“What I Can Control"

 

            My mornings begin with what I can control. An alarm set for 7:15 AM to remind me to take medications. Rain or shine. Summer or winter. Weekday or weekend. I arise with a routine that sets the tone of my life. I write with pen and paper into my journal or sit before the blank page of my computer for the next hour, maybe two. Some days my thoughts get shared through a poem or personal narrative. Sometimes my private words stay tucked away. My choice on what to publish allows me an element of control.

            By 8:30 each morning, my day shifts outdoors. Rain or shine. Sumer or winter. Weekday or weekend. I section the yards and gardens into concrete, manageable goals that I can accomplish on my own. This spring and summer, I am purchasing new plants and flowers on Monday mornings. My tight budget means I hunt for neglected and reduced items in the garden sections of HEB, Walmart and Home Depot. Each morning I check for growth; and I rejoice with a new tendril, bud, or bloom. My care comforts me and lets me feel as though I have control when a plant grows enough to propagate into another pot.

            Yesterday, I trimmed the hedges out front in anticipation of a larger project—repainting the front porch, back porch and hot tub surround. I know the amount of work required as I’ve done this refresh on my own for years. I will tackle a known entity to allow myself a sense of purpose and control when so many other events in our world spin into chaos. My days with paint brush in hand will allow me to focus on what is right before me.

            I worry that I should do more. I should write more. I should shout loud and clear against this administration that destroys with no intention of rebuilding. I published the link to Project 2025 over and over again. I warned friends and family members month after month about the goals of these people to rape and pillage. Some, even now, smile with smugness as they state, “This is what I voted for!” I cannot control their hatred. I cannot contain their maliciousness.

I cannot change who and what they are. This realization wounds me every single day.        

            

        And so, my energy gets spent on the things I can control. My concentration stays on the people I can protect. My mornings begin at 7:15 AM . . .

   Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Into the Night"

    Occasionally, my mother cannot sleep at night. This means no one gets to sleep. We keep a baby monitor in her room, so as she spins restlessly in her bed, we hear her clearly.

When Mom’s symptoms of Huntington’s disease first began, she’d uncontrollably repeat, “Oh man, oh man, oh man,” whenever she experienced a little stress or anxiety. I don’t think she even knew she’d go through this verbal litany. As my mother’s agitation grew, so did the urgency of her words. “Oh man” altered into “God damn! God damn! God damn!” We had to explain this hierarchy of declarations to her aids when she resided in assisted living because one aid grew rude and abrupt at Mom’s utterances. For someone as gentle natured as my mother, her “God damn!” meant she’d hit her limit in some way. Now, as Mom slips into the last stages of her disease, her ability to carry on conversations comes and goes. Some days, she’ll chat constantly, her words easy for me to understand. Other days, she barely utters a syllable throughout the day, except for her two phrases, my easy gauge of her distress levels.

         Last night, Mom somehow turned around her hours. She asked for a fried egg around six o’clock. She demanded that we change her out of her nightgown and dress her in one of her outfits about an hour later. By 9:30, David asked her if she knew it was nighttime, not morning. With her mind playing this time trick, she struggled to get up to watch her television shows until two in the morning. Whenever I went back to her bedroom, she’d complain that she was cold as she kicked off her covers; she’d whine that she was tired as she grabbed my hands to pull her from the bed.

         “Mom, you need to go to sleep!” received angry pouts from her at first. One time when I tried to straighten her covers and get her back into bed, she managed to slap me across the face.

         This is Huntington’s disease.

         I remember my mother spanking me only once in my life. I saw her raise her hand once and strike my sister when her teenaged tongue sliced out a rude comment. I know my brother received a spanking for hiding his progress reports and low grades in his middle school locker. Physical punishment did not occur in our household. I severed a relationship with a brother-in-law who left bruises on my arms from trying to pull me out of a car. My parents raised me that if someone raises a hand to you in anger, get out of that relationship. Period.

         So Mom’s striking out at me reveals one more “loss” that we’ve endured through this battle against this monster. We tiptoed around each other today with neither one of us speaking about her eruption of anger and frustration. I’d like to think that this won’t happen again, but I’ve read enough about the later stages of Huntington’s to know that as the brain changes her personality will change, too.

         Every day when I pick up my journal, I follow the date by writing my two main goals for survival: Stay in Today, Patience. I know, though, that no matter how much I try to smooth out the challenges of my mother’s days (or nights), her disease is winning. I often fail in my efforts to stay focused on the moment. I definitely fail when it comes to patience when our struggle unwinds throughout the day and into the night.   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Be Kind"

           For many years, I’d jot a list of goals or guidelines onto the final page of my journal. At first, the practicality of these reminders meant I rarely looked at them. “Pay off car” or “Save for a fence” didn’t need a weekly reminder. Gradually the notations gave way to little personal mottos like” Stay in today” or “Laugh every day.” This time around, I wrote the words “Be kind.”
            What a lovely concept, and how sad that I feel the need to prompt myself to give tolerance and understanding when dealing with other people. I often fall short of personal goals, and when I’m stressed and tired, my ability to react with thoughtfulness dwindles to a microscopic mite.
            “Be kind” holds nobleness. If I can dip into patience and sympathy as my initial response to an adverse situation or obnoxious encounter, perhaps I can diffuse negativity in my life.
            “Be kind” nurtures grade and gentleness. If furious frustration flames within me because of someone’s painful thoughtlessness, I should douse it with common courtesy, drown it in goodwill.
            “Be kind” smothers greed, hatred and cruelty under a blanket of consideration, tenderness, and decency. So by following this two word principal, my spirit gains contentment.
 

 

 Copyright 2015 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman