"Susie"

Suise, James and Heather 1981

            When I met Susie, forty-seven years ago, her teenager heart saw no one but my future brother-in-law, James. Her eyes followed his every move. She draped herself onto his lap, latching onto him with the purity of young devotion. She attached her life to his goals to be an Air Force pilot, never longing for anything more than the role of wife and mother. The books she read covered with Fabio’s muscled chest, contained characters she longed to imitate. Conversations with her revolved around how James would take care of her for the rest of her life.

            My practical nature cringed whenever I knew Susie and I would be alone, forcing us to talk about her limited hopes and dreams that couldn’t be separated from James’s needs. I reminded myself those first few months that she would soon be a relative that I’d see frequently. We needed to find common ground, but her unplanned pregnancy, total dependency upon my in-laws for financial support, and unwillingness to even look for a part-time job, allowed me to slip into a critical judgement that I later regretted.

            Wherever they lived, I wrote Susie long letters talking about my teaching slots and the authors I liked. She was open to reading new things, and soon we’d exchange books whenever they visited my in-laws. Although their first two children were older than our son by three and six years, their third child trailed ours by fifteen months. My letters, sent within packages of baby clothing and toys for the kids, included paperback novels for Susie, too. I think we both worked hard to find common ground during the first years of becoming Chapmans. When James decided to leave the Air Force, he didn’t tell Susie about his choice. Suddenly, their family of six resided with my in-laws again, where tension and tempers simmered just under boiling almost all the time. For the first time in her life, Susie stopped her unnatural worship of her husband and their relationship never returned to the adoration James needed daily.

            During these troubled years, Susie and I talked often while our kids played together. When James decided to buy a home, they found one walking distance from our house. And then, four months later, he left her and their kids for an older woman. Susie’s grief mixed with anger, spilled into late night phone calls that left me with only a couple of hours of sleep before heading to work. Their brief round of counseling as a couple turned into more appointments for her, and her mantra became “He’ll wake up one day and realize he wants us back.” Instead, James distanced himself from the kids as well as Susie, often canceling out at the last minute on visits with them.

            Eventually, Susie’s mother and siblings helped her go to school to be certified as a massage therapist. Having a job didn’t fill Susie’s loneliness, but it built her confidence. During these years, I’d walk over to Susie’s house to visit. Our kids drifted between the two homes on foot, riding bicycles, or on skateboards. There were sleepovers, birthday celebrations, and a lifetime bond not just between the kids, but also with Susie and me.

            When she remarried, I saw her less. Her new husband came with three young adult children and an open door policy that meant a huge family gathering every Sunday. We still talked books and kids, sometimes heading for a walk around the neighborhood, but our visits became less frequent. My years as Mom’s caregiver meant Susie swung by here. She gave Mom massages, treated me out to Starbucks, and made certain I got away from the house every couple of months. We eased into a wonderful, comfortable friendship that meant weeks could pass without a call, text, or visit without feeling guilty. Whenever we connected, we’d talk about books, adult kids, ailing parents, and whatever movies she’d seen with her repeating dialogue for me. When COVID-19 took her second husband, she relied upon their children and grandchildren to work through her loss, with her next door neighbor filling her life again.

            Right before Christmas, I stopped by Susie’s home while on my morning walk. We sat outside, in her back yard. We talked about kids, her grandchildren, her new beau, and the latest authors we’d discovered. We promised to get together after the holidays for lunch and a longer, more relaxed chat as I needed to finish my trek up the steepest hill in our neighborhood.

            That casual promise to get together soon didn’t happen. A hemorrhagic stroke blindsided all of us, leaving Susie hospitalized with emergency surgery. Her children and siblings stayed with her, and her daughters let us know when we should visit. I chatted with her about our kids and books, and teased that she needed to recover so she could treat me to Starbucks one more time.  

Susie and me 2015

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

             

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“Susie”

Suise, James and Heather 1981

            When I met Susie, forty-seven years ago, her teenager heart saw no one but my future brother-in-law, James. Her eyes followed his every move. She draped herself onto his lap, latching onto him with the purity of young devotion. She attached her life to his goals to be an Air Force pilot, never longing for anything more than the role of wife and mother. The books she read covered with Fabio’s muscled chest, contained characters she longed to imitate. Conversations with her revolved around how James would take care of her for the rest of her life.

            My practical nature cringed whenever I knew Susie and I would be alone, forcing us to talk about her limited hopes and dreams that couldn’t be separated from James’s needs. I reminded myself those first few months that she would soon be a relative that I’d see frequently. We needed to find common ground, but her unplanned pregnancy, total dependency upon my in-laws for financial support, and unwillingness to even look for a part-time job, allowed me to slip into a critical judgement that I later regretted.

            Wherever they lived, I wrote Susie long letters talking about my teaching slots and the authors I liked. She was open to reading new things, and soon we’d exchange books whenever they visited my in-laws. Although their first two children were older than our son by three and six years, their third child trailed ours by fifteen months. My letters, sent within packages of baby clothing and toys for the kids, included paperback novels for Susie, too. I think we both worked hard to find common ground during the first years of becoming Chapmans. When James decided to leave the Air Force, he didn’t tell Susie about his choice. Suddenly, their family of six resided with my in-laws again, where tension and tempers simmered just under boiling almost all the time. For the first time in her life, Susie stopped her unnatural worship of her husband and their relationship never returned to the adoration James needed daily.

            During these troubled years, Susie and I talked often while our kids played together. When James decided to buy a home, they found one walking distance from our house. And then, four months later, he left her and their kids for an older woman. Susie’s grief mixed with anger, spilled into late night phone calls that left me with only a couple of hours of sleep before heading to work. Their brief round of counseling as a couple turned into more appointments for her, and her mantra became “He’ll wake up one day and realize he wants us back.” Instead, James distanced himself from the kids as well as Susie, often canceling out at the last minute on visits with them.

            Eventually, Susie’s mother and siblings helped her go to school to be certified as a massage therapist. Having a job didn’t fill Susie’s loneliness, but it built her confidence. During these years, I’d walk over to Susie’s house to visit. Our kids drifted between the two homes on foot, riding bicycles, or on skateboards. There were sleepovers, birthday celebrations, and a lifetime bond not just between the kids, but also with Susie and me.

            When she remarried, I saw her less. Her new husband came with three young adult children and an open door policy that meant a huge family gathering every Sunday. We still talked books and kids, sometimes heading for a walk around the neighborhood, but our visits became less frequent. My years as Mom’s caregiver meant Susie swung by here. She gave Mom massages, treated me out to Starbucks, and made certain I got away from the house every couple of months. We eased into a wonderful, comfortable friendship that meant weeks could pass without a call, text, or visit without feeling guilty. Whenever we connected, we’d talk about books, adult kids, ailing parents, and whatever movies she’d seen with her repeating dialogue for me. When COVID-19 took her second husband, she relied upon their children and grandchildren to work through her loss, with her next door neighbor filling her life again.

            Right before Christmas, I stopped by Susie’s home while on my morning walk. We sat outside, in her back yard. We talked about kids, her grandchildren, her new beau, and the latest authors we’d discovered. We promised to get together after the holidays for lunch and a longer, more relaxed chat as I needed to finish my trek up the steepest hill in our neighborhood.

            That casual promise to get together soon didn’t happen. A hemorrhagic stroke blindsided all of us, leaving Susie hospitalized with emergency surgery. Her children and siblings stayed with her, and her daughters let us know when we should visit. I chatted with her about our kids and books, and teased that she needed to recover so she could treat me to Starbucks one more time.  

Susie and me 2015

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

             

 

"Isolation Response"

 

            I woke up in the middle of the night with a slight headache and a matching echo of discomfort in my throat. Nothing bad–something I would’ve ignored in the past. With mental sirens sounding loudly, my new response went into hyper speed. Opening the medicine cabinet, I grabbed Mucinex DM and quickly downed a tablet. Scooping up a new box of Vicks and my thermometer I headed to the family room to set up a sleeping area that removed me from the rest of our household. I returned to the bathroom long enough to spray surfaces with Lysol. With my warmest robe and pillows snuck from the bed, I shifted quietly into the other room. In the darkness, I snuck into the kitchen to add to my disinfectant arsenal: more Lysol spray and hand sanitizer. I grabbed a new mask and added two bottles of water, placing everything on the table next to the couch.

            I fell back asleep easily, but upon waking I realized that our household, like many others, no longer can ignore a nighttime onset of a stuffed nose or slight fever. With both the flu and COVID on the rise, symptoms I ignored in the past become warnings to medicate and isolate as soon as possible. I woke up before dawn and found that a normal temperature raised my spirits. The slight headache and sore throat remained as a shadow of the night before. I drank a bottle of water and settled back into sleep.

            For the rest of the day, I wore a mask around my family when they came in to the room. I stayed snoozing on the couch watching disaster movies. I took a second dose of medication even though my symptoms were gone. Waking up this morning with my usual energy level, I’m thankful that whatever ailed me passed within a few hours once a tablet hit my system.

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Petri Dish”

 

            Yesterday, a friend asked if I ever planned on returning to the classroom. After thirty years teaching and another eight years working as a substitute, she wondered if I missed my filled-to-the-brim days.

            “I can’t go back to the petri dish,” I responded directly to her question.

            “Petri dish?”

            “You know, the wonderful thing about Facebook turns out to be the Memories section. I never realized just how often I felt sick. How year-after-year, I suffered through stomach viruses and colds. Twice a year, my throat roughened into sandpaper. I caught colds that lasted for three or four weeks, recovered enough to feel decent for another week, and then cycled right back into hell.”

            Since 2020, I’ve had COVID-19 that was mild due to vaccinations and . . . NOTHING!

            At one point, I speculated that I may have had allergies since I fell sick repeatedly each fall and spring when both my husband and son suffered from airborne allergens. But during the last four years, I’ve walked when the ragweed and mold levels tip to purple without a sniffle. I bathed in oak pollen each spring with no scratchy throat, runny eyes, or chest tormenting cough.

            Work and school placed me into a petri dish of viruses that pulled me under within a few weeks of the start of each year and then again after winter break. I cycled from virus to virus and suffered tremendously.   

            The loss of substitute income means I’ve had to realign my budget, but it’s worth every penny lost because I feel so much better! In the back of my mind, I know that as I age, recovering from each round of virus induced illness may become harder. I want to live with as much good health as possible and diving back into the cesspool isn’t a risk I’m willing to take.  

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Sweet Tooth”

 

            My quest to limit daily sugar intake means I travel a rough, temptation strewn road. A couple of years ago, I edged away from sweet iced tea by ordering half-n-half. I ran victory laps when “unsweet” became my go to order. At home, my Earl Grey hot gradually shifted to less sugar, then honey, and finally nothing but the wonderful blend on its own. We’d dropped all sodas about six years ago, but the urge to down a hot Dr. Pepper when my throat burns with an infection lingers in my memories. Dad’s remedy remains warm and comforting when fever devils me. When COVID-19 invaded our home right before Christmas, I begged for ginger ale and Dr. Pepper to soothe my symptoms. That influx of sodas has left me craving sugar again.

            I noticed a few weeks ago that my tea order at restaurants had relapsed to my sweet addiction. My morning Greek teas, usually brewed without honey, had crept back to a dollop each morning. My eyes draw to pictures of desserts when I browse online, and I shoot furtive glances at the donuts when at HEB. My determination to dodge candy bars and chocolate entered the maximum level of stress when Girl Scout cookies hit the streets. Every night, I allow one indulgence—either a single Blue Bell Krunch Bar or their Fudge Bar. My goal remains focused! I will wean off of that nightly treat and return to my pre-illness status of a monthly sweet treat from our neighborhood Dairy Queen.

            As I struggle to avoid the bombardment of delicacies that constantly barrage my daily routine, I focus on a plan of action that takes me away from the cravings that batter me at the moment. For my benefit, my mantra “Less is more” becomes the chant that pulls me away from reaching for a Milky Way!

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

   

“The Travel Bug”

 

            Amazement fills me whenever I listen to the latest recounting of the adventures of my Travel Bug friends. Even during the worst part of the pandemic, pre-vaccination, they insisted their psychological need to experience new and different places outweighed any risk they’d get from contracting COVID-19. Flying to Guatemala or Iceland, Croatia or Morocco these friends determined their experiences with an illness (many became extremely ill several times) outweighed the depression they’d deal with by staying home.

            As the ultimate introvert, watching these friends and family members engage is high risk behaviors found me hitting the “unfollow” button on Facebook. That way, I didn’t read about the two weeks one spent in the hospital or the months and months of illness due to long COVID a half-dozen friends now deal with daily.

            When I think back to the few vacations we’ve taken over the last forty-four the years, the memories glow soft and warm. Each experience nestles snugly within me. Do I find myself compelled to plan another adventure anytime soon? No. I delved into the costs of a hypothetical trip the other day and realized that my budget can’t absorb that kind of hit. Our appliances are old, and our air conditioner approaches the “ancient” status. Getting infected with the Travel Bug right now would mean I’d have to return to work—something I continue to avoid for a second year.

 

“One Step Forward. Two . . .”

 

            Many months have passed since my last musings. I often think, “I need to write about this” or “Maybe I should record THAT”. Yet nothing propels me to my keyboard. The more time passes, the more often I self-censor ideas. “This really isn’t my story” pushes me into stepping away from the commentary swirling around in my brain.

            Before Christmas, we traveled to my sister’s home for an extremely small family gift exchange. My husband and I joined my sister, brother-in-law, and brother for one brief afternoon. As all of us felt well, no one did any COVID-19 testing. Within the first hour of our visit, my brother asked if there were any allergens in the air. His eyes started burning, and he asked for a hot cub of tea to ease his throat that suddenly had a tickle. His symptoms, absent when he joined our gathering, manifested quickly but looked like his typical allergy reaction to something in the air. We spent less than five hours together, with an open window close by, but that’s all it took for me to pick up the virus and eventually pass it on to my own small household. Fortunately, all of us are vaccinated and boosted. After a few days of misery, we all recovered well enough to return to our usual daily routines.

            For me, that meant increasing my walking goals. In June of 2020, I slipped while mopping the floor and slightly twisted my left knee. I gave it little thought as I continued with my daily walks through our neighborhood, until one morning when I took one step too many, heard a pop, and stepped into excruciating pain. RICE for seventy-two hours, plus another seventy-two using heat saved my knee. When my doctor’s PA examined it around day ten, she pronounced it on the road to recovery and gave me exercises to utilize to regain strength and motion. She said my knee definitely had arthritis in it, told me to “be careful” in my rehab and remember that it could happen again.

            Recovery crawled at a slow and steady pace. At first, I couldn’t even walk my entire back yard to water it without giving my knee a break. By the fall, I could walk to the corner of our street and back. I changed doctors and the goal of walking thirty minutes a day became my new focus. January of 2022 found my pace so slow that I’d drive to our park, hit the smooth sidewalks there for an entire hour. By June, I could walk to the park from our house. My pace picked up, too. I began walking different areas of our neighborhood. The hardest route, walking up “Suicide Hill” became my choice for once a week. My knee handled these challenges without a complaint!

            Moving into this January, I fixated on the idea of going up that steep incline for an entire week without shifting to a different direction. On day seven, I felt triumphant! Up the hill in record time, around the block to hit the hill by the elementary school, and then pushing the final stretch to home all in my half-hour goal. Approaching our home, I noticed our neighbor had removed all of the leaves from the front of his house. I dashed inside, grabbed a broom, and cleared the leaves from our front, too, forgetting that the motion that first injured my left knee was the side-to-side sweep of a mop.

            By the afternoon, my entire right leg muscles screamed for a hot soak in the tub followed by a slathering of Bengay Maximum. The next morning my leg didn’t scream, but I decided to spend my thirty minutes spinning on the recumbent bike we purchased just before Christmas. No problems. On Friday morning, with temperatures dipping pretty cold, I decided another round on the bike would keep me at my exercise goal. No problem with my right leg muscles at all.

            We decided to eat lunch out, walk over to the gym to cancel our membership, and run more errands. Heading toward Target, I felt my pace slow down as we entered the store. No pain or discomfort anywhere. I simply couldn’t keep up with my husband and son. Swinging to Hobby Lobby to spend a gift card, my steps slowed even more. Still, nothing hurt. I just shifted into a lower gear as we walked.

            Once home, I headed to our bedroom to put some mail into the drawer and took ONE STEP TOO MANY.

            This time, my right knee popped loudly with pain firing fiercely! Our bed, a couple of steps behind me became unreachable without help. I called out for aid. My husband and son guided me into bed, removed my shoes, and propped up pillows. We began RICE immediately. This time, our quick action means my right knee’s recovering at a faster pace. I’m not going to be heading up “Suicide Hill” anytime soon, but I’m able to move around the house pain free today!  

Shoes waiting for my next walk!

 

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

“Losing Louise”

Aunt Louise in 1949!

            Every few months, I contacted my Aunt Louise. Sometimes it’s a quick letter posted with a nice card. Most of the time, it’s a phone call. If there’s any kind of weather system heading to any corner of Texas, she’d initiate the contact to make certain none of her Texas relatives had blown or floated away. I often called her around Mom’s birthday in January and her own birthday in July. Over the past year, my calls to Aunt Louise became a series of messages left on her answering machine. Sometimes it was full, but most of the time I could leave requests that she call me. Around her birthday, I decided to send a letter because I worried about her health as she was 94. When the letter came back with addressee unknown, I decided to contact my cousin in Illinois since he often visited Aunt Louise. My aunt lived in a retirement area that allowed her to move from independent living in an apartment to assisted living and nursing care if needed. I thought she must have shifted to a higher care facility without anyone contacting me.

            Reaching my cousin, though, proved difficult. His landline, in a home he’d lived in for more than sixty years, was disconnected. I did a quick online search and found his obituary for August 2020. I later learned he died of COVID-19.  I tracked down his son, who I’ve not seen since we were very young children, to learn that he could access Aunt Louise’s information once he finished moving into his dad’s home. This was during the summer of 2021, and I let it ride because grief laced every word my cousin spoke. He assured me that he’d get Aunt Louise’s new contact information to me.

            In December, I received a phone call from someone I didn’t know. He stated that he’s the executor of Aunt Louise’s estate, and she’d died in November. He asked for my email information and cell number, which I gave him. He requested contact information for my siblings, too. He sent a few emails with information on the VA cemetery and the estate sale he’s having next week. Then, a couple of weeks ago, I received an anxious call from my cousin’s daughter because she hadn’t reached Aunt Louise and hit a block when talking with the nursing home personnel. She only had my number because I’d left it with her brother. She had more frequent contact with my aunt and was upset because no one from the facility had contacted her about Aunt Louise’s death. As she was executor of the estate, she was really worried when I told her someone else had contacted me! I learned quickly that she’s a focused and fiercely loyal advocate for Aunt Louise. She made phone calls and sent emails, demanded to see the will that this other man claimed to have, and let me know that he’s legitimate.  She let me know that Aunt Louise left money in a trust, but I worry more about tracking down any photographs and personal items that found their way to storage. This weekend, there will be a sale of her household goods, and the executor of her estate assured me that he’d hunt for family photographs and send them on to me. We have so little from Mom’s childhood and teen years because she spent nine years in foster care. Maybe Aunt Louise had a box of memories and mementos that will allow us to find both her and Mom again.

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

             

 

“Practice Grace”

            Every day, our national news spotlights an ugly side of our country. Too many people in power who want to kill rational thinking by directing attention to fears to control our dialogues. Their rhetoric feed negative and dreadful constructs. Daily, they drone on and on against diversity in thought and deed. They expertly played a long game by infiltrating local school boards and subverting local communities. Their grass roots movement now bears malignant, poisonous fruit. The end result indoctrinated entire sections of our culture to fear and hate.

            Yesterday, I briefly visited a family member whose husband died in December from COVID-19. He believed the propaganda that COVID-19 was nothing worse than the flu. He spouted their words about masking blocking his individual rights. He refused vaccination even when his wife and children received their own shots. He believed their cancerous disinformation. His COVID-19 battle started in July, with months of hospitalization and then a shift to a rehabilitation facility. When his insurance ran out, he came home to die.

            All I could think of on my walk home was that he’d been killed by dangerous opinions. How did we get to this point as a society?

            We stumbled somehow onto a path that doesn’t practice grace. We’re mired in muck that no longer allows for kindness, mercy or decency. I don’t know how to wash away the filth.

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

“Old Friends and New Disappointments”

            The responses of various friends to national and world events have left me disillusioned. Did I ever know the true spirit of woman who sits in mass daily and yet defends the attack on the Capitol? Did I misjudge the friend who insists her right to refuse to mask and vaccinate during this pandemic outweighs my rights to stay healthy? Did I naively trust the man who now insists he must own and display an AR-15 when I visit?

            Have these people always been so different from my vision of them, and have they donned masks throughout our years of friendship? Or have they changed without my noticing? Can these relationships recover, or will these disappointments color our interactions from now on?

            Already, there’s less contact initiated by these friends towards me because I know the insurrection at the Capitol endangers our democracy even as those supporters of our former president defend The Big Lie more than a year later. I encourage everyone to get vaccinated for COVID-19, wear masks, and social distance because it’s the moral choice for not just our country, but for the world. I cannot “un-see” the photographs of my friends and family arming for a war that they aspire to begin.

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Mental Health”

 

            In March of 2020, I participated in the Psychological Impact and Coping During Covid-19 research study done by The COVID Research Team, Ferkauf Graduate School of Psychology at Yeshiva University. The detailed questionnaire asked about changes in sleep, eating, concentration, and mood. I completed one month, three month, and six month follow-ups that continued to monitor my personal response to the pandemic.

            This drill focused my attention onto the resilience caregiving gave to our family. With Huntington’s disease, we’d already survived tending to a horrendously devastating disease. We’d already experienced pulling in our lives to a tight circle that relied on finding positivity and grace in handling Mom’s long, slow death. Caregivers don’t leave their homes that often. Visitors dwindle down once friends realize that the news never gets better. Caring for Mom honed my coping strategies for isolation and uncertainty.

            My mental health advantage took a battering when the flaws of friends and family members pushed to the foreground. Some people refused to wear masks, stay home or social distance. They continued their proclamations of individual rights through vaccine rejection. A few have become seriously ill with Long COVID symptoms. Several died. They refuse to follow their own doctor’s suggestion spouting that they know better than the medical community.

            Their attitudes broke my heart. Their declarations that their own needs outweigh the health of a community made me realize that we lack common ground. They closed their minds to anything I offered by demeaning me and my well-documented sources.

            These relationships forced me to add a layer of mental health checks to my interactions with other people. My high tolerance for toxic family and friends shifted because of the pandemic. My own mental health required no contact with those who spew propaganda. My own mental health compelled me to nurture friends and family who show a level of empathy, grace, and community in their lives.

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

                       

“Too Much Time?”

 

            Like many people, I started working at sixteen and never stopped. The two years as caregiver for Mom as she circled down into the late stage of Huntington’s disease translated into a grueling 24/7 schedule. I returned to work “part-time” as a substitute teacher with the idea that I had freedom to adjust my days as I pleased. Even pre-pandemic, school districts experienced a shortage of substitutes, and I became a sucker for a plea from a secretary to book weeks in advance. I broke my vow to “cut back” to only working two or three days a week as my calendar filled year-after-year.

            Then COVID-19 halted me in my tracks. The spring of 2020 suddenly loomed open and empty. At first, I reveled in the wonder of having enough Time for anything and everything. I finished neglected yard and garden projects. I reorganized every closet and drawer, and ventured into the garage and attics for a purge. I detailed the cars to a showroom shine. I binged on television and movies, and read blissfully.

            Hours? Days? Weeks? Months? Tracking time became unnecessary.

            Until lack of use drained the Mazda’s battery!

            I realized tracking time needed a new type of routine other than up at 5 AM, Monday thru Friday to work all day. Slowly, a weekly sequence evolved. Mondays I designated for ERRANDS DAY that included a grocery store run and take-outs to support local restaurants. To avoid draining the car batteries, Tuesdays turned into CAR DAYS. The RX8 zips down a stretch of highway at 70 mph to keep the engine purring. Wednesdays shifted to WASH DAYS. That means stripping all of the beds, tossing in the towels, and tackling our multitude of throws along with our usual clothing. The tradition of NO CHORE Thursday (started when caring for Mom) continued to this day. I assigned Fridays for COMPANY CLEANING: bathrooms disinfected, mirrors polished, furniture dusted, floors mopped. Saturday and Sunday opened up as free days, too.

            My system means my days don’t blur without some kind of “tick” to mark them. I don’t have to remember if I’ve driven the car from one week to the next, or if I’ve forgotten to wash Koi’s bedding. A glance at my phone yields the weekday, and my morning chores fall into place.

            Of course, it amazes me that I finally have too much time.

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

    

   

“Indulgence”

            My new doctor challenged me with a weight loss goal and the simple instructions: WALK. An easy challenge for most people, but anyone with problem knees understands the intricacies of this task. Back at the beginning of the pandemic, enjoying my unexpected time off, I overused and injured my left knee. Two weeks of RICE followed by a PA’s examination and the warning to rehab very, very slowly and carefully meant I avoided further injury and didn’t need any follow-up treatment.

            I celebrated my vaccination by renewing my gym membership. It took a few weeks of trying different times to discover the perfect period for me to exercise without too many other people around. My goal to be heart healthy couldn’t ignore COVID-19.  

            At first, my knee hummed at me with irritation if I hit the treadmill for longer than fifteen minutes. After a frustrated six weeks, I shifted to the bicycle. I came home triumphant when, day after day, my knee handled thirty minutes at Level 1 without protest. I noted improvement in other ways. The first time I attempted to walk through a local mall, my knee demanded rest about half-way into the circuit. By Christmas, I wove effortlessly through the crowds. Of course, around this time, COVID’S Omicron burst onto the scene causing me to backburner a return to the gym.

            Two weeks ago, I drove to our park and tested myself with a 1.3 mile loop over the park’s dam. For three days, I found other paths that looped around the area. In the past, I would have walked to the park, too. That dare I didn’t attempt until yesterday. After reading a few articles on the benefits of walking, I realized that confining myself to thirty minutes hedged me in to trying for a quicker pace. For me, allowing myself a full sixty minutes of nothing but “ME” time turned into a luxury of day dreaming and birdsong listening. With my mind set on spending an entire hour on my journey, the hurry shifted emotionally to an indulgence.

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

“Super Spreader Shower”

             Our incredible caution with avoiding COVID-19 meant limiting activities even after vaccination. If a restaurant’s tables appeared too crowded, we either did take-out, or we found a less crowded place to eat. With a year of reduced spending behind us, I vowed to keep within our new tight budget by designating each month a merchandise category. April turned into auto repair month, May meant painting two rooms, June was Paul’s birthday month, and July’s focus zeroed in on finding a new phone for me, getting our vision checked, and getting our dog to the vet.

            Each of these goals occurred safely. The store where we went to replace my ancient iPhone 4 limited the number of people in the area. We signed in, waited minimally, and transacted the entire process with only a few other people around us. Our optometrist’s office had us stay in our car and text them upon arrival. Other than his personnel, no other patients sat in the waiting room. Koi’s vet followed a similar protocol. I called when I pulled into the parking lot and their technician came out to lead an extremely reluctant Koi into the building. The vet called me as he ran through Koi’s physical. Koi’s nagging cough turned out to be the beginnings of tracheal collapse. He explained the treatment, sent out all of the instruction (along with the bill). The contact between me and his aide proved so minimal that I always felt safe.

            On July 8^th, we received an email invitation to one of our nephew’s baby shower. To accommodate some of us who approached COVID-19 with caution, the party would occur outside by the pool. I need to explain that most of the people in attendance had ignored every warning about COVID-19 with many of them falling ill to the virus within the first few months. These separate house-holds still vacationed together, and they celebrated holidays in a large group. They politicized mask wearing and vaccinations, believing in many of the conspiracy theories that fester uncontrolled throughout our country.

            For us, the threat of infection from this gathering made us reluctant to attend. We knew that at least fifty people would attend. My doctor, who happened to call a few days before the baby shower, advised us to keep our masks on at all times, even if we stayed outside. She warned, “Delta’s a devil!”  

            July 24^th found us ostracized by the family members who didn’t believe in masks and vaccinations, which turned out to be a lucky for us. Those guests who were vaccinated didn’t wear masks. I told them about my doctor’s warning, but some responded like it was exaggerated. They falsely believed that vaccination provided a shield, not understanding that you still need masks and distancing! By July 28^th we received notification that our nephew’s stepfather, unable to breathe, had landed in the ER and ICU. He died in December after an extremely long, brutal battle. A few days later, word came out of the eight other people also infected. Fortunately, because they were vaccinated, their cases were mild.

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

“Emergence”

 

Before  new color choice

After new color!

First cabin trip in years!

            Full vaccinations freed us. Wearing our preferred masks, in May we ventured to stores and our favorite restaurants. We invented “Linner”—eating out in that space of time between lunch and dinner (2:30-4:00), which meant fewer people unmasked around us. We lingered in Home Depot on several occasions to select the perfect paints for a couple of rooms. We traveled to League City to purchase a new television set for my brother, who had survived without TV since February. By the end of May, we trekked to our cabin in Leakey with vaccinated family. 

            Our diligence in following the scientific and medical community recommendations translated in our household remaining COVID-19 free after more than a year. Being a household of a writers, musicians, and artists, our “natural” tendency for introversion allowed us to transition into restricting when and where we went (while masked) without qualms. For some people, their positions as essential workers forced them to deal with the situation, and the virus, daily. For many friends and family members, the thought of giving up a vacation or family gathering proved unbearable. We watched COVID-19 strike down young and old, well and unwell. Those who followed guidelines fell ill as well as those who claimed their “rights” meant they could do as they pleased. Some people suffered severely and were hospitalized. Some still struggle with permanent damage to their lungs or hearts. Some walked away with no long term impact on their health. Some died.

            For our household, our shift back into social gatherings never slipped back into pre-pandemic contact. By the end of May, we wearied of criticism because we still “wore Pampers” on our faces. Fatigue over battling anti-vaxxers and anti-maskers made us retreat back into our words, music and art.

Copyright Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 2022

“March and Anxiety”

February's freeze 

Snow and ice in February

            I wrestled with Sunday Night Anxiety for many years when I taught. I paced the house snarling at anyone who crossed my field of vision. Some evenings I cried because I didn’t want to go to work the next day. Once I retired, this overblown unease retreated into the background, resurfacing for “special” occasions like doing income taxes or handling unexpected car malfunctions. Worry dogged me whenever Perfection’s crown slipped. Making simple mistakes drove me crazy, even when no one else knew about my blunder.

            Waltzing with worry meant I weighed my thought processes constantly whenever stress strode into my day. With COVID-19 looming daily in the background, I meticulously measured my “Danger! Danger, Will Robinson!” warnings. By March of 2021, getting all of us vaccinated motived my days. I strategized an attack that resulted in booking appointments for both my husband and me within the first days of our eligibility. Beginning midnight of the designated date, I rotated through Walgreens, CVS, Walmart, HEB, and the UT Health sites in fifteen minute intervals. This technique worked again the next week when my son’s age group gained eligibility. By the end of March, all three of us had received the first shot of Pfizer.

            Other Life ripples resolved during March, too. Our 2019 income taxes, buried under a pile of unprocessed forms at the IRS, finally got processed. Our rough-running car came out of its repair running like new. Our yard and gardens, frozen into submission in February, reemerged with subtle hope.

March's Hope

Rebirth and Regrowth

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman