"Caregiving Scars"

 

Edna Abrams 80 yrs.

        Knowing your personal strengths and weaknesses means you learn when to tune in to your inner voice that warns, “Watch your step. Take your time. Give yourself distance from others to think.” Many times, though, the cacophony of other voices drowns out that quieter internal tone. Hours, days, weeks, and even months press by when you listen and respond to everyone but your own ideas and emotions.

            Your life becomes a long list of “To Do” and “Should Do”. Family and friends lecture those of us in caregiver roles to “take care of yourself first” without realizing such advice cannot be taken without another person actually stepping into your home. They throw out suggestions for you to get away and take a break, but it’s extremely rare that they enter into the responsibility you’ve undertaken for any extended period of time.

            Huntington’s disease attacked my mother fairly late in life. In her 60s she stopped the voracious reading she’d done her entire life. Her passion for cross-stitching died overnight. She talked about being depressed, but insisted her “blue days” didn’t warrant a doctor’s visit. Her tendency for anxiety increased. She complained frequently about not going out or doing things, but then pulled the plug on suggested outings and activities. Sometimes, her feet would move in a restless dance, but she’d stop them the moment anyone called attention to them moving. In her early 70s, she still drove her car and walked a mile each day. She had a couple of times when her legs folded up under her midstride, but HD didn’t blip on any of her doctors’ radar. At 78, Mom had a TIA that propelled her into a Huntington’s disease nightmare. The neurologist treating her at the hospital still didn’t recognize HD, but a young nurse caring for her had worked with an HD family. It was her insistence that forced the doctors to run genetic tests, which gave us the diagnosis.

            No amount of research prepared our family for the years of caregiving that became our family destiny. For two years after the diagnosis, Mom lived in an assisted living complex walking distance from our home. I visited her every day unless I was ill. On those occasions, my husband or son spent part of the evening with her. Her motor skills spiraled into a decline that forewarned us that eventually she’d need to move into our home. She went from walking on her own, to using a walker. She broke her wrist, had cauliflower ear from a fall, and split her nose on her coffee table. Her internist shifted her into a wheelchair because no one wanted her to break a hip. During those two years, our lives revolved around making certain Mom never felt alone. She made friends with her aides, threw parties for both residents and staff, and daily insisted that she missed her apartment. She knew, though, that she’d never live alone again.

            My retirement from teaching on year 30 became imperative. No one talks about the extremely high costs of assisted living. Mom’s care during the two years she stayed there increased from $4,000 to $5,000 a month as her nursing needs changed. Shifting her into the 24/7 care that Huntington’s disease would eventually require meant that price would increase out of our budget. The cut in my take home income from retiring to care for Mom was still financially better than moving her into the more intensive care.

            In 2010, Mom moved into our home. For the next two years, life increasingly revolved around her and her needs. My son rented a home in our neighborhood to be close by, and during the last six months of Mom’s life, he moved back home to help me while my husband worked. The bond formed with the three of us caring for Mom still connects us today. Mom’s deterioration once we moved her here slowed down. Her neurologist noted that she felt happier and more secure. Her mental decline never happened as with many HD patients. If she got enough sleep, she stayed sharp and focused. My greatest fear, that Mom would eventually be unable to swallow, started in November 2012. She went three weeks without food and three days without water.

            No one writes about or talks about the scars carved into the caregiver’s heart. Ten years later, I still catch myself thinking that I need to rush over to Mom’s apartment if I’m out running errands. My caregiver’s scar means I listen for Mom’s bell to ring some nights. That scar reminds me that a disease took over our existence as it destroyed my mother’s life.           

Edna Abrams 81st birthday 2011

Edna Abrams with her nephew and his wife 2011

Mom listening to live music with family 2011

Mom at cabin in Leakey, TX 2011 age 81

 

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Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

"Grandmother's Cookbook"

                        My mother’s childhood showcases trauma and loss. Her father lost their farm during the Depression and moved his family into the small town of Danville, Illinois. Her oldest sister, Lois, drowned while swimming in the local lake within a few years. Around the time Mom turned nine, her mother died. Her father, left with five children still at home, found himself unable to care for his three youngest girls. They ended up within the foster care system. Fortunately, the small town meant all of the Thompson siblings went to school together. She visited her sister Nellie, a newlywed, often. Mom remembered the marble-topped furniture in their home, the lean years of lunch consisting of half a head of iceberg lettuce sprinkled with salt, and the wild antics of her older brothers, known for pranks that resulted in scoldings from the local police. Only a few treasured pieces came into Mom’s possession once she reached adulthood. She received a golden bracelet, which she wore at her wedding. The bracelet became a tradition to wear at weddings with my sister and me encircling our wrists with it. I inherited this lovely piece and used it for the cover art of my novel.

            The other prize from Mom’s childhood came in the form of The American Woman’s Cook Book, edited by Ruth Berolzheimer. All of the frequent moves made by my parent’s military lifestyle meant somethings never made it to the next assignment, but Mom always tucked this cookbook into a box that came with us. Over the years, both of my parents pulled this book off the shelf for recipes. My husband and I turn to it regularly, with me recently vowing to try new-to-us recipes weekly. The volume, though, contains not just ways to prepare various dishes, but also a look into life for the housewife in the 1940s. The thick work contains color plates of finished delights. It suggests menus for parties and holidays. Within its sheets one can find pages of food equivalents. Struggling with ideas for school lunches for the kids? Need a tip on how to set your plates for a fancy dinner? Want the perfect Hollandaise Sause (one of our favorites)? How about the best banana nut bread or pancakes on Earth? You can even find specific instructions on how to help with the war effort.

 

                 This volume represents a life that showcases hardship and hope.

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman      

I am like IOUNIO's "Time Traveler" today, as my fingers trail thought the pages of Grandmother's cookbook. 

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"First Love"

Shoulder length hair
          streaked with fairies’ gold
          pixie dust sprinkled across her pert nose
          braces and rubber bands
          long legs reaching almost to her chin
          a ready smile and a contagious laugh
 
A year of friendship
          spent playing hide-n-go-seek
          swimming at Grandma’s
          trips to the lake house at Canyon
          homework marathons
          and a “first date” at the movies—alone 
 
A year as a couple
          buying Ty beanies because she thinks they’re cute
          Valentine’s Day takes weeks and weeks of allowance
          long phone chats
          Alicia Silverstone, Spice Girls, and the Magic Time Machine
          friends forever
 
He whispers
          as night embraces him
          “Mom, she’s the one.”
          “I’ll never love another girl.”
          “She’s different and special.”
          I feel the weight of his adoration
 
Times change gradually
          her legginess turns to curves
          mascara darkens her lashes
          her Tom boyish walk turns to graceful pirouettes
          her need for popularity outstrips him
 
He understands
          his boyish charm keeps trying
          his cherub face beams when she’s near
          his voice becomes husky when she’s on the phone
          she enchants him still
          even when she’s walking away

 

First love and all of the loves that follow found in IOUNIO's "Scared"

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Copyright 1999 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
 

"Fearless Lizzy"

I spent my childhood roving the neighborhood with a feral pack of my sister’s friends. Living on an Air Force base, our parents (translate that to mothers-our dads were flying) meant we left  home at dawn, showed up to feed for lunch, and then disappeared again until porch lights signaled us to come home after dark.

The summer of ’64, we discovered the playgrounds for the officers' children had superior equipment. The enlisted men had to provide swing sets for their kids that weren’t even dug into the ground. If we swung too high, the entire structure would lift up into the air, spilling us onto the dirt. The officers’ area offered swigs set in concrete bases, an assortment of monkey bars, tetherball, a large fiberglass turtle to crawl on or sit under, and a wonderful climbing set of bars shaped like a train! Adding to the attraction was the fact that this area was banned from us to use.

Being the smallest and youngest didn’t deter me from keeping up with our wild horde when we ventured into the forbidden zone. I loved nesting under the turtle. Kicking my feet high into the air to propel me into the blue summer sky while on the swing made me squeal. The bars shaped like a train, though, scared me. The older kids challenged each other to jump from one end to the other. At one section, they would swing, pick up momentum, and let go to soar through the air to wrap around a pole that seemed a mile away. The force of their jump would allow them to spin and slip down the long shaft.

Most days, the older kids left me alone to amuse myself. One fateful day, a couple of boys hoisted me onto the train and sang challenges that I could jump from bar to bar just like them. I remember my sister’s wide eyes and heard the worry in her voice as she warned me not to let the boys bully me. But I climbed up, gripped the thick bar, swung my short legs madly in an attempt to propel myself through the air, and hit the ground.

My personal memory ends with impact.

My sister recounts the panic when blood seeped from my forehead. A couple of the boys ran to get help from any of the officer’s wives, knocking on doors and begging for help. They got reprimands instead. We weren’t supposed to be in that playground. The double whack of the bar in front of me and the ground behind me left me unconscious. My sensible sister knew not to even try to move me. She sent the boys to go get our parents.

Most of the time, Dad missed illnesses and emergencies as he spent months gone on TDYs. This time, he was outside mowing the yard when the terrified boys raced up yelling that I’d fallen and wouldn’t wake up.

I have no memory of Dad sweeping me from the ground and into the car. I can’t recall the emergency room nurses or doctors checking me out, cleaning my head wounds, and wrapping me with bandages. I have no recollection of saying, on the way home, “Who are you?”

The U-turn Dad took seems visceral in my mind, but I distinctly can recount that I heard Dad’s words when he carried me back into the ER, “She’s still broken.”

Fearless Lizzy spent three days in the hospital with a concussion. Nurses or doctors woke me up all night long, quizzing me about my name and age. If I napped during the day, someone would swing by, wake me up, and ask me if I knew where I was. I got all of the ice cream I wanted. Once the doctors felt I was in my right senses, they let me go home.

I never, ever, returned to that playground. If older, bolder kids challenged me to follow their escapades, I’d glance to my sister for feedback. A slight nod from her meant I could attempt the dare. I trusted her judgement for a long time before I learned to trust my own.

My sister, brother and me

Me standing by my younder cousin Cathy

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

My fall reminds me of IOUNIO's "Big Top Blues" lyrics!

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"Starting with Nothing"

             A few days ago, we ambled into a “remember when” conversation after our son commented that he’s never met a woman from his generation who embraces a view that the partnership of marriage can start from nothing and work slowly forward over many years. The women he knows want a partner established in career with a steady income, vehicles that run, and the promise of eventually becoming “stay at home mothers” instead of remaining in the work force. So different from my own beliefs.

            Our first apartment, in Bryan, Texas, had orange shag carpet. For the first four months of marriage, we sat on the floor, eating off of a large paper box. A friend had given us the foam mattress from a hide-a-bed to use as a bed. Our clothing, folded into neat piles, rested directly on the floor. We didn’t even have a laundry basket at first, and the few wire hangers we had held heavier items like our coats and jackets. The television set, black and white, didn’t have working horizontal hold. It rotated the single channel we tuned through rabbit ears. A wicker chair with matching stool and a white pole lamp, pieces I purchased while in high school, finished the furniture we owned. David entered marriage with one small old suitcase, one paper bag of clothing, his guitar (a gift from a friend), his bass, and cabinet with amplifier. My uncle had given us a partial set of American Airlines silverware. Our pots and pans, mix-matched, barely filled our cooking needs. That was okay. We barely had food for groceries. Those months, before our first paychecks arrived, were our pinto bean days.

            Around September, one of David’s aunts loaned us an old mattress and table. We picked up a couple of folding chair, which graduated us to fine dining! We pooled our wedding gift cash to buy unpainted wood chests. Finally, our clothing had a home. The foam pad shifted to the living room for a “couch”.

           

            Those sparse first months gave us the ability to do sacrifice for later goals. My college loans got payed off at a double rate. Once we moved from College Station to San Antonio, we kept our budget strict. Together, we roamed through department and furniture stores to select the furniture that fit a style we both loved.

            For us, part of the success of our long marriage started in those first months of struggle. It gave us a foundation for working together for long-term goals.

IOUNIO's "Echoes in the Mist"

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Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

"Rekindling A Love"

 

San Antonio Zoo 1981

            We moved from College Station, Texas to San Antonio in December of 1979, without jobs and on an extremely tight budget. Our finances allowed few luxuries during those first years as an old Honda Civic needed constant repairs, and I still had school loans to repay. We purchased bikes that provided many hours of entertainment. We found a few parks and preserves that offered escapes, all free, from our small apartment. Our favorite splurge, though, became a day at the San Antonio Zoo.

1985

            Eventually, parenthood meant even more frequent trips that included train rides and sky rides.  The zoo provided rides on elephants and camels during the 1980s as well as a petting zoo that our son grew to love dearly. Our traditions over the years included photographs with the lion sculpture. If family or friends came along, they struck poses, too.

1988

            Life took us along different paths that led us away from trips to the zoo as we spent weekends at the family cabin and discovered our love of Renaissance Fairs. Music lessons, art classes along with more demanding careers and aging parents shifted the zoo into an extremely fond memory.

            Then in December 2023, my son started wanting to visit this treasured place once again.  For our 45^th anniversary gift, we decided to purchase new zoo memberships as we found ourselves falling in love once more with all of the changes entwined with our special traditions.

1990

1990

2023

IOUNIO's "Time Traveler" taps into my longing to rekindle parts of my past within my persent. 

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Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Comfort Music"

At age two, my son asked for drums. We purchased a cute plastic set that he played like a pro. Paul also latched onto a harmonica at the same age, dancing around his room playing a singsong tune. He asked for a drum kit around age six. Tight on space, we purchased a Yamaha keyboard, found music lessons that combined singing with playing to temporarily satisfy his musical urge. His instructor, during her summer camps, encouraged her students to add another instrument to their playing skills. Paul asked my brother for the forgotten snare drum sitting in his closet. Every year, the subject of a drum kit surfaced. Because of space limitation, Paul ended up with both a bass and electric guitar. Although he enjoyed both, he still longed for a kit. By his fourteenth birthday, we decided to get rid of our guest room and fill it with drums. From the first second Paul held sticks in his hands, he played wonderfully. Before we knew it, he picked up a second kit, filling the smallest room with double bass beats and practicing with Neil Peart on loop. The summer he turned fourteen, Slipknot hit San Antonio with the Tattoo the Earth tour. My son, now thirty-six and an audio engineer, still prefers the music from that one crucial year when he’s looking for “comfort music” during a rough day.

Always curious, Paul dipped into recent brain studies searching for neurological reasons for music and genre preferences, discovering that most men’s “go to” music stems from what they listened to at age fourteen. For women, it’s age thirteen. Over the years, my husband’s purchased everything ever produced by The Beatles and Rush, the two groups he listened to endlessly as he entered his teen years. He picked up both bass and guitar during those years and serenaded his way through high school with “Blackbird” or “Fly by Night.” What did I listen to at age thirteen? The first 8-track I ever purchased was Elton John’s Tumbleweed Connection. My comfort music, though, doesn’t center on a single performer or group. My mornings during my early teen years found me listening to KTSA as I dressed for school. Evenings our family played my parent’s records on the stereo, so Pete Foutain, Buddy Rich, or Chet Atkins entertained us. By nightfall, my radio played classical music. When I’m feeling down now, I’m just as likely to listen to Lizzo for a pick-me-up as I am Elton John. However, over the years I’ve rarely purchased my own CDs, and my iTunes is almost empty—except for Elton John, Stevie Wonder, and James Taylor—all favorites from the year 1970.

I leave with the question—What is your “comfort music”?

 

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Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman