“Koi’s OK”

 

            Koi, our Pom-monster, turns fifteen this year. For several years, tracheal collapse challenges him periodically when he wakes up in the mornings and settles down for the nights. Our vet prescribed Hydrocodone to use as needed, but it really knocks Koi out even with a half-dose. During another checkup, the vet suggested using Benadryl instead since we noted that Koi had more flare-ups with different pollen counts. The more risky Hydrocodone became reserved for bad days, and we’ve gone a year without filling his prescription.

            Last August, Koi began wetting the floor and his bed while sleeping. After his physical, our vet started him on Proin-ER that worked immediately. After a few months, the medication became unavailable anywhere, and the regular Proin proved useless. We began relying on soft disposable wraps for Koi’s new attire.

            In February, Koi’s wrap reddened with blood in his urine. As it happened late in the day, it was the next morning before our vet saw him. By that time, his wrap was almost clear, but even I could see that there was blood in the clear catch urine sample when the vet showed me the test tube. Drawing blood samples for more tests happened quickly. Koi didn’t stress when the vet flipped him onto his back to thoroughly palpitate him to check his kidneys and bladder. She felt nothing, and stated maybe the blood tests would show us something. Which they did—NOTHING was wrong!

            The vet explained in a phone conference that Koi could’ve passed a bladder stone. That could mean other stones and the possibility of blockages occurring. The horrifying cancer diagnosis could only be ruled out with tests we couldn’t afford. If he had bladder cancer, treatments extend the four-to-six month prognosis by only a few months. We decided to simply wait and see. If Koi passed more blood in his urine, he’d go back for additional checks. If we noticed changes in his eating, energy, or water intake, we’d bring him back in. If we sensed that he experienced any pain, we’d schedule an emergency visit.

            Yesterday, Koi’s regular annual appointment found us back at the vet for his shots. Over the last four months, not a single drop of blood in his urine. Not a sign of any tumors. Koi let the vet push and prod without complaint. Our February scare must have been a single bladder stone passed into his past!  

 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“More Time”

 

            "Sabrina: More isn't always better, Linus. Sometimes it's just more." 

 

            One of my favorite scripts is the play Sabrina Fair by Samuel A. Taylor. Every year, I re-center myself with either the Bogart/Hepburn/Holden 1954 version or the Ford/Ormond/Kinnear 1995 adaptation. I don’t over analyze why this play takes a special place in my heart. Sometimes, things just are a certain way, and you embrace the enchantment.

            When Julia Ormond’s Sabrina reminds Linus “Sometimes it’s just more”, my soul resonates. So many people I know have bogged themselves into the quagmire that more must be better, and spend a tremendously horrendous amount of time, energy, and funds into pursuing the  “Next Best” while their become entrapped in misery. None of their possessions—houses, cars, airplanes, boats—matter.

            My best friend from high school died a couple of months ago from early onset Alzheimer’s while another cherished soul lost her battle with cancer the other day. I struggle with wishing there had been “more” for them. More time for them to sing. More time for them to laugh. More time for them to love. More time for them to be.

  

Mary Edmondson Poarch

           

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“TGIF”

 

            A long week.

            And I’m not whining or complaining about the events of the last five days, but just observing that my life has smoothed so much over the last few months that even the smallest pebble thrown into the pond’s silky surface now sends rings and ripples. And because my days flow effortlessly one into the other, these small disturbances remind me of just how wonderful life is right now.

            Monday morning started with a phone call from David. The local police had pulled him over because we’d forgotten to have the hybrid inspected! Now, it wasn’t just a little overdue. It had expired the end of January. David backtracked to our local dealership and was waiting for them to take the care in for inspection. He’d received a ticket and a court date, and I could tell he felt irritated because we’d remembered to get the car’s plates during the same month. Usually, I’m on top of things like this. Although I rarely drive this car, I’d taken it all the way to Bay City and back without noticing the expired sticker. We’d driven all around San Antonio and taken several day trips, so we’ve decided to count ourselves lucky that the ticket happened close to home where showing a receipt for the inspection will mean a small fine.

            Also on Monday, I had my annual mammogram. As I filled out the questionnaire, I checked “NO” responses down the entire page. This was only a check-up, and I felt gratitude that nothing was wrong. While I sat in the interior waiting room in my “open-to-the-front” smock, I talked to another woman. There was a suspicious spot that they wanted to take a closer look at. She sat, at taut wire, vibrating anxiety. I’ve used the same imaging center for twenty years, and I told her the technicians and doctors were extremely cautious. That one time I had a shadowy spot that they wanted to examine closer. This woman, probably in her sixties, revealed that this was only the second time in her life that she’d had a mammogram because the first one hurt so much. She commented that the technician today was extra gentle and had taken time to relax her before preforming the scan. I wished the woman luck as I headed into the imaging room. And when I started chatting with the specialist, I told her of the other woman’s compliment on the kindness she’d shown. I reminded her that she’d done my annual screening for years and had never once hurt me—so I have absolutely no negative association with getting this test done. Just a small compliment, but I could tell it made this woman feel confident in the importance of her attitude and personality for her job.

            On Wednesday, I trekked over to have my eye exam. Where I can have the daylights squeezed out of my breasts without being flustered, having my eyes checked makes me nervous. I’ve had difficulty finding a doctor I like, but last year I finally found someone close by, on my insurance, and likeable. I hate the ever present question, “Which is better—1 or 2?” when both choices suck. This doctor will preface that acknowledgement, “Both of these are bad, but which one do you like better?” And he doesn’t mind my “show me again” routine and my mumbled “they are both blurred” gets met with “pick the one that you like better.” This young doctor oozes patience and acts like he has all the time in the world to let me flip back-and-forth between the slides. I know that some of my anxiety stems from years of going in for check-ups to find that my vision has changed dramatically, but this year I didn’t even need a new prescription. With Huntington’s disease, the eyes sometimes are where uncontrolled movement begins. So when this doctor tells me everything’s fine, I feel overwhelming relief.

            Thursday, my “No Chore” day, began with Koi barfing over the bed—hitting the bedspread, sheets, mattress cover and floor. So everything had to be stripped and washed. Then my son needed to run a few errands and I went along to a circuit that included Best Buy, Target and Walmart. Eventually, he decided on the best purchase, but we needed to swap out the RX8 for the station wagon. As we crossed the front lawn, he commented, “You’ll probably need to stop for gas,” and I agreed. But once I started the old car, the gas gauge read a quarter of a tank—plenty of fuel to make the short roundtrip we planned. The entire ride to the shopping center showed the same reading for my fuel. We bought the item and I pulled the car to the front of the store so the clerk could help us load it into the back of the wagon.

            And nothing happened.

            The car wouldn’t start. In all of the years I’ve driven, I’ve never run out of gas, but I knew that claim had met its end. It didn’t take long before some snippy customer sat behind me, honking with irritation before creeping by and giving me the funk-eye. The second car was a nicer woman who stopped to see if we needed anything.  I didn’t want to sit in front of the store, so we pushed the car into a parking slot far enough away to keep any other customers out of my hair. I tried starting the car again, and this time the gauge didn’t even budge. So it was my turn to call my husband with car news. He didn’t pick up his cell phone right away and he didn’t pick up his desk phone, so it took a while before I let him know I needed gas. The good thing about having car troubles in a strip mall is that there’s plenty of places to walk to, so I ran over to Subway to purchase giant sodas since the cool Texas morning began to heat up.

            “Maybe I should try one more time,” I suggested after waiting about ten minutes. I figured it the car was sitting level now (not at an angle like the earlier spot). And that little difference was enough for the engine to start and keep running. I eased across the parking lot and headed to the roads that encircled the strip mall, coasting through stop signs to keep us going, and eventually cutting across parking lots in case the engine died again. We hooted in triumph when I swung into the gas station on fumes.

            And so this morning I find myself thankful that it’s Friday. I think back on previous years when our weekly adventures included going forty-eight hours without sleep or making mad dashes to the emergency room. I remember every day back then being so difficult. I can’t forget what it felt to live in survival mode. All of this week’s events and mishaps remind me of how much our lives have simplified. And it’s all good.

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

             

“Drought”

This summer’s unrelenting heat means our yards dry a little more each day. I noticed today that several of the bushes out back have dead branches. Nature protects the core, and the peripheral appendages begin to wither. My heart breaks to see this loss.

Loss goes deeper this summer than wilting gardens. I’ve several friends struggling with serious health issues like cancer. I admire the strength they exhibit as they face each day with unbelievable optimism. They handle the new challenges life’s handed them with the unshakable conviction that every thought and effort will bring health back into their lives. For other friends, this summer’s trials come from aging parents needing live-in help, assisted living or nursing home care. Some friends will decide to move in with parents while others will move parents in with them.

            For the generation of our children, we see job opportunities drying up overnight. Imagine spending four years in college, taking out loans to finance this education, and not landing a job up to five or six months later. These adult children find themselves moving back in with their parents as they regroup. Some hold tenaciously to their college part-time jobs because “something is better than nothing.” Those still in school wonder and worry about next year’s opportunities. How long will this economic drought last? Onto this brittle landscape, I watch in frustration as our petty politicians play with matches.

            I know that we need rain. Not a flooding deluge that obliterates everything in its path, but a soft and steady rain—one that brings the sunrise in its wake, one that soaks deeply into the cracked ground, one that cleanses away the dust and cobwebs, one that heals our land.   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Connie's Smile"

                Tapping lightly on the classroom door, I stuck my head into the room at the mumbled welcome and spied a teacher sitting at her desk at the back of the room. The dim lamp light haloed her head and revealed piles of papers precariously perched on the desk.

                “Connie?” I whispered, not wanting to break into her concentration.

                “Hmmm,” she responded, her blonde head still bent over papers. Then she looked up from her task and smiled.

                And that was the first time I saw Connie’s smile light up a room. Her generosity led me into her classroom as she’d volunteered to let my Student Leadership class meet there every day during her conference period. I don’t know if she realized the full impact of her generosity.  We invaded her room with poster boards and paint. She only laughed in good humor when we made the faculty little reindeer necklaces with goo-goo eyes (that somehow got scattered all over the floor). Nor did she mind the endless tissue paper flowers that grew in her room as we prepared decorations for the first spring dance.

                Two years later, Connie and I became team members. We shared the same one-hundred-twenty students throughout the day. Our rooms, spitting distance from each other, became windows into our teaching styles and personalities. And every day, I saw Connie’s smile.

                No matter how badly the days disintegrated, I knew I could pop into Connie’s room to receive a smile and a portion of her stash of chocolate. That student who drove me absolutely crazy? She’d pull him into her fold, shooting me a smile and a wink. She had tremendous patience, a wicked sense of humor, and the ability to put things into perspective allowing me to make it to the end of those rough days.

                It’s easy to smile when talking of the people we love, and Connie’s joy over her children’s milestones spilled out in delightful tales accompanied, always, with her bright grin. However, adversity is more difficult to welcome with smiles and laughter, but that was Connie’s way. When she received her diagnosis of ovarian cancer, she never once doubted the necessity of her fight. It didn’t matter how weak she felt from chemo, or how worn she was from the stress, her smile always greeted me just like that very first time.  

                The final time I saw Connie, her family and friends encircled her with warmth, comfort, and love. When I leaned closer to hear her words, she asked about my mother, and then told me to have strength. Then she gave me, again, her brilliant smile.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman