“It Takes a Village"

            Texas summers drag long and hot by August, with hurricanes brewing in the Gulf, eyes stayed glued to the coastline. With family living in League City and Bay City, as well as parts of Houston itself, we all pay attention to every tropical depression that tracks into the area. Often, the storms swing towards Louisiana. Sometimes they veer more south. Occasionally, the Houston area gets pounded with winds and rain that results in devastating flooding. My family members switch off on responses to hurricanes. Some years, they evacuate to San Antonio while the next storm they ride out at home.

            After the February freeze and its devastation, all eyes followed every weather event that neared the coastline. Frankly, no one could emotionally handle another hit to any family members. My sister weathered surgery to her vocal cords that left her unable to speak for weeks on end. My brother, with his house finally complete, dealt with his ancient washer deciding to die. Being in another city, I feel helpless when troubles knock on my siblings’ doors. It turned out that I could select new appliances for my brother, purchased them at my local Home Depot, and arranged long distance, for them to be delivered.

            August’s heat smacked other friends and family members with mental health issues. No easy fix of pulling out a credit card and sending a new item to their homes. I had no repair kit for the friend whose drug use had escalated to her having difficulty differentiating between reality and her hallucinating haze. Although I encouraged her to continue with her therapy, and to be honest with her drug usage to her doctor, I left after visits feeling depleted and defeated. I witnessed another woman’s battle with Borderline Personality Disorder deteriorate with every phone conversation, email and text. My mantra with her also became, “Keep in therapy. Keep in therapy.”  I want to help these friends, but their “villages” need to include professionals to help them heal.

            Our backyard refuged me through the boiling August days. Each day started with hose in hand to slay the heat. As I watered each plant or bush, I’d run through the troubles of various village members: surgeries, appliances mishaps, anxiety, depression, loss of hope and loneliness. I realized that I cannot fix every problem, but I can be part of the village to offer support and love.

Copyright Elizabeth Abrams Chpaman 2022

 

“Taking Advice”

            When my mother slipped into her final weeks, hospice sent a social worker to our home to help us transition to the next stage of our lives—the one where I won’t take on the role of caregiver for a terminal patient. She spent almost four hours with me one morning as I related the course Huntington’s Disease took through Mom’s life, and through the lives of our family members.

            “So, what I’m hearing,” she summarized when I finished, “is that you and your family have taken care of your mother, to varying degrees, for almost ten years. And although your husband, son and siblings have chipped in on an incredible level, you have still been the primary caregiver.”

            “Yes,” I agreed.

            “You’ll go from caring for someone 24/7 to having nothing to fill your days,” she continued. “Do you have any plans on what you’ll do with this sudden gap?”

            I nodded my head. “I’ve actually looked online at a couple of fulltime positions with some local companies that I wouldn’t mind checking out.”

            “Can I offer some advice?” She continued, “Don’t take on anything that’s permanent. You’re the type of person who takes on responsibility easily. I’m afraid that if you step into a fulltime job somewhere, you’ll talk yourself into keeping it even if you don’t like it. What you need is to take on a part-time slot at a store or office. During this first year of transition, you don’t need to make any decisions that tie you down. Don’t box yourself into another commitment. You need the type of job that will get you out of the house, help you fill your days as you passage through grief, but that you can easily step away from once you don’t need it any more.”

            I rolled my eyes, “Well, if that’s what I need the solution’s easy. I’ll substitute.” I began ticking off the plusses for this type of work, “First, I can work as many or as few days as I want. Second, I’ll still have nights and weekends off. Also, I’ll have the summer break just like I did when I taught fulltime. And I’ll be back in familiar places—with friends I’ve known for many, many years.”

            Less than two weeks after Mom died, I filed my online application to begin substitute teaching. The arrival of winter vacation meant the school district didn’t get to it for a couple of weeks, but by January 7^th my application shifted from “received” to “reviewed.” Two days later, I found myself sitting at an orientation meeting with the promise that I’d be called within a week to have my picture taken for my ID card. It took human resources less than a week to put me on the roster. I dropped by the office yesterday for my picture, marveled that the photograph actually looked like me, and then ran a couple of errands. All total, I’d left the house for about an hour. Within that length of time, the district office had inputted my number, and I received my first call for filling in a slot. Since I still had more errands on my list, I declined the job. I did, however, go into the computer and log into the site to check out available jobs for the next day and the next couple of weeks.

            Today, I take on the roll of substitute teacher. I’ll step into another teacher’s shoes for eight hours. I know that students will show their worst behavior because I’m the “outsider,” but that’s okay. I have a reason to get out of bed, a mission to accomplish, a way to fill my days with something challenging and productive.

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

              

“A New Journal”

            My freshman year in high school, I participated in a peer counseling program. The extensive training took place in a local hotel. The students who volunteered for the program, along with the faculty members involved, underwent eight hour sessions in counseling and therapy techniques for an entire week. At the end of my training, I could work in our campus “Rap Room” where other students could come in for confidential counseling. This multifaceted instruction knitted the peer counselors into a tight group as we learned about ourselves and each other. I don’t know if the teachers and administrators realized the depth of the therapy sessions we received, but that week profoundly affected my life. My goal to go to Texas A&M to eventually try for the veterinarian program altered forever into a love of studying behavior.

            The peer counseling training impacted me in another way because during that week I met another student, a senior, who kept a journal. In the months that we set up our counseling program back on our campus, this other student shared her journals with me. Her provocative poetry and insightful musings amused me. I fell in love with the idea of recording my life, my feelings, and my interpretations—myself—into the pages of a spiral notebook. So back in 1972, I started my first journal. I wrote about everything and nothing. All of the disappointments of high school lay neatly recorded in these little unassuming spirals. All of my first attempts at poetry, often with explanations, reside within these pages. All of the self-doubts and insecurities of living alone, starting college, and falling in love live within these volumes. Somewhere along the line, I shifted from spiral notebooks to folders crammed with so much notebook paper that the brads barely punch through and fold back.

            I never hid my journals, and occasionally I’d read a piece to my parents or a friend. Usually, my most current journal sat upon my desk for easy access in case I wanted to scribble down a thought or vent an emotion. The first time David came down to meet my family, I had to work. Being at loose ends, David decided to read my journal. My mother walked in and found him stretched across the bed, and stood in shocked silence. No one in our family would ever invade the private space of another family member, so to find David perusing my journals seemed wrong to her. David told me, of course, of his faux pas as soon as I returned home. Although I wasn’t upset, I don’t believe he’s ever picked up my journal since that one day.

            Eventually, a friend witnessed me scribbling in one of my folders and asked about it. When I explained to her that I’d been writing since high school, she decided the folders and spirals needed replacements, and she bought me my first bound journal as a Thank You gift. I remember holding the small volume in my hands, flipping through the colorful pages with their decorated corners. My fingers itched to write!

            Last night, I started Volume 72 of my journal. Almost thirty-nine years (to the day) from when I composed my first entry. This volume wraps a giant marigold around the spine and over the front and back covers, exploding in bright orange and yellow. My pulse quickened as I put pen to virgin paper, and once I started writing I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I never know what thoughts and feelings my journals will hold. The unpredictability of life assures that this newest addition to my collection will center me through my heartbreaks and celebrate with me in my joys.    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman