"Journey of Grief"

Dad joking with this shot!

          Life punched me in my stomach. A fierce blow delivered by a massive fist that pummeled me mercilessly. Bile burned my throat, and I tried to swallow back the pain, but an altered consciousness enveloped me, held me down against my will.

My dad died.

A few minutes of time changed my life forever. The path I walked so confidently heaved, buckled, and then tore away. The earth shifted and tilted. The wind whipped me off my feet and flung me into an angry ocean of grief.

For months, living weighed me down. Bricks stacked one by one upon my chest each night to where breathing became a challenge each morning. No one told me this pain would overwhelm me.

My wedding

Some people offered support and kindness for a week or two. But the attitude became “snap out of it.” Other people confided that I’d been thrown into a huge, endless sea. It will take years, they said, to reach shore. And when I do reach land, nothing will be the same. So like Odysseus, my life is at the mercy of Poseidon as I flounder on the waters of grief.

During my first weeks, I’d break the water’s surface. My hands flailed helplessly as I gasped for air. My lungs ached from the pressure of the water squeezing me, forcing me down. My vision blurred with unexpected tears. One, two, three inhalations, and down I’d go again. Massive waves towered overhead and somersaulted me head over heels—down, down, down until I hit the sandy bottom and skidded to a grinding, painful stop. The abrasive sands of sadness peeled my skin and left me bleeding and raw. Then I’d slowly drift upward, limp and damaged, and float on the surface like a piece of flotsam

Wave after wave pounded me until waking, moving, sleeping, and thinking became impossible.

And this became my journey, my trip through grief that nears the first year’s anniversary. I don’t know when the bricks stacked upon my chest eased off. Eventually, I realized that in the mornings I could breathe without restriction. I do remember a day in March when I broke through the surface of the water and another tidal wave did not wipe me out. Instead, I stayed afloat. For the first time, I could feel the sun’s warm caress stroke my skin. Spring breezes sighed softly, and bird call filled the air. The hurricane force winds disappeared. Since then, I’ve sighted land. It’s distant still. A misty outline that I swim toward. I no longer float helplessly with the current. And although waves sometimes sweep out of nowhere to pull me under, it doesn’t happen as frequently or as fiercely.

I now know that eventually I’ll touch ground again. The tears that stung my eyes won’t fight for release. Once I make landfall, I’ll smile whenever I think of Dad. His corny jokes, hearty laugh, and sharp wit will come to me and I’ll welcome them with smiles and joy.

Copyright 2002 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

My father died unexpectedly on September 10, 2001. The support system that you'd expect to receive from friends and co-workers became overshadowed by the events of the next day. At the funeral home, the news ran as we discussed plans for Dad. As he was a retired deputy sheriff, many of his friends and colleagues were on alert, making a viewing within the next couple of days impossible. Dad wanted to be interred at Ft. Sam Houston Cemetery, but that had to be delayed for another three weeks. Everything became surreal for our family.

Dad and Mom hiking at their cabin

"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

"An Old Friend"

She’s an old friend,   
just a co-worker now—an acquaintance   
We smile when we pass in the hall   
We share complaints about classes, victories with kids   
Lately, she’s lost her smile   
Her usual elegance fades    
Her eyes, downcast as she walks, miss my smiled greetings   
Someone whispers a rumor   
asks what I know—me, the ostrich with her head in the sand   
I look around   
Suddenly I see her loss   
realize her shock and grief   
Stunned, I see them together—       
as she must see them, too       
He sniffs around the other woman like she’s a bitch in heat       
They drive up in the same car       
step out for lunch       
stand together in the hallway       
flirtatiously laughing       
body language that screams—Couple       
What words can I offer?       
advice, as they say, is cheap   
How do I let her know I care   
without letting her painfully realize—   
I know   
(just like everyone else)   
I can talk to her, try to listen, try to be around just a little more   
Her other friends and I can form a safety net   
but we can’t protect her from anger, loss, grief   
We see it in her eyes  
in the way she moves now   
I remember another time when she had no net   
her loss almost killed her    
So, I’ll stand guard

Copyright 1999 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Just the right song to go with today's poem. 

"Have Scissors, Will Cut"

 

            What five-year-old can resist trimming her bangs? I couldn’t. I remember distinctly deciding to cut my hair with my mother’s large, heavy sewing shears. The weight of those scissors meant my hand wavered as I clipped, clipped, clipped. The result? A zigzag of fringe up my forehead and a sound scolding from my mother. I wore my bangs exceedingly short for a few months since to fix my fashion folly, my mother had to cut my bangs back to my hairline.


Notice the crooked bangs?

            Did I learn my lesson and avoid wielding scissors?

            Of course not!

            Over the years, I’ve become a master at cutting my own hair. I have paid for haircuts only three times in thirty-five years!

            Friends can’t believe I’ll snip away until I’ve settled on a new do, but I think it’s rather fun to see the results.

            I never style my hair on a whim. Usually, I debate the change over several days, weighing the pros of my current style, the cons of something different. I may even do something like change the color of my locks before I begin hacking away at them.

            Eventually, the pull of those shears wears me down. Sometimes, it’s simply a little trim to even out growth. Maybe, I just want to see beyond my bangs, so I shorten and feather them softly. Other days, I take the plunge and decide I need a totally new hairdo.

            And so I found myself in the bathroom the other evening, chopping off inches with confidence. If I don’t like my masterpiece? It’s no big deal.

            Hair grows back!!!

Cut in 2014

2025 Hair!

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

The lyrics from this song bring back my best childhood memories!

“Rats, a Pond, and Change”

 

            Our never ending battle against roof rats kicked up a solution that I’ve tried to avoid for several years—removing our pond that rests close enough to the house to draw in uninvited guests. When the rodents first appeared, they entered through an extremely small opening by our hot water heater. As time passed, they found other points of entry that always stayed along the back side of our house—near the kitchen and laundry, but also near the pond. At one point, the exterminator suggested that the pond enticed the rats into the area, and their break-in instincts led them into the house. We’ve tried different traps inside the house, including our own more successful live traps. The outside of our house, lined with baited traps by the pond, seemed to work, until this week when we spotted more rat sign in the laundry area.

            Today, I’ll start removing the pond. Draining it won’t take too long as we’ll the fountain pump can clear out the water quickly. Reclaiming the gravel from the interior and edges will take time, and relocating parts of the foliage to different areas of our yard may consume my mornings for a while. I like to think of myself as an ant. If I focus on one part each day, I can shift and move and change.

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"273 Days"

 

 

            May 2020 found me with a knee injury after I did a slip-n-slide and to the ground dive while mopping the kitchen floor. I bounced up from the twist and fall, cleaned up the bucket of water slopped everywhere, and continued on with my routines for several days. I washed the cars. I raked leaves. I walked a thirty minutes a day up and down our hilly neighborhood. During one of those strolls, my left knee snapped in protest. I kept my weight off of it, iced it for days, wrapped it for compression, raised it up “just so” and had it examined by my doctor’s PA two weeks later. She checked it thoroughly; approved of the leg brace I wore into the appointment, and gave me slow, specific rehabilitation guidelines that I followed obsessively.

            My goal, to get back onto my feet again, took months of incrementally pushing my knee forward. Once it was totally back to pain free movement, I returned to life pre-knee injury. Eventually, my daily walk included a hike up the steepest hill in our neighborhood. My self-challenge, to scale the slope five days in a row, proved my downfall when my other knee fizzled out midway up the hill. By the time I hobbled home, my right knee doubled its size, swollen and painful. RICE again for almost two weeks, and then my new doctor checked my right knee. He listened to how I’d rehabbed my left knee and approved of my methodology. Again, the process to regain my knee’s usage without pain took many months with daily goals adjusting gradually. At first, I couldn’t exercise every day without my knee puffing up or nagging me with a hint of discomfort. I would alternate using the recumbent bike with short walks at the park. Eventually, I rehabbed well enough to walk to our park and home again every single day.

            Biking and walking, walking and biking through my days. During the last month, I’ve added dancing to my routine. Dancing stresses knees differently, and I waited a long time to add it back into my life. Waking up today, I checked my exercise progress on my Fitness read-out: 273 days under my Longest Move Streak!

            My challenge for this next year (other than remembering to don my watch) will include dancing more to favorite songs and walking longer distances. Days on the bike, I can nudge the resistance up to reach a new goal.

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman    

“I Didn’t Change”

 
Our innocence inspired our idealism
We whispered wishes and whimsy
As twilight tended our Truths
Bound by brilliance and bounty
Our friendship found fertile fields
To nurture our natural naiveté
I missed his misanthropic manipulations
Excused your endless empty explanations
So subtle sorrow surrounded us
 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

"Blending in Marriage"

First picture of us together!

  

            After thirty-two years of marriage, friends often query, “How did you stay together so long? What’s the trick?

                I usually shrug my shoulders and shake my head, “I don’t know. Lots of love, but sometimes you fall out of synch with each other. The love may not feel as overpowering as it once was; yet if you wait it out, it comes back stronger and better.” I’ll pause for effect, and then continue, “You have to be friends as well as lovers. And you have to be willing to give up some of the things that are important to you as a person in order to reach for what’s best as a couple. Marriage is never easy—but nothing in life is, right? You’ll both feel anger, frustration and hurt. Own the negative as well as the positive. Always pull together when there’s a problem instead of heading in separate directions or relying on someone outside of your marriage to ‘fix’ things when they go wrong.”

At the Leakey cabin

            One of the tricks of marriage is taking two separate lives, with different upbringings and experiences, and blending them together into something wonderful and new. In the early years of our marriage, we made conscious choices of the things we liked or disliked about our childhood. For example, I hated that we moved every two or three years. I wanted to settle on a city or town, sink in roots, and build a life in one place. That didn’t matter as much to David at first. Later on, when I started looking for a bigger house, it turned out David rooted more deeply than I did; and so we added on to our home instead of moving.

Dinner with friends

            Our biggest area of contention those first years? Keeping house. I grew up a clean freak. Baseboards and door trims got a white glove inspection when we lived on base, and I transferred that tidiness into my adult life. Many of our early arguments revolved around housework. David always pitched in, but did such a horrible job that I ended up redoing many of his chores. After one explosion on why he didn’t clean something correctly, he admitted that he rarely did housework growing up. His bungling attempts, which I misinterpreted as a passive-aggressive dodge of chores, turned out to be total lack of knowledge of how to get something spiffy clean.

            When David and I had been married only a few months, he asked one night, “What do you do to the sheets?”

             “Sheets?” I echoed, puzzled.

          “They always feel so smooth. And they always smell good. Do you do something special with them?”

             “No. I just wash them every week."

           David paused, “Oh, that’s it, then. We didn’t wash our sheets every week. Sometimes more than a month would go by.” He made similar comments on the towels that never became cardboard stiff or smelled sour. Although all of David’s clothing when we first married fit into one paper sack, I was shocked to learn that he’d been told to turn dirty underwear inside-out and wear them a second time!

          These differences in upbringing caused friction during those first years. I couldn’t understand why David didn’t just jump in to clean something, often forgetting that he truly didn’t see that something was dirty because his level of tolerance was so much higher than my own.

            Eventually, we divided house cleaning and yard work not by the usual male/female divisions, but by what each of us likes to do most (or least hates to do). David prefers “picking up” or straightening up clutter. He likes to vacuum, cook, and clean the kitchen. I prefer dusting and laundry. We tackled grocery shopping together until recently. Both of us like working in the yard. Usually David will weed-eat while I’ll mow. We team up for clipping hedges, and I love to piddle in the garden

            Blending occurred in many other areas of our lives. Even after all of these years, we’ll sometimes find ourselves discussing a difference (yes, they still exist) and figuring out the best way to fuse two ways of viewing something into one solution. During this past year, we’ve had new challenges and changes that could strain a marriage; yet we seem to have mastered this blending skill. And frankly, it’s the mixing and merging that makes life interesting. 

Anniversary #45!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

"Reunion"

 

“So, what have you been doing for the last forty years?”

I’ve been daughter and son, spouse, parent, and grandparent

I’ve been married to my best friend

I’ve been single

I’ve been divorced

I’ve been widowed

I’ve been builder, nurse, mechanic, educator and designer

I’ve been firefighter, soldier and homemaker

I’ve been  caregiver, dancer and artist

I’ve been writer, lawyer and singer

I’ve been traveling and planting roots

I’ve been in my family home and living abroad

I’ve been loved 

I’ve been alone

I’ve been stubborn and caring

I’ve been angry, hurt, lost and regretful

I’ve been generous, open-minded, and loving

I’ve been surviving heartbreaks

I’ve been wallowing in happiness

I’ve been living my life

“What about you?”

Copyright 2016 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Holding Pattern"

The final destination’s in sight   

            twinkling lights welcome   

            offer guidance and hope   

Suddenly turbulence     

            rolls over us   

            wind shear threatens our course   

Circle around, around, around   

Running low on fuel   

            ready to crash   

            ready  to burn   

Stuck in a holding pattern   

            waiting for answers   

            waiting for options   

Finally diverted to another port   

            an unexpected paradise  

            with exceptional surprises   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"In a Fishbowl"

            Months ago I stepped out of my busy life and entered a protected zone. I had no responsibility beyond staying home and staying well. For the first time in my life, I found myself pausing in place—in a fishbowl.

            I had plenty of food. My light was filtered and gentle. The water was clear and clean. I felt safe, secure and sheltered. This illusion drew me into complacency. The glass distorted my worldview and left me floating without danger while the world beyond me crashed and burned.

            Within my fishbowl, I drifted through the days, my vision focused on the tragedies and losses playing out beyond my transparent shield. It was easy to lull myself into a false serenity that one day, life’s normalcy would return.

            Going back, though, to “before” is self-deception. I’ve learned that once I leave this insulated world, I will need to find new and different goals for myself.

 

Copyright 2021 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

           

“Assimilate and Accommodate”

 

            Early on in the COVID-19 shutdown, I participated in the COVID Research Team, Ferkauf Graduate School of Psychology at Yeshiva University study. The initial in-depth survey covered many different aspects of how I handle life events that predated COVID-19’s initial impact. A month later, another survey appeared in my email for me to relate the continuing impact of the virus on my life. This follow-up delved into changes in my personal behavioral patterns, variations in our economic status, and even differences in how much I thought about the virus as it rolled through our country. Another survey appeared at the three month mark and asked very fine-tuned questions about more specific aspects of my life and family as we continue on this uncharted path.

            The researchers probe various qualities on how I process problems and manage the different world in which we all now live. The psychologist that I am, I appreciate the multileveled purity of each questionnaire. When I participate in each response, I take my time. Usually able to block out music or television in the background, these surveys require focused attention to each weighed response. I want my answers to be accurate and true to honestly represent my experiences with COVID-19 as it impacts my life and the lives of family and friends.

            Taking part in this study reminded me of the importance of critical thinking. For some of us, being able to assimilate and accommodate information comes naturally. Back in early January, my curiosity led me to reading about SARS-CoV-2 in several journals. I began tracking the virus using data provided by different sites and finally began using www.worldometers.com for daily information. I understood early on that COVID-19 would develop into a nightmare because it’s easily transmitted, infects many asymptomatically, and has a mild or moderate impact on most of its hosts. That type of virus lulls people into falsely believing it is “no big deal” when in reality (because it’s so easily transmitted from person-to-person), it will do exactly as nature designed it to do. During the past nine months, I’ve continued to hunt down peer reviewed research to enable me to make educated decisions about our daily life.

            Some of those choices will have long-term impacts. I quit my part-time job as a substitute teacher. Returning into a classroom doesn’t make sense. If I contracted COVID-19, I could end up seriously ill and possibly hospitalized, which would result in enormous bills from employment with a job that pays $12.50 an hour! I will NEVER go anywhere without wearing a mask until there’s a vaccine in place. Because we have a “designated shopper” for groceries, I haven’t entered a store since March. At first there wasn’t data on how long COVID-19 remained on surfaces. I disinfected everything that came into the house: groceries, take-out containers, mail, shoes. More data has allowed me to shift to a more relaxed approach. I no longer drown our mail with Lysol spray! I don’t feel anxious. I don’t battle depression. Instead, I have confidence that science will do what it does best. My choices over the next year to eighteen months will come from gathering information provided through reliable research.

            In the meantime, I await the next installment of the survey on how COVID-19 has touched my life. I can report that twelve of my in-laws (who don’t follow science) have been infected. I can state that my husband’s department will work remotely even after the pandemic (amazing how some companies are finding that option really can work), and I can state with confidence that for me, knowledge is power.

 Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

https://www.amazon.com/Golden-Bracelet-Elizabeth-Abrams-Chapman-ebook/dp/B076JR8N26

    

  

 

 

"Making Change"

            Over the last few months, several older friends unexpectedly fell into life changes due to medical issues. Nothing life threatening, but still a diagnosis that meant change must come sooner, rather than later, into their routines.

            One of the main changes dealt with whether or not they could continue to work. A necessary knee or hip replacement turned into hours of physical therapy after the surgery. For a couple of friends, the promised “cure” from the procedure didn’t result in anything more than a little less pain. Their range of motion remained less. Plus, no one talked about the fact that after a certain age one’s overall stamina and energy don’t return to the same pre-surgery level. The promise that things would be “as good as new” simply didn’t hold up. For these friends, a loss of income coupled with extraordinarily high medical bills meant they now ride on a roller coaster of anxiety.

            For me, I started counting my blessings daily. During the spring semester last year, the plague (aka allergies) knocked me down for the count. By the long, lazy days of summer, I resolved to hedge myself against another rough spring by joining my son on his lifestyle change. I dropped flour from my diet. No bread. No cereal. No cookies. No cakes. No pastas. No battered or gravy laden meats. In the process of avoiding flour, I pulled away from most processed and preserved foods. This dramatic diet change resulted in more energy. I worked more consecutive days this fall and winter than I have at any other time in the past. Was this change easy? No. Was this change necessary? Definitely.

            As I viewed friends grappling with health issues that led to their ability to work, I began wondering what would happen if I could no longer work at my post-retirement job.  What could I do to generate income if I couldn’t jump into a car and head out? I recently sat back and reflected on the things I love to do—my writing and photography topped the list. In what way could I combine these two pleasures into generating a little income that would shift me away from a total dependence upon my current occupation? My son, always a creative soul, suggested a few days ago that I could use my photography, combined with my love of words and phrases, to generated unique t-shirt designs that I could sell online.

            Today, I began another change in my life! I opened an online store called Ms. Liz Designs. (https://teespring.com/stores/ms-liz-designs)

            With my blog, I hope to share the tales of my adventures as I discover the ins-n-outs stepping out of my comfort zone and into new possibilities.

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

              

             

"The Tree"

I can’t recall when I first slid under the fallen tree branches. I do remember a gentle breeze lifting my hair as I gazed at the early yellow-green buds on the roughened tree limbs. The tree, once tall and majestic, had split down its center trunk back in the winder. Layers of ice had encased every twig and branch within cold hardness and weighed the tree down until it ripped in two. During the winter months, the tree appeared barren. Desolate. Dead. But with the coming of warmer weather, the tree resurrected itself.

I remember sitting in the soft spring sunshine and running my hand along the splintered scar where the trunk had split. Tree sap coated the exposed whitened flesh. Like blood, it felt sticky and wet. Later, it hardened into glossy amber, a scab on the trunk. The tree healed itself.

        I remember shinnying along one side of the halved trunk, scratching the bark away on the smaller branches and seeing with delight the green under bark. Life. The buds, little bumpy caterpillar legs on each thin twig, felt like Braille messages under my fingertips. I longed to decipher this code of rebirth.

           Days slipped by unnoticed by my childish concept of time. The dense green canopy evolved. It changed as life unfurled its sails into the warming scented winds. The long, lazy summer days found me beneath the sheltering tree branches, hidden from prying sibling eyes and the cacophony of friends at play. The grass under the branches receded, and I eventually wore a hollow into a patch of loamy earth where I played for hours. The musty aromas of summer wafted through the air, filtering through the interwoven leaves along with the soundless sunlight.

          I quietly nestled among those protective branches, a bird in its next, and lazily spent my days lost in Nancy Drew mysteries while the world rushed on around me. The tree cradled me in dapples of cool shadow and darts of warm sunshine. This green haven cocooned me within its tranquility.

Copyright 1995 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Tree”

Once

            Tall and Majestic

Then

            Split and Torn

                        by

                                    layers of ice—

                                              cold hardness

                        weighing

            ripping

killing

Then

            Resurrection   

                        Sap healing the whitened flesh

                                    a glossy amber

                                                green under bark

                                                            Birds—

                                                                        Caterpillar legs

                        And a hidden message of

                                    Life

                        a secret code of

                                    Rebirth

Then

            Evolution

                        Life unfurling its sails

                                    into warm scented winds

                        Sheltering me

                                    in a canopy of green

                        Interwoven leaves

                                    Nestling me

                                    within soundless sunlight

                        Cradling me

                                    in dapples of shadow

                                    and darts of sunshine 

                        Cocooning me

                                    within Tranquility

           

                                   

 Copyright 1995 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

This prose and poetry pair modeled for my students the fact that both types of writing rely upon the same elements. I often encouraged my students to take their reflective prose pieces and convert them into poetry.