“The Slower Pace of Saturdays”

 

an illusion lost to timed alerts
for medications and hunger twinges
a misconception hidden behind good intentions
of a lazy-head morning in bed
a trick wrapped with self-deception
where choices cloud into obligations
a magical incantation whispered to Time
for an unhurried ballet of abandon

 

 Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

  

 

 

"New Recipes"

 

            After spending months salivating over different recipes posted (pictures included) on Facebook, I decided to copy and paste anything that appealed to me; and which I knew my family would also like to try. Over the last few weeks, I’ve cut, diced and chopped. I’ve stirred, boiled, and baked. I’ve tasted and savored, and delighted in new aromas and flavor combinations.

            We’ve enjoyed Chicken and Cheese Enchiladas, Cowboy Cornbread and Olive Garden’s Zuppa Toscana Soup. My husband has developed a love for Sticky Bun Breakfast Ring on weekend mornings instead of his usual pancakes. We’ve discovered that we all love strong flavors. If feta cheese is in the recipe, I know I’ll get raving reviews.

            Making changes in life can simply come from adding a new spice to the rack or finding a tasteful way to cook Kale. Little adjustments and experiments often lead to the most unexpected findings, both about cooking—and about life!

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"No Compassion"

 

            Sometime between 1952 and 1957, my mother had a miscarriage. At that time, women had to miss three cycles before getting pregnancy tests. I know for certain that Mom had to be at least sixteen weeks along when her hemorrhaging and severe abdominal cramping forced Dad to rush into the emergency room at MacDill Air Force Base. He told the story of blood being everywhere, doctors and nurses surrounding him as he carried Mom into the room, and thinking she was already dead.

            Mom recounted that she felt herself looking down from above as the emergency staff worked over her. “We’re losing her! We’re losing her! We’re losing her!” warned one doctor.  Mom’s thought was that she couldn’t die; she had my sister to love and care for. As the number of miscarriages in the Tampa area increased, eventually they were linked to the DDT that fogged the streets during that time period. Mom’s future pregnancies received the designation as “High Risk” and the military doctors sent her to a private OB/GYN when she was pregnant with me.             

            The severity of damage to her uterus made another miscarriage possible, but I arrived without difficulties. However, Mom continued to have problems with menstrual pain that grew progressively aggressive as the years passed. She also had difficulty getting pregnant again, and had almost given up on any more children, when she finally became pregnant with my brother in 1962.

            After my brother’s birth, Mom’s menstrual cycles grew more painful. Her interactions with doctors became a pathetic round of them minimizing her agony. When she recounted passing blood clots larger than her fist, one doctor patted her on the knee and said, “It’s all in your head, dear.” Eventually, one doctor tried prescribing birth control pills that barely dinted her pain. By 1967, Mom spent part of every month writhing in anguish, bed bound with heating pads and hot water bottles, unable to function for days.

            Dad became Mom’s advocate and eventually found a military surgeon who listened to them. He ordered X-rays and suggested surgery because of an unidentified mass he spotted. He advised that he would probably need to remove Mom’s uterus, which my parents agreed to immediately.

            However, when the surgeon noted that Dad was Catholic, he knew that he would have to consult with Dad’s priest to get permission from him. Imagine my mother’s furor to learn that after all of the years of doctors’ knee patting condensation, she needed another male’s approval for a hysterectomy. My mother wasn’t Catholic. My father was, and so her surgery was delayed until after the doctor proved to the priest the medical necessity of the procedure.

            Mom’s long ago miscarriage had torn her uterus. With every menstrual cycle, endometrial tissue seeped into her abdomen and adhered to her ovaries, Fallopian tubes, and pelvis. Once the surgeon opened her up, he found metal sutures from the appendectomy she had as a teenager with endometrial tissue attached to the entire area. He told Mom after he was finished that he was ashamed so many doctors had dismissed her and the obvious suffering she bore monthly.

           

            Unfortunately, Mom’s story in the 1950s and 1960s continues even now with many women seeking reproductive care. Today, patients and physicians pit themselves against merciless laws that needlessly endanger personal freedoms.

 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman      

"The List"

 

            I keep a list of possible writing topics on the front of pages of a spiral notebook. I draft my poetry, personal narratives, and short stories on the remaining pages. When the papers become full of scratched out revisions, I move onto a new spiral. And I transfer the topic list, adding new ideas and deleting the ones that I’ve already tackled.

            My brainstorming list changes gradually. With some notions, I plan to write a story—only to have it evolve into a poem. I’ll mentally outline one concept into a poem, and when I sit down to write a nice narrative develops. A few of my subjects have transferred from spiral to spiral over a couple of years. Uncertain on how to approach these themes, I simply keep them on the list in the hopes that one day my muse will guide me through a dog’s life or how to walk away from lifelong dreams.

            When I cross through an issue on my list, satisfaction fills me. That bold stroke means I’ve accomplished another goal within my writing. Many of my friends who write strive for perfection within each creation. They struggle laboriously over word nuances and prefer to place within their blogs pieces approaching perfection. I admire their tremendous skill as they weave   texts together with flawlessness. My purpose for sharing my writing, though, doesn’t center around hewing brilliance out of a rough diamond, but instead focuses upon practice, practice, practice.

 

 

            Today, I’m pulling out a pretty purple spiral purchased at a sale at Target last week. I will sit down with my favorite pen in hand and transfer my list, and possible add a few more ideas into the mix.  

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Trigger Finger"

  

            Over the last couple of weeks, my ring finger on my left hand developed a horrible, and painful, tendency to pull down at the joint and stay stuck in this position. A quick Google search let me know I suffered from “trigger finger.” The first step to treat this malady depends on resting the finger through splinting it, and dosing up with Advil to reduce swelling.

            Obviously, this ailment curtailed my ability to write—either by hand or computer. When I attempted to type, the one finger or one hand approach frustrated me tremendously. I decided to utilize my time off from writing by feeding my addiction to Fringe until I watched the final episode. The stack of novels on my bedside table dwindled as I waited for my finger to recover.

            Yesterday, I removed the splint because I simply couldn’t cook with it on. Although the finger hasn’t reached total recovery, I believe I will now be able to spend small amounts of time back with my spiral and pen or on the keyboard.

            I grin as I press each word onto the page. Writing daily means so much to me, and to go ten days without journaling made me feel lost and a little depressed. I found out that exercising my skills as a writer leaves me calmer throughout the day.

            Funny how easy it is to take for granted the little joys of life. I never thought about how important scribbling my thoughts across the page had become until I’d lost my ability to write. Although my finger hasn’t reached full recovery, it has triggered a new need in me to luxuriate in the time I now have to devote to my craft.   

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Insert Foot"

 

"If you keep your mouth shut, you will never put your foot into it." Austin O'Malley

            I hate it when my observation skills dull, and I don’t notice the subtle signs during a conversation with someone that my words have somehow slipped into a sensitive zone. Usually, this occurs when my personal experience with the topic proves limited, and I begin with an incredulous statement like, “You’ve GOT to be kidding!”

As my sluggish mind tries to grasp a new concept, my mouth keeps going; and I inevitably say something that ticks someone off. I never intend to do this, of course. And because my thoughts slowly sift through this new information, I don’t notice the indications that my opinion counters the very personal interpretations of my listener. The slight intake of breath of the other person goes unobserved. I blunder onward, stupidly asking questions to clarify something which my conversation partner feels is obvious. I unwittingly say the perfectly wrong thing.

            By then, no matter how deeply into the zone of oblivion I’ve stumbled, my listener’s response pulls me to an awkward stop. I feel my eyes widen and my face redden as I try to determine which treacherous ideas or statements caused the response I belatedly notice. The other person’s lips purse tightly, and I can discern grinding teeth or a clenched jaw. This friend shifts with muscle tense, preparing for fight or flight.

            My brain races to rewind the conversation and determine where I first entered perilous ground. If I can discern that moment, I quickly offer an apology for unintentionally upsetting the other person, but the damage cannot undo itself. Sometimes, my thoughtless response goes beyond justification because it questioned a fundamental view of my conversation partner. Saying, “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry! I didn’t know you’d get upset,” seems inadequate. When that happens, I simply veer the conversation quickly onto another topic, hoping desperately that my friend will graciously forgive me and kindly allow me to remove my foot.

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman