"Working Weekend"

 

            Life hands many of us solvable problems that eventually settle down. A sore throat that eases after sipping hot tea laced with lemon and honey.  A car repair setting back the budget for several months. A job loss batters you down for years. If you have family and close friends, you rely upon their experiences, emotional support, and sometimes financial help to recover and move forward.

            Over the years, I cannot remember a time when life handed us an obstacle that we had to handle all alone. As isolating as the caregiver years felt, we still had each other to turn to at the end of each day. In recent months, life has plowed into some of my single friends and family members. An unexpected illness, a slow recovery from surgery, or an overwhelmed and overworked emotional pounding pummeled people I love into a pulp. Always reluctant to ask for help, they put out tentative, subtle signs that events have pulled them underwater. Caught up in my own ups and downs, I missed my own brother’s growing need for relief.

            My brother, challenged by both physical and learning differences, structures his day with routines. He spends his life in a “rinse and repeat” cycle. His work requires the same things daily. He buys the same groceries every week. He pays his bills in person and often in cash when he can. He relies on television for entertainment and news. Last winter, he convinced me to skip our usual trips to his house—he was sick with a stomach bug and wanted rest, and then his job, for several months, required overtime that meant working either extra hours or even extra days. He insisted that he was fine, just tired and not up to visitors.

            Eventually, he ran out of excuses to delay our visit, and February found us descending into his darkened home. He hadn’t replaced light bulbs in each room. His clean laundry piled high in his bedroom while dirty laundry took over part of his garage. He had handled getting a new thermostat for his air conditioner, but his car’s ENGINE light warned of trouble. When we tried to shower that night, only ice cold water came out. He’d lived without hot water for many months.

            We sat down and made a list and plowed through most of it together. That’s when his “aloneness” hit home. All of the chores, big or small, fall onto him. With his extended working hours over several months, he simply gave up on tackling anything but keeping his clothes clean. Together, we hung and folded, sorted and tossed. Together, we took his car in for its repairs. Usually, he walks home from the repair shop. What a luxury to have someone there to drive him home! As a family, we swept and mopped his floors, took out an oversized bush near his front door, and stripped and remade all of his beds. One working weekend with three people reset his household chores.

            His bathroom, though, required more work. The bolt holding the toilet in place had stripped. My scrub brush with Barkeeper’s Friend erased the mildew, but all of the caulk needed to be removed and replaced. The popcorn ceiling over his tub flaked, and every fixture showed its age. We broke down this room’s work into three parts: plumber repairing the toilet first for sanitary reasons; new caulk and paint that we can do; replacing all of the fixtures and the hot water heater (plumber again).

            Arriving at the house this last weekend, we found the toilet repaired and the mildew completely gone. I “watered” the ceiling to make the popcorn easier to remove. While my husband sliced through the old stuff, caulked the tub, and repainted the room including a touchup of the tub’s exterior, I partnered with my brother to streamline his linen closet to only the sheets and towels he uses, bagging away old sets of sheets for donations.

            This next week, he will call his plumber to get prices for his hot water heater and possibly updating all of the twenty-year-old fixtures, including the light. If all of this is within the budget, he’ll get things fixed. We discussed the importance of having hot water again being more important than updating the shower head, faucets and lights. We made pledges to one another that he will let us know when things go wrong, but I know there are many things around him that he simply doesn’t notice as needing attention. I left with a new list of “Must Do” already started. However, he had maintained all of the housework we’d helped him with from the previous visit—no clean laundry piled high or dirty laundry stacked in the garage, no un-swept or un-mopped floors. If we keep on a regular schedule to provide extra hands on working weekends, all should be well.   

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Within My Reach”

 

            Each day, I watch friends, acquaintances, and strangers tirelessly work against the administration and its goal to destroy the foundations of our federal government. I diligently read Heather Cox Richardson’s letter, listen to both Senator Bernie Sanders and Senator Elizabeth Warren every time they stand up for our rights. I hold onto our young representatives like Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez and Jasmine Crockett who relentlessly honor their Congressional duties. I know there are concrete, real-time steps I should take to resist the devastating lies sprouting from every person within this coup.

            But . . . right now all I can handle is grief, loss, and worry within my immediate family. My brother’s dodging of a visit to his home revealed his growing inability to live alone. The coping strategies he’s used his entire life to compensate for his learning disorder has devolved into a rigid, step-by-step routine that shows his inability to problem solve unexpected situations. A light bulb going out translates into eventual darkness in every room of his home. The bolt to his toilet stripped making it wobble in place, and thus breaking the seal ring and making the room unsanitary. That same bathroom grew mildew up the shower tiles and into the old caulk. His bedroom had one wall three feet high of clean clothes needing to be hung or folded while dirty laundry took over a section of his garage. Coins cluttered every piece of furniture and sprinkled on the floors of every room. His vacuum, which he thought was broken, had something blocking the hose. An easy, quick repair by us, but something he couldn’t solve on his own. He resisted mentioning that the engine warning light had appeared on his dashboard a few days before our visit. One catalytic converter later, and an unexpected hit to our credit card, means he’s back on the road again. When only cold water came from the faucets, we added a defunct hot water heater to the repair list. He reluctantly admitted that he’s been using cold water only for a year.

            So focused on all of the things wrong, I missed the important news my brother repeated like a litany over and over again. “I called the air conditioner man and had the thermostat replaced because the house was hot. I did it on my own. I paid for it on my own, not with the emergency account.” He told me this the moment I entered his darkened home. He repeated it during dinner. His recounted it again as I tried to organize his bookkeeping for 2025.

            All I needed to do was say, “I’m so proud of you for handling a major problem on your own.” I should have hugged him tightly and thanked him for taking care of such an important problem without even contacting me. All I could see were the dozen things wrong within his home instead of the one thing he’d done alone.

            Before leaving this time, I broached for the first time the fact that he needs to sell the home he’s lived in for almost fifty years and move closer to either my sister or to me. We help him with insurance, property taxes, and repairs. That repair list grows as the house ages: new hot water heater, new roof, new bathroom tub and tile . . . That’s all I noted within our twenty-four hour visit.

            As the bigger world around me moves on a destructive path, I’m allowing myself the luxury of letting others step in with letters, phone calls, town halls and resistance. Right now, all I can care for will be the people within my reach.

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

 

                  

"The Best Advice"

 

         Just like most people, I’ve received my share of “deconstructive” advice over the years. You know what I mean. The two cents worth that a busybody must impart with great sincerity and greater hypocrisy. You smile and nod your head with a vague look in your eyes. You bite your cheek to prevent spewing your desired response, and instead you politely say, “Thank you so much for your advice.” Then you go on ahead and ignore it all because you doubt the motivations of this “well meaning” advisor.
         However, I do know that some people in my life bestowed wonderful tidbits of guidance and philosophy that carried me through rough times. Many of these pieces of advice came from unexpected sources when I least foresaw the impact of their wise words. I’ve grown to cherish these principles and thought I’d pass them along today. I don’t want to present these canons in any particular order because at different points in my life, they’ve taken on different degrees of importance.

• 1.  Don’t have a television set in your bedroom. Couples don’t need that distraction. (This came from my mother right before I got married.)
• 2.  Try everything twice because you may not like it the first time around. (My father’s marital advice. So many different levels to this tidbit . . .)
• 3.  Never stay in a relationship if there’s physical or emotional abuse. (Both of my parents were very firm on this.)
• 4.  You have your entire life to reach for goals and dreams. (My father finished college at the age of 48 and started a new career at 50.)
• 5.  Enjoy each and every stage of child rearing and parenthood. (Remember, your relationship with your children lasts your entire lifetime.)
• 6.  Sometimes, you just have to put your head down and plow through the bullshit by sticking out a bad situation until you get to the “good stuff.” (Delayed gratification leads to such tremendous rewards.)
• 7.  Choice becomes a part of every day. We cannot often control what happens to us, but we can choose how we respond to those events. (I’ve always had trouble with this because I want to try to control situations/events/people. You know, trouble shoot and prevent; but somehow that rarely works.)
• 8.  Plan for the worst, but hope for the best. (These words guide my daily life now more than ever.)
• 9.  You can spend your life miserable looking at what you don’t have, or you can spend your life happy with what you do have. (I can never understand why some people choose to be unhappy, but they do.)

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

        

"New Voyages"

 

David Chapman--artist

         I never want to spend my life fretting over the words never said, or the acts never completed. The changes in our lives during this last year bring home to me the importance of giving our best to those we love. Sometimes, I get so caught up in the minutiae of a situation that I bog everyone else down. “The Big Picture” always calls for taking risks and believing with heart over head. That outlook proves difficult for my often straight column approach to life, but whenever I’ve chosen my heart, I’ve never gone in the wrong direction. Whenever I push away my heart, anxiety suffocates me. Taking a breath, eating a meal, and sleeping at night all become impossible.

My head analysis tells me the “right” decisions, the cautious choices that assure safe passage across rough seas. My head won’t even weigh anchor if the voyage looks too dangerous.  The head must have life boats in tip-top condition. It makes certain there are enough jackets available for unexpected passengers. It plots my route and stays true to my course. But no matter how carefully my head plans for every exigency, a tidal wave broadsides me, flips my vessel over, and makes life boats and life jackets useless.

         My head, you see, doesn’t calculate for the totally unpredictable event. It cannot. That’s the heart’s job. The heart latches onto dreams and nightmares. The heart foresees the tsunami and still sets sail. The heart accepts risk because life’s random. That capriciousness doesn’t dissuade the heart. The heart believes.

         In the rough seas I now traverse, my heart speaks strongly to me. Believe. Believe. Believe. And so I trust my decisions. The moment I listen to the murmuring song of my heart, the decisions I must make ring true and clear. The head will step forward eventually. It will find the means of making the dreams a reality. By singing along with the heart, the voyage will prove challenging, but not impossible.    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman             

"Long Distance Relationships"

  

            The first year after my husband and I met, we tethered together a long distance romance through letters, very short phone calls since long distance cost quite a bit in the 1970s, and short weekend visits. We got married before living in two different cities proved too taxing.

            My long distance relationships, after marriage, began with my parents and siblings. From 1976 until 2002, no one in my family of origin lived within a three to four hour drive from me. After Dad died, Mom decided returning to San Antonio for the double benefit of living closer to me and military bases would be smart. For the first time in twenty-six years, I embraced the fun of having family living within walking distance of home. Before Mom’s Huntington’s disease became a daily challenge, we enjoyed shopping together. We’d grab a bite at one of her favorite places. We ventured to Renaissance faires, checked out the casinos in Shreveport, and began her wind chime collection found in different Texas towns.

            With Mom here, I began a different long distance relationship with my brother who remained back in League City. Mom continued to pay the taxes and upkeep on that home as my brother’s full time job, at barely above minimum wage, couldn’t handle property taxes or emergency repairs like a new hot water heater, or washer and dryer. Once Mom died, he still drew on the money she left for groceries twice a month, home owners’ insurance, property taxes, auto insurance, and unexpected car repairs. Once her money drew down, my sister and I continued helping with insurance and taxes, adding to the account without my brother’s knowledge. Eventually, his income rose when his new manager realized his previous boss hadn’t given him any raises in at least ten years. As she gave him the highest possible increases each year, he needed less and less until the account is only used for keeping him in his home—property taxes and home owner's insurance. That home owner’s coverage saved him when the big freeze hit Texas and broken pipes flooded his house.

            When his twenty-year-old car expired on our doorstep a few Christmases ago, we gave him our Ford Focus, then turning eight and nowhere the 250,000 miles of his catastrophic heap. For the first time in years, he hasn’t needed help.

            Until . . . he decided to make certain his car’s gas tank was full before Hurricane Beryl hit the coast. Monday morning he called in panic that his car was dead at a Shell station. In the past, he would’ve called his neighbor for help, but this friend died last year. Now began the terror of knowing my brother, who doesn’t have a smart phone or internet access to contact a towing company, was stranded four hours away from me. My sister’s town got the full force of Beryl, with high winds and flooding rains leaving her inaccessible with no phone service. I got online, talked to someone from the garage my brother uses, and she gave me the towing service they use. My brother walked home, and once I gave him the number, started to try to get his car towed. BUT—you need a charge card to have your car towed, which my brother doesn’t have.

            Next began a frustrated exchange with the towing company with me because I got disconnected from the first operator trying to set up the tow. The second woman got confused and flipped that I wanted my brother and his car picked up at a Shell station and taken to a Firestone, but when she read it all back before disconnecting, the information  seemed correct. Shell to Firestone. I gave her my brother’s phone number as the contact number. On my phone, I ignored several calls from some Florida number, and realized eventually that it was the tow truck driver contacting me because he couldn’t find my brother or his car. When I called the company to find out why no one had picked him up, the operator said they couldn’t find the car. He quickly assigned another truck to go out—this time with the driver contacting me. When he called to say he the car and my brother weren’t at the Shell station, my anxiety doubled. I stated emphatically, “He’s sitting in his car at the Shell station on 518 and I45! I don’t see how you can’t find him!”

            The driver stated directly, “That’s not the Shell station they put into the system. I’m at another station in League City. Don’t worry. I know exactly which station he’s at.”

            And Save a Life Towing found my brother and his dead car, towed it less than a mile down the road, and left us all grateful that this eight hour nightmare was over.

            Worry dogged all our sleep Monday night, but a quick diagnosis with the computer on Tuesday showed the car’s problem. A replaced part that cost less than the tow means my brother’s back on the road.

            In my mind, though, I know that we need to begin brainstorming the possibility of my brother moving closer to family. He lives in the house that’s been his home for 48 years. He’s worked at his job for 24 years. I don’t know if I can convince him that problem solving long distance won’t ever get easier. As all of us age, it may be wiser for him relocate. I can hear him say, “I’m OK. I’m OK. I’m OK.” Then we’ll settle back into the false confidence that we can handle long distance problem solving  just a little longer.

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Cold Feet"

 

 

Notoriously chill
My blocks of unfriendly ice
Make me wonder if I’m ill
With toes that I cover twice
One layer of cozy socks
Must always adorn my feet
Or those frosty digits shock
Anyone that I may meet
I know that their artic feel
Make me seem detached and cold
But that image isn’t real
Kindness guides me to be bold
Overlook my need for heat
And value me for my deeds
I will jump in with both feet
To help you with your needs
 

  

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Divide Time"

 divide time into before and after
measure lonely hours by tears and laughter
remember the freedom of hot desire
long for winter nights stretched by the fire
listen for rescuing rings of the phone
wait through the days and nights all alone
scream in silent despair and frustration
bury new needs in cold desperation
beg daily for help, no one heeds the plea
search for escape—for a safe place to flee
divide time into before and after
measure lonely hours by tears and laughter

David Chapman-artist

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Asking for Help"

         I hate asking for help. I’ve tried to figure out why, but it’s like peeling an onion. Just when I think I understand my motivations on one level, I reveal another layer. Seeking help makes me feel inadequate. I should handle each and every situation life dishes out with confidence. When I can’t, I feel disoriented and depressed. I realized recently that I differentiate between asking for aid and delegating responsibility. In one, I need someone else to take care of me (or my duties) in some way. I want and need to completely drop control. With the other, I still maintain some level of influence.  

So, if I reach the point where I’m saying, “I can’t do this any longer,” it means I’ve hit rock bottom. I’m Wile E. Coyote plummeting over the cliff, holding the little useless “HELP!” sign in the air right before splatting on the rocky desert floor. Another onion layer reveals that a part of me resents having to ask for help. Shouldn’t those around me be aware enough to know the cliff edge looms? Shouldn’t they run some kind of interference before I find myself peddling in the air? Shouldn’t they volunteer to step in and thwart the Road Runner before he misdirects me into my downfall? Yes. I expect the people around me to read my mind, notice my body language, listen to how I say something, not just what I say. My husband, thank goodness, mastered the nuances of Liz Language years ago. However, he can only do so much by way of helping—he has a full-time job, after all.

My mother’s condition worsens in subtle ways, making it difficult to ask for help because I don’t know what I need. Many people with Huntington’s disease suffer from mood disorders. For my mother, anxiety crept into her daily routine. Later, depression made infrequent and unexpected visits. Eventually, these two moods dominated her days unless she took medication. Lately, other changes in Mom’s personality have begun to surface. Each one signals to me that her HD continues to progress. Medications may control or mask symptoms, but the underlying reality is that she’ll never get better. She’ll only grow worse.

In recent weeks, irritability slips into the room unnoticed. If I don’t smile as I help Mom get into or out of her wheelchair, if fatigue or frustration tinges my tone of voice as I try to figure out what she wants, if my temper flares, then Mom responds with a verbal cut edged with cruelty that I’ve never heard from her. If my mood is dark, she becomes paranoiac and worries that I won’t help her.

I’ve resorted to asking her doctors for help. It’s rare that I request an adjustment to her medications, and usually it’s to help her deal with the anxiety and depression. Today, though, I found myself complaining to Mom’s internist that she’s not sleeping. Her insomnia started with one or two wakeful nights a week, but has turned into four or five nights where she sleeps only two or three hours. She usually doesn’t “catch up” on her sleep by napping the next day, so we all run on a deficit. Not good for anyone’s moods. Of course, the doctor didn’t miss a beat. He instructed me on which medication to increase at night before Mom goes to bed. Nothing in his response made me feel inadequate for asking, or guilty for wanting peaceful nights again.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"TGIF"

            Friday. Friday! Friiiiiiiii-dayyyyyy!

        Now, many would wonder why I cheer because it’s the end of the work week since I’m “retired.”  But Fridays still hold a special place for me. I may not leave the house every day to go to work; but in caring for my mother, I pull ten hour days. By the time Fridays arrive, relief washes over me for several reasons.

         First, even if we do nothing all weekend but take care of Mom and watch television with her, there’s someone else around to stir up the pot of conversation. My mother tends to watch different things, too, when David suggests them. Women of her generation learned to defer to men on even the littlest things like selecting television viewing. With David around, my muscles get a break from the lifting that Mom requires as we move through the day.   

            I also love Fridays because they mean I’ll get to spend a little time outside over the weekend. This weekend, because we finally had rain, we’ll mow the yard. In our previous life, David always trimmed hedges while I piled branches, and we both bundled. David would weed-eat, and I would mow. Once David finished weed-eating, he’d take over the mowing, so I could start all the sweeping. We’d finish simultaneously. Now, we stagger yard work. David will go out and do part of the work while I stay with Mom. Then we switch off. He’ll come inside to stay with Mom while I finish the yards.

            Twice a month, Fridays herald the arrival of one of my siblings. Tonight my brother, Charles, will pull into the driveway. With an extra pair of hands available, it becomes easier to take Mom out to a restaurant or to a store. I don’t have to handle the stress of getting her into or out of the car if she goes rigid, which is a terrifying experience. Their stronger arms and backs can lift her into the car if she stiffens into a life-sized doll. The luxury of having someone else lift the wheelchair into and out of the station wagon can’t be under appreciated.

            When my brother or sister comes to visit, David and I have the opportunity to run errands together. It amazes me that I miss doing little activities with him. Even a run to HEB together has become a special treat. Sometimes when my siblings visit, David and I will meet up with our son; and the three of us will run up to Gruene to have lunch at The Grist Mill. A few months ago, my mother could handle an outing like eating out coupled with a little shopping, but leaving the house becomes more and more difficult for her.

            So when I wake up on Fridays, I do a little singing and jigging in celebration because I spot The Weekend ahead.

My brother acting like he does nothing on his visits!

  

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

        

“Happy Call”

            When my phone rang early on Saturday morning, and I saw it was my brother, I hesitated before answering. The first thought hitting my brain went straight to, “What’s wrong now?” That dread roots itself in a rough year of catastrophe.

            I tried to coach my voice into a neutral, “Hi” because I try to protect Charles from the anxiety his calls often trigger.

            “What’s up?” he asked.

            “Me!” I quipped back as soon as I registered his tone of voice.

          “I’m treating myself to breakfast—an omelet. Then I’m going shopping.” His voice sounded upbeat for a change. We chatted back and forth for about half an hour about the new kitchen plates he picked up last week and his planned visit to my sister’s house next weekend. We talked about the ice that froze San Antonio a few days before and his relief that the frozen snap didn’t impact his newly insulated plumbing down in League City.

            Everything we talked about was light, bright and breezy. Getting a happy call is so rare that I found myself writing about it today. But . . . maybe this will be what 2022 brings to our family.

 

Stressed at Christmas 2021

Happy Charles 2014

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman             

“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

 

“February Freeze”

            The ice and snow that froze Texas into place in mid-February of 2021 skipped over our house snuggled safely among a police station, fire station, and hospital. Survivor’s guilt blanked my days as I watched family and friends struggle with rolling black-outs, or even losing electricity for several days.

            Before the storm hit, I fretted over the phone with my sister over our brother, Charles, driving to work in his ancient car because he’d never driven on snow or ice before. Finally, I called him and talked him into going into work ahead of the storm. The hospital has given him a room or cot in the past when hurricanes swirl in the Gulf. I begged him to see if they would let him stay one night.

            When he called to let me know he would go in well before the bad weather hit, I reminded him to leave water running in his kitchen and bathroom sinks. He laughed since my sister had just given him the exact same instructions.

            None of us predicted that the freezing temperatures would cascade the entire state into a collapsing grid nightmare that plummeted households and businesses into darkness and cold for many days.

            Charles didn’t return to his house for a couple of days, and when he did, it was to find the pipe in his master bathroom had burst. The water cascaded down from the ceiling, with the deluge flooding almost every room in his home. He ran next door and a neighbor helped him turn off the water. Then he made a frantic call to my sister, as both she and her husband were already fully vaccinated for COVID-19 and live about ninety minutes away. My sister reached me (my phone service was spotty due to the storm) to get the name of the plumber my brother uses. She left urgent messages on his voicemail, texts, and email! Her diligence paid off because the plumber had Charles second on his list. The burst pipe was replaced within days.

            My sister also found a general contractor who ripped out the saturated carpet within a few days. This contractor went through the house with expert care, itemized every repair, and sent a detailed report to the insurance company. Within days, my brother knew how much money he’d receive. He and the contractor spent a couple of days selecting new tile floors, vanities for the bathroom and other odds-n-ends to reassemble my brother’s home.

            The speed in getting Charles’s house repaired ground to a halt since thousands of homes and businesses in Texas overloaded lumber yards and home improvement stores with orders. Something as common as sheetrock became a backordered item that didn’t appear until April. Eventually, and slowly, the contractor healed Charles’s damaged home.

            Last night, Charles called to chat about the freezing temperatures that aim our way again. His joked that his new tile floors can handle any water that may come his way!

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"The Shit Kit"

          As Mom's ability to speak fades more and more, I have to keep aware of her basic needs. Every half hour, I offer her something to drink. Within a two hour period, I'll ply her with a small meal or snack to make certain she keeps her calorie count as high as possible. Reading about Huntington's Disease and its later stages prepared me for this stage. However,  no one wants to talk about other aspects of caregiving. In a way, the secrecy leads the caregiver to feeling inept and incapable of coping with changes that occur within the daily routine. Intellectually, I rationalized that I could help my mother with her toiletry needs. For the past two years, one of us helps her onto the toilet. Eventually, we began helping her wipe herself clean.  This didn't seem that bad, and so I told myself that changing her Depends wouldn't differ from all the diapers I changed as a parent. No one told me, though,  that a "loaded" adult diaper contains--well, a ton of crap.

  Because Mom often cannot speak, communicating to us that she needs to go to the restroom becomes almost impossible. If I keep alert, I'll  notice an acceleration in her movements and begin our version of One-Hundred Questions. 

"Mom, are you thirsty? Would you like a cola?"

She looks away as a way of answering in the negative.

"Are you hungry? Would you like a banana?"

No eye contact again.

"Do you need to use the bathroom?"

She'll grab my hand or reach for her wheel chair, which we shift to the side of the couch now because she obsessively struggles to get into and out of it if we leave it too close to her. 

With haste, I'll bear-hug Mom to transport her to the chair and make a mad dash to the bathroom. We reach our destination with plenty of time to spare. Usually.

In recent weeks, Mom's had accidents because I've left the room to cook a meal or tend to the laundry. She cannot call out to let me know that she desperately needs to use the restroom. I try to check on her frequently, but unfortunately I've had a couple of times where I haven't figured out what she needs in time.

Several days ago, Mom stretched out in her bed to listen to music. I sat at my computer, taking advantage of a break from routine. The baby monitor sits on my desk, but now I don't hear the incessant "ping" of her service bell, nor the repeated calling out, "Liz, Liz, Liz" or even the more fervent, "God damn!" that used to carry across the air. Now, Mom taps on her bed rail. 

"Do you need anything? Would you like to get up?" I now ask when I hear the taps. Many times Mom responds, "Quit it!" And I leave.

A few days ago, I checked on her several times, each time retuning to my room because Mom shook her head or signaled in some way that she didn't want anything. While folding a load of clothes, I noticed a change in the frequency of her tapping. Entering the room, I realized immediately that Mom had soiled herself, her bedspread and sheets, her nightgown--everything. Since she'd has smaller accidents, I keep a roll of trash bags under her bathroom sink and a pile of white washcloths that can withstand bleach dousing and multiple runs through hot water washes. I also keep disposable plastic gloves in one of the vanity drawers. 

These supplies, though, didn't come near to handling this situation. I managed to clean, pull stuff aside, clean more, set aside and clean again until I felt I could transfer Mom into her wheel chair. I swung her into the bathroom, and together we got her onto her shower bench in the tub. I quickly warmed the water and began scrubbing her. 

Then Mom fell.

One second she sat on her bench, and the next she did a forward roll into the tub. I slowed the momentum of her fall by grabbing one arm, but she tumbled and bumped her head on the side.

Panic flooded through me as I called for my son to come help. He assessed the situation and suggested that I get into the tub to check Mom 's neck. She stayed still, her eyes open in wide surprise. I started checking her quickly and realized that she hadn't broken anything. We debated calling 911, and but Mom managed an adamant, "No!" when she heard us discussing that option. So I held her head and neck steady while my son lifted Mom from the tub. He took her to her wheel chair where we covered her with towels so she wouldn't get chilled. I began a thorough examination of Mom while asking, again, if I should call 911 or take her to the ER. She clearly stated this time, "No!"

Mom had no lumps on her head, no sign of bruising anywhere. I think when I grabbed her, I slowed down her fall enough that she sort of thudded to a stop. I got her dressed and we took her into the family room where she wanted to sip some of her soda. While my son sat with her, I called the doctor's office and left a message. Mom's nurse had a scheduled visit in a couple of hours, so I knew someone would give her a thorough examination. We knew to keep her up and to watch for signs of a concussion, but since she was laughing about my panic, we figured her bounce in the tub scared me more than it hurt her.

As a result of this experience, I know that attempting a shower to clean my mother if she has another bowel accident isn't an option. However, I also know I have to clean her up properly if she has a similar experience. The next day, I headed to Target to prepare a kit that I've slid under Mom's bed where it's in easy reach. Inside this tub, I've placed disposable plastic gloves, wipes, paper towels, and plastic garbage sacks. It contains more wash clothes and disposable bed pads. Next to the tub I keep two wash tubs--one to fill with warm sudsy water and one for soiled washcloths. I have everything I need within easy reach to thoroughly clean my mother when the next accident occurs--because we know it will.  We've dubbed it, "The Shit Kit."

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Only Human”

      I find it difficult to admit that I found myself yelling at my mother, in total frustration, “Stop spitting out your food!”

         I actually had to leave the room. I stood by the kitchen sink and screamed, shook my fists at Fate, and started crying. Then I swiped my tears with a paper towel, inhaled half-a-dozen shaky breaths, and returned to my mother where, with a façade of calmness, I continued spooning lunch into her mouth, apologizing profusely for losing my temper.

As much as I want my mother’s days to pass with as little stress as possible, I know   that my temper may bubble up when she dumps her Coke on the carpet. I know that when  she insists that she wants to get out of bed, Mom may end up yanking her feet in the opposite direction and pull back against me in unexpectedly forceful resistance as I try to lever her into her wheelchair. I know she may tell me she’s hungry, and then refuse to eat. I know she may squirrel her medications in her cheeks and spit them out into her napkin.

I cannot take on guilt for my failings. The weight I carry as a caregiver taxes me enough. I don’t need to add to the load by picking up bricks of self-reproach because I’m not perfect. I know a professional caregiver would never raise her voice at my mother, but I’m not a professional caregiver.

No one modeled the best way to clip my mother’s finger and toe nails as she pulls away her hand or foot in uncontrollable movement. No one showed me how to bathe her, or wash her hair, or comb it to keep the tangles out. No one modeled the best way to feed her to avoid choking. No one prepared me for how to help her move her bowels. No one trained me for ten to twelve hours shifts often spent in near isolation.

            When other family members offer to give me a break, I never think twice about accepting their help. My husband and son, my sister and brother, have all taken up the duties of a caregiver. They each step into my world and provide the relief I desperately need by the end of a long day or week.

                So if I find myself yelling at my mother, I’m not going to flagellate myself for being less than perfect. I will apologize to her, and I will remind myself that I am only human.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman