keep for medical records for the year.

            Remembering to wear my night guard turned into another challenge this July. Instead of turning to my phone for another daily ping or tone, I shifted to using a combination of lamps in our bedroom. When I turn them off each night, I’m standing next to the bathroom. That usually triggers the memory that I need to slip on the device. I had an allergic reaction to the cleansers I used to clean it. Now my morning routine added scrubbing it in warm water with its own special electric toothbrush head and giving it an Efferdent soaking on Thursday mornings. My trusty planner carried that reminder until I learned this new routine.

            A part of me thought life after full retirement would slip into whatever pattern I desired. I never dreamed that an alarm would wake me up every morning to take my thyroid medications an hour before my other pills. I didn’t imagine adding more necessary demands to my daily, weekly, or monthly routines. I guess it all boils down to the fact that I’ve become the old dog learning new tricks.

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Koi's Cough"

 

            Our veterinarian dubbed our white Pomeranian a “pom-monster” once he reached his full size. The original line for Pomeranians came from the larger Spitz breed, and some white Poms, like Koi, get fairly large. Koi’s majesty catches every eye when we walk to the park. His thick white coat contrasted to the lean black shine of our Terrier-Beagle-Shepherd mix, Bridget.

            Koi’s thirty pounds and thirteen years shifted him into a new health problem last year—a cough that wouldn’t go away. At first, we thought he had a case of Kennel Cough as he’d gotten out front to sniff around the mailbox, a favorite spot for random neighborhood dogs to pee on when on walks with their owners. When the hacking didn’t clear on its own, we scheduled him an appointment.

            The diagnosis, the first stages of a collapsed trachea, sounded dire. Our vet assured us that he could live many years with the condition. Common in Pomeranians that are overweight and getting older, we received a steroid treatment and cough suppressant to use as needed. At first, he rarely used the Hydrocodone prescribed. Sometimes he’d go a month between pills. Gradually, his need shifted to needing the suppressant about every third day. For the last few months, that pattern remains steady. Sometimes, an airborne allergen will kick him into a coughing fit after spending time outside. On most days, once Koi settles into one of his spots, his cough settles, too. We can tell when the frequency and force of his hacking increases enough to require a pill hidden in soft cheese. When he uses this last refill, he’ll have a check-up. Our vet has assured us that since he’s not using the suppressant daily, he’s doing well. That’s all the encouragement we need!

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Weight of Her Sorrows”

her beloved child

unique

irreplaceable

each day a miracle

she shelters

advocates

her joy wrapped in loss

 

her life partner

unchanging

dedicated

each day a miracle

she lingers

vigilant

her love imprisoned by illness

 

her treasured sister
precious
prized
each day a miracle
she weeps
alone
her life changed by chance
 
her independent life
unconventional
melodic
each day a miracle
she fades
diminished
her essence cut by dementia
 

   

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Preserving a Moment”

            With winter coat thrown over my pajamas, I trekked outside this morning. Camera slung around my neck a murky morning light guided my steps. Hobbling with stiff knee and fingers nearly frozen, I circled both yards. The drip of melting ice tapped my head as I moved under branches. Urgent to document this morning’s coating before it fades away.

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

“Frozen in Place”

 

            Today’s freezing forecast for San Antonio reminds me of other January mornings when the city stopped because of ice or snow. Conditions that northerners barely register grind those of us in Central Texas to a standstill. The equipment to clear bridges and roads of ice or snow can hit many overpasses, but not enough to make driving safe.

            The current promise of flurries and ice makes me appreciate my retirement. The local news station reports ice on overpasses with freezing rain and drizzle on the highways right outside my door. My husband appreciates that instead of trekking across town for his drive pre-pandemic drive, he rolls from his warm bed to his computer. Remote work doesn’t stop for bad weather.

            A few miles north of me, the bridges and roads slick with a wintry mix. Being frozen in place hasn’t become a January tradition yet, but the once rare event comes more frequently with the impact of climate change to our area.

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

January 13, 1985

 

 

 

    

"Winter's Rain"

 

It’s raining outside.   

            That cold, winter’s rain that seeps into   

            every fiber of your body.
You long to   

            stand out in the wetness and   

                        melt   

into the gutter.   

            Swirling,   

                        ebbing,   

                                    flowing   

                                                down into the sewer.   

            You carry paper boats, and leaves, and   

            tiny, jeweled pebbles with you   

                        And you’re cold,   

                        You’re numb   

You have no toes, no arms,   

                                                no soul.   

                        When you should laugh,   

you cry bitter, hot tears of—   

                                                oneness.   

You have actually melted into the     

            Universe—you’ve gone from   

Substance to Time.   

            From Time to   

                                    Space.   

You feel nothing; yet everything.   

                                                You are,   

and again,   

                                                You are not.   

And when the rain stops, what then?   

You begin to lose the numbness—   

                                                            the oneness.   

You   

            dry   

up into a brittle essence of fire. You   

                                                            burn   

                                              with the pressure of other bodies—needs.   

And—   

            you   

                        wait   

                                    for the next   

                                                winter’s rain. 

Copyright 1976 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman