“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 

             

 

“Simple Stories”

Mornings find me slipping into TV Land as I feed Mom scrambled eggs or syrup saturated pancakes. I sit beside her on the couch, holding her Boost as she struggles to take single sips at the straw. My childhood favorites fill the background with black and white clarity. The pleasant plots contrast to Mom's daily decline. The soft humor nudges giggles from us. Will Beaver get his tonsils removed? Will Laura's big toe come out of the faucet? Will Aunt Bea's pickles win the prize?

These episodes uphold with gentle playfulness, honesty and optimism. Perhaps these simple stories simmer in my subconscious, providing the basis for my undying belief in people striving to do the best for those they love.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“A Melatonin Nightmare”

         Sleep escapes many people who suffer from Huntington’s disease. A few years ago, Mom only needed a little Lexapro and Lorazepam to take the edge off of her depression and anxiety and allow her to have a full night’s rest. Eventually, Mom’s neurologist dropped the Lexapro and added Neurontin and Trazodone in low doses to her daily mix. About eight months ago, Mom’s sleep patterns began to shift. She started staying awake hour after hour.

         At first, these late nights didn’t affect Mom’s overall behavior or personality. She spent the day after her insomnia attacks actually awake. While David and I endured sleep deprivation, Mom seemed to carry out her normal daily routine after a sleepless night. The occasional wakeful night slowly shifted into a pattern of Mom staying awake four or five nights out of seven. A quick call to one of her doctors meant a change in the dose of one of the medications. Life went on.

         In January, the neurologist adjusted Mom’s Trazodone for the second time. Then a couple of months later we upped her night dosage to 100 mg. During the last couple of weeks, insomnia invaded Mom’s bedroom yet again. With these last bouts of sleeplessness have come changes in Mom’s personality. The longer she goes without sleep, the meaner she becomes. Her tongue, often tied by HD during the day, loosens during these endless nights. Sometimes her anger and frustration brings along paranoia. These changes frighten me because I know her disease wins on these nights.

         After a bad round of insomnia last week, I searched different HD sites to compare Mom’s experiences with other’s fighting this disease. It didn’t take me long to realize that wakefulness and restlessness plagues almost everyone with HD. Then I stumbled upon references to using melatonin. I gave Mom’s neurologist yet another call to ask about this OTC option.

         “I was going to suggest melatonin to you,” he said when he returned my call. “I’m going to let you experiment with the dosage you use. It’ll take a couple of weeks for you to find the right amount, but call me if she doesn’t respond at all. Actually, call me in two weeks no matter what.”

         Running errands at The Forum, I swung by Target to see if the store carried melatonin. Sure enough—one single bottle remained on the shelf for a 5 mg dosage.

         The first night Mom had no change in her sleep. After that, she zonked out and stayed asleep all night long. She also took naps during the first few days, something she rarely does unless she’s using Benadryl. David commented first on the fact that Mom didn’t recognize him the other morning. He’s recently shaved off his beard and mustache, so we decided her confusion wasn’t anything to worry about.

         The nightmare began suddenly today, five days into taking the melatonin. Mom woke up after a full night of sleep with more energy than I’ve seen with her in  days. She fed herself eggs and later asked for pancakes, which she also managed to eat on her own. She chatted with me about the episode of The Dick Van Dyke Show since this installment showcased both Van Dyke brothers, who went to school with Mom. Then after lunch Mom’s attitude suddenly changed as I helped her in the bathroom. She became suddenly angry and told me I was “useless.” Within minutes, she said she didn’t know who I was and began begging me to take her “home.” She asked for the “other orderly” because she didn’t know or trust me.

         As soon as I had her settled for a few minutes, I conducted an online search and learned that some people get confused if their melatonin levels are too high. Once David gets home, I’ll run to Walgreens to pick up a lower dosage. We’ll start the slow process of discovering the level that will help her sleep all night while still keeping her lucid. I understand now why her neurologist said we may have to make adjustments for a couple of weeks. I just hope that this nightmare ends soon.     

  Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman