“Brain Challenges!”

In October, I began using the mini-Mac my son gifted me when Windows 10 no longer had support. Over the years, I’ve used Mac hardware and software, but each time I shift back, my brain stubbornly sticks to the other computer. 

A few days ago, I couldn’t find the Dictionary and Thesaurus for Pages although I’d used it a couple of weeks before. The shift to Tahoe had rippled down into my having to go into this-n-that and do a restart to access both of those with a highlight and click again. I’d also saved a template to Pages that vanished with the update. I grumble to myself, “I obviously did this before. . .” 

This morning, I decided to capture a few photographs of the remaining ice outside. When using my iPhone, pictures transfer to my new computer effortlessly. Select. Airdrop. Location (usually Downloads for me). Then comes the challenge of editing each picture, which I struggle with every single time. Using my Canon requires me to attach a cable between it and the computer hub. I’m not Tony Stark. This simple mating takes me at least four tries. The camera gives me its usual “BUSY” message, but I drew a blank on how to select and import the newest pictures. I’m not even trying to run them through anything like Photoshop. That’s for a different day. 

I tell myself every time I type a piece or load a picture that adjusting to all of this new stuff is really good for me. I have to do Google searches and view YouTube instructional videos to do something that used to be done on autopilot. I need to view these brain challenges an additional part of my daily exercise routine.

Cardboard left for squirrels!

Copyright 2026 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           

"A Speck of Dust"

 

Ever had a Fixated Brain day? Those days when your analytical side grabs onto of some little piece of fluff that’s bouncing around like cosmic dust, and you must scrutinize said speck from every possible angle? I dove wholeheartedly into a Fixated Brain exercise today. My attention grabbed onto a random concept and couldn’t shake it free. I scribbled some ideas into my journal. I pondered different aspects while I washed and dried my favorite glasses. I considered multitude angles and dissected different interpretations. I spent hours on the internet researching permutations and postulations. The entire day drifted by with total submersion into the notion that possessed my attention. My zombie approach to everything else means I stumbled through my usual chores and absentmindedly answered my mother’s questions (I think?) My obsessing, by the end of the day, has left me feeling fuzzy and fatigued. The end result of all of this fanatical cogitating? The speck of dust turns out to be nothing more than—yes, a speck of dust!

Copyright 2011 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”?

I just added IOUNIO's "World Around Me" to my playlist. Supporting musicians and Audio Enineers is easy. Just LISTEN, LIKE, COMMENT, REPOST and SUBSCRIBE!

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman