Showing posts with label dependent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dependent. Show all posts

Thursday, April 16, 2026

"There's A Pill For That"

   



headache or heartache; weight up or down
fungus or fever; face in frown
helpless or tired; skin with a red rash
anxious or cold; a nighttime hot flash
grab a cure-all; or rub a lotion
pop an antidote; or down potion
drink elixir; or chew sweet tablets
suck a lozenge; or swallow pellets
foolish and stupid; minds closed to truth
shallow and stubborn; creeds blight our youth
righteous and pure; their justice is small
cruel and petty; their views destroy all
grab a cure-all; or rub a lotion
pop an antidote; or down potion
drink elixir; or chew sweet tablets
suck a lozenge; or swallow pellets


Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman


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Friday, February 6, 2026

"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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Saturday, January 4, 2025

"My Declaration of Independence"

 

            Over the last half year, a friend caused me pain and sorrow. The details don’t matter. In the past, the old me would’ve accepted her cut-and-paste explanations that appeared in a few texts and with birthday and Christmas cards. My weaknesses to walk in another person’s shoes to understand their reasons would’ve made me not only accept her excuses, but empathize with her. My desire not to cause waves or do anything more that would risk our friendship would’ve led me to mentally offering her a period of grace to remedy the hurt.
            My self-talk, in the past, would’ve gone like this: She really is extremely busy. She isn’t intentionally leaving me out. She wants to see me, but other people take priority.
            “Past Me” would’ve provided even more excuses for her beyond the artificial ones she repeatedly gave. I would’ve talked myself into believing her wishes superseded mine. I would’ve responded to her minimal contact with upbeat, understanding texts or calls.
            My best friend died this spring from Alzheimer’s. Sometimes she initiated contact with me, and we’d circle round, round, round and round with her memories or her latest obsessive topic. Her steadfast love for me never wavered. When she called me twenty times a day, I’d stop whatever I was doing to rerun the same conversation. It didn’t matter. I could remember the girls and women we once were, even if she couldn’t. With our last conversation, we talked of music and our dogs. She knew me in that moment, and held me special in her life.
            This other friend’s rejection, no matter how I tried to justify or rationalize it, made me realize that “Past Me” needed to be buried once and for all.
            I wrote a letter.
            Hand written.
            Posted just like hundreds of other letters sent to this friend.
            I released her from any obligation she may feel to continue our bond.
            I wrote my own Declaration of Independence. I repeated her many excuses sent to me that proved she no longer needed me. I reminded her of our history together and added that the tapestry that we sewed together had tied its final knot.
            This Declaration marked an important change for me. I’ve come to realize that friends should grace my life and not diminish me.
 



Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Saturday, August 31, 2024

"A Beautiful Day"

          The most difficult part of caring for my mother comes on beautiful days like today. We woke up this morning with crispness. The air carried a snap to it that caused me to pull the covers up a little higher and bury myself a little deeper into bed. When I let the dogs outside, I lingered in the doorway, sniffing autumn. Sunrise takes on a clear golden glow this time of the year, and I long to grab my journal or a novel and swing under the live oak for hours on end.

Edna Abrams and Koi
September 29, 2011
         Because my mother can no longer get into and out of her wheelchair without aid, she needs someone close by throughout the day. I never dreamed that her condition would mean sacrificing morning walks to the park or afternoons spent in the gardens. Her limitations restrict my movements as well. During most of the day, we stay in the same room together unless I’m doing housework. Even when I do chores, I swing into whatever room Mom occupies to see if she needs anything—and just to let her know I’m near even if she can’t see me.
         My days become a difficult balancing act. On the one hand, it’s similar to having a very young child around—one that needs food to be the right temperature and cut into very small pieces; and one that requires help in bathing, dressing, and toiletry needs. On the other hand, I give care to an adult—and my own parent. I still try to defer to Mom’s desires and requests with respect. As speech becomes more and more difficult for her, expressing her wishes isn’t always easy. If she starts to laugh or cry, I’m at a loss to unravel what she’s asking for or from me.
         Each day, Mom begins her bed routine around three in the afternoon. One symptom of her disease is an urgency to eat. She’ll demand meals or snacks in two or three hour intervals and waiting for something to eat proves almost impossible for her. Because Huntington’s Disease affects her ability to swallow, she’s limited in her food choices. I tried a few months ago to rely on frozen meals as a solution to getting her something to eat as quickly as possible. After a week or so, Mom commented that the food tasted horrible and started refusing to eat them. I now prepare huge meals that I know she likes and freeze them in smaller portions.
         Once Mom eats her dinner, she insists on brushing her teeth and getting ready for bed. That means we’re pulling on her nightgown by four every afternoon. Since Mom gets up by 4 o’clock or 5 o’clock each morning, she feels exhausted pretty early in the evening because she doesn’t take any naps during the day. Mom will ask for help in getting into bed, get up ten minutes later with a request to go watch television, and repeat the bed-television-bed-bathroom-television-bed cycle until six o’clock. One day, she did this obsessive rotation more than twenty times!
         Recently, she’s taken to ringing her service bell just to make certain that she hasn’t been left alone. Today, because she watched Children of the Corn earlier, she rang the bell several more times than usual, finally asking with a devilish grin if we had an ax in the house “just in case.”
         Intellectually, I understand Mom’s need to have someone close at hand. My mother’s body traps her in space. Emotionally, it sometimes proves impossible for me to stay within the confines of her disease. Today, I escaped on a quick drive to Sonic once David returned home from running errands we used to do as a family. I keep reminding myself, though, that every day holds beauty. I simply need to look for it.        

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

Friday, April 14, 2023

"Chameleons"

 A willow woman     
With spiked heels and sassy stride   
And contagious laugh that lured me into her life with playful words
Commonalities wove us into an easy friendship   
Same wine, same music, same world view   
Until . . .    
            He entered     
            And her eyes followed him, hypnotized   
            And her loneliness compelled her to   
            Cling to his words  
            Cloak herself in self-deception     
            As she became his shadow and lost all substance   
A tenacious terrier   
With body honed to steel   
And wit weapon sharp and deadly   
She voraciously fed upon change   
An adrenaline junkie   
Smart enough to carve her place   
Determined to succeed     
A warrior mother fighting through heartbreak and disappointment
Our friendship a braid of Time, Triumph, Travails   
Everlasting   
Until . . .   
            He entered   
            And she drew into his orbit   
            And her loneliness compelled her to   
            Dream his dreams   
            Attach herself tightly to him   
            As she severed all other ties   
Years from now  
Confusion and Disbelief  
Will mingle with their tears as they lament,   
“He’s gone. He’s gone.
I became what he wanted, who he wanted.  
But it wasn’t enough.”   
And they’ll be shadows without substance tethered to no one.   

David Chapman-artist


Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman