“My Secret Stash—Part Two”

 

            I started this year with a chocolate treat hidden in the freezer, Life Saver rolls in the cubby by my knee, and a mini-Milk Duds box in plain sight on my computer desk. The Andes Crème de menthe evaporated sometime after an atrocious Trump act after Valentine’s Day. I needed reinforcement that only chocolate could provide, snuck a few pieces from the freezer to fortify myself, with the promise that the remaining pieces would return to frozen safety for another day of trial. I annihilated them a few days later.
            The Life Saver rolls have survived a little better. One roll, given to my husband for him to have a treat on his desk, got eaten on a random day when he was feeling the need for something to crunch. A second roll, shifted to my purse for a traveling treat, remains untouched. The book contains three other rolls, also intact. As every day we face new assaults upon our functioning government, I celebrate that these measures of my mental resistance stay untouched.
            My Milk Duds, a highly visible challenged to my stress eating, sits boldly in plain view each and every day. I don’t know if I’ll make it through to the end of the year before some catastrophic intentional action occurs, but I’m giving it a try.
            My sugar intake, tied directly to my coping strategies, has bumped up a notch this week with a nightly piece of cheese cake. Other weeks, one bowl of ice cream in the evening rewards my fortitude for not exploding or imploding.
            I knew dealing with this regime would force me to deal with when, where, and how much I could spend my time with letters, emails, phone calls and resistance. As friends and family pound out a daily rejection of MAGA madness, I’ve limited my intake of news and responses to the chaos. During the first round, my feet walked miles in protest. This time around, I’m studying the situation carefully. I spend my hours reading about the psychological matrix of the believers in hopes of finding a better strategy to deal with their determination that anything that hurts another person or group proves their righteousness.
            After reading a long thread on Facebook that spewed anger at every program that protects the rights of anyone not white, male, and Christian, I saw the brainwashing that can’t be erased by reasoning. This man, representative of so many others, believes his way of life is endangered if any one group moves toward equity or equality. His emotional make-up cannot handle the idea that rising up another person can do anything to improve his life. He longs to beat those that he perceives as different into the mud, and standing in victory on top of a bloody mound. He represents years of entitlement giving him the right to blow up our democracy because he’d rather see it gone than have to share it with “others”.  
            After reading all of his hate and anger, I know my secret stash won’t be enough to carry me though this period of people intentionally destroying our economy, rejoicing in ICE smashing windows and dragging someone out of cars and onto the pavement, or stripping citizens of rights because they no longer believe in the Constitution.  

 Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Pruning to Propagate”

 

            Earlier this week, I spotted a Swedish Ivy at HEB that dangled possibilities before me. Years ago, these plants filled hanging baskets that adorned our back redwood lattice. Draping with Spider Plants and Boston ferns, their delicate glossy scalloped leaves contrasted to the spikey Spider’s hardiness. They sport a soft white or mauve flower each spring and fall. Of course, I added the ivy to my grocery purchases and found a nice spot for this piece of memory in the front yard. As they propagate easily, all I need is one to begin a new line of a forgotten favorite. A few clippings placed into a Mason jar of water, and roots will sprout soon.

            Inside, my three Pothos dragged down to the floor. Winter’s unrelenting freezes showed no mercy to the ones housed in our small greenhouse, and outside only three or four pots now sprout in resilient defiance. Instead of cut flowers adorning the dining room table, the promise of more Pothos baskets sits in filtered light.

            My Jade became leggy over the last few weeks. I lopped them off and have their cuttings set aside to cure. All of the Jade will shift outside to take advantage of our longer and hotter days and more sunlight to spur their growth. My troubles with Jade come from ignorance on my part, but this year my research should result in new growth for old plants and new plants that thrive.

            My focus on nurturing each of these plants stems from a need to control something in the world around me. Every day, something new becomes endangered as our current regime slices brutally through our democratic rights. Propaganda’s incessant wail forces me to retreat to my garden where I can prune to propagate promises for tomorrow.
 
Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman               

“Wired Differently

 

Evolution depends upon nuances
Shades and Shadows and Separate wiring
Entrenched across eternity
Instinct deep-rooted before Society’s birth
Family and Clan connected in Commonalities
Differences dogged into death
Us versus Them across all Time
 
Evolution depends upon transformations
Adjusted and Amended and Altered wiring
Transmitted across time
Instinct deep-rooted before Society’s birth
Novel and Innovative included into Harmonies
Changes celebrated into Customs
We across all Time    
 

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

 

 

 

 

“Five Dollar Fern”

2020

 
            A Mother’s Day gift many years ago of three five dollar ferns growing in hanging baskets has become a repot tradition to mark the passage of yet another year. This year, two of the ferns bump up into five gallon pots. The third fern, accidentally overwatered last year by someone helping with the garden, almost didn’t survive. Now significantly smaller, it remains in the same pot from two years ago with fresh soil, and the hope it’ll catch up to the others. In the past, they wintered inside in the family room nestled next to light from the sliding door. This last year found them in our small greenhouse until the temperatures dropped into the twenties.

2023

            As the years pass, I notice that while my ferns hold on resiliently, other plants and bushes in our yard and garden have fallen prey to unexpected ice storms and endlessly hot, dry summers. This week a prediction of 104° marks a mid-May day. How can this be? The ferns, sheltered under a tree and given extra water, won’t be harmed, but heat will scorch the new clover I’m trying to establish in the yards. I’ll make certain to place this year’s five dollar plants (Mexican Heather and Orange Lantana) into shaded areas with extra dollops of water added to their soil to make certain they don’t get scorched before they are established. Wish us luck!

2025

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

             

“Huntington’s Disease Scars"

 

 

            Huntington’s disease ravishes the human brain like no other disease. Like fingerprints, this inherited disorder presents differently for each patient. For Mom, we overlooked her earliest symptoms—apathy and anxiety. She loved spending part of her days cross-stitching intricate patterns. Anyone who’s ever sat with needle and thread knows the delicacy of this work. When she set aside an unfinished piece, she told me that she wanted to try a different craft. I purchased a few possibilities from our local Michael’s store, but nothing drew her interest. Around the same time, she stopped reading. Always one book in hand and several on her nightstand, she shifted to barely reading the newspaper. She frequently complained that my dad never took her any place, but whenever he made suggestions, she tearfully nixed his ideas. Anxiety, something many people battle, became part of her daily routine. Sometimes when I called her, she’d cry. My suggestions that she talk to her doctor got the same response, “It’s just a blue day. It always goes away.”        

            When Mom’s feet began dancing during car drives and her fists clenched wadded Kleenex, she’d answer my worried questions with assurances that Dad’s driving drove her crazy. She spent tons of energy controlling her movements when in social situations. Dad finally found a project she loved—land outside of Leakey, Texas. They spent most of their 60s with plans and trips that filled their days. Mom’s anxiety drifted away, but her clenched fists and restless legs appeared whenever she was stressed or tired. I realize now how easy it was for all of us to minimize her early symptoms.

            Right after Dad’s 71^st birthday, a massive heart attack killed him. Within a year, Mom found an apartment walking distance to our home and signed a six month lease to see if San Antonio would fit her needs better. Over a period of eight years, her abilities melted away so slowly that we missed the changes. Once driving on her own, she began handing the car keys to one of us. Her weekly walk to our house became less frequent and then stopped altogether. Her anxiety kicked up again, and she began obsessive behaviors to counter her worst fear—her retirement deposits not being credited to her account. I discovered that she stayed up until midnight to begin calling her bank until her money arrived each and every month. I never could convince her that it was fine to wait until later in the morning.

            None of us noticed that Mom cooked fewer meals for herself. Somehow, I began swinging by her place daily on the way home from work to bring her over for meals we cooked together. When her leg began buckling out from under her, tumbling her to the ground, we scheduled a doctor’s appointment. Fortunately, she had it happen while with the doctor, who scheduled Mom with a neurologist. He suggested several possibilities, and when we mentioned my cousin had Friedreich’s ataxia, he wanted to order genetic tests. Before that could happen, Mom suffered a TIA, landed at Brooke Army Medical Center and her Huntington’s disease went into hyper drive. All of her subtle symptoms blossomed and others surfaced. Her balance evaporated, she couldn’t hold a cup of water or walk unaided. A young lieutenant’s experience with an entire family battling Huntington’s disease insisted to her superior that Mom be tested for it as soon as possible. The neurologist at first resisted the idea because Mom’s cognitive abilities were so sharp. She always recited the “remember these words” drill flawlessly, knew the date, all of our names and birthdates, counted forward and backward without fail.

            The tests, though, never lie. Mom’s Huntington’s disease snuck into our lives without notice and took over everything during her final four years. The stages are recognizable and yet still unique for each patient. Our lives narrowed down, too, as caregivers. I raced to retire from teaching because we knew she’d need care twenty-four/seven. We removed the wall between one bedroom and the bathroom to create a wheelchair wide access point. We structured our days and nights to accommodate her ever increasing needs. When Mom moved into our home, she could get into and out of her wheelchair on her own. She could cook with me, help with laundry, and take trips to see my siblings. She would discuss the news, watch movies with me, and chat about plot lines. By the end, we did everything for her.

            Caregivers don’t talk about having to handle impacted bowels. Caregivers don’t share the horrors of watching a loved one go from eating meals to being unable to take a syringe of water. Caregivers don’t reveal the heartache whispering, “It’s time to go. We’ll be fine. We love you, but you need to let go.”

 

            Mom died in November 2012 after living with us for two years, but we were her caregivers for many years before she moved in with us. Huntington’s disease changed our family forever. We have a resilience now that prepares us to handle new crisis situations with a comparison point—“It’s NOT as bad as Huntington’s disease.”

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman