"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

"Huntington's Disease Scars"

  

 

            Huntington’s disease ravishes the human brain like no other disease. Like fingerprints, this inherited disorder presents differently for each patient. For Mom, we overlooked her earliest symptoms—apathy and anxiety. She loved spending part of her days cross-stitching intricate patterns. Anyone who’s ever sat with needle and thread knows the delicacy of this work. When she set aside an unfinished piece, she told me that she wanted to try a different craft. I purchased a few possibilities from our local Michael’s store, but nothing drew her interest. Around the same time, she stopped reading. Always one book in hand and several on her nightstand, she shifted to barely reading the newspaper. She frequently complained that my dad never took her any place, but whenever he made suggestions, she tearfully nixed his ideas. Anxiety, something many people battle, became part of her daily routine. Sometimes when I called her, she’d cry. My suggestions that she talk to her doctor got the same response, “It’s just a blue day. It always goes away.”        

            When Mom’s feet began dancing during car drives and her fists clenched wadded Kleenex, she’d answer my worried questions with assurances that Dad’s driving drove her crazy. She spent tons of energy controlling her movements when in social situations. Dad finally found a project she loved—land outside of Leakey, Texas. They spent most of their 60s with plans and trips that filled their days. Mom’s anxiety drifted away, but her clenched fists and restless legs appeared whenever she was stressed or tired. I realize now how easy it was for all of us to minimize her early symptoms.

            Right after Dad’s 71^st birthday, a massive heart attack killed him. Within a year, Mom found an apartment walking distance to our home and signed a six month lease to see if San Antonio would fit her needs better. Over a period of eight years, her abilities melted away so slowly that we missed the changes. Once driving on her own, she began handing the car keys to one of us. Her weekly walk to our house became less frequent and then stopped altogether. Her anxiety kicked up again, and she began obsessive behaviors to counter her worst fear—her retirement deposits not being credited to her account. I discovered that she stayed up until midnight to begin calling her bank until her money arrived each and every month. I never could convince her that it was fine to wait until later in the morning.

            None of us noticed that Mom cooked fewer meals for herself. Somehow, I began swinging by her place daily on the way home from work to bring her over for meals we cooked together. When her leg began buckling out from under her, tumbling her to the ground, we scheduled a doctor’s appointment. Fortunately, she had it happen while with the doctor, who scheduled Mom with a neurologist. He suggested several possibilities, and when we mentioned my cousin had Friedreich’s ataxia, he wanted to order genetic tests. Before that could happen, Mom suffered a TIA, landed at Brooke Army Medical Center and her Huntington’s disease went into hyper drive. All of her subtle symptoms blossomed and others surfaced. Her balance evaporated, she couldn’t hold a cup of water or walk unaided. A young lieutenant’s experience with an entire family battling Huntington’s disease insisted to her superior that Mom be tested for it as soon as possible. The neurologist at first resisted the idea because Mom’s cognitive abilities were so sharp. She always recited the “remember these words” drill flawlessly, knew the date, all of our names and birthdates, counted forward and backward without fail.

            The tests, though, never lie. Mom’s Huntington’s disease snuck into our lives without notice and took over everything during her final four years. The stages are recognizable and yet still unique for each patient. Our lives narrowed down, too, as caregivers. I raced to retire from teaching because we knew she’d need care twenty-four/seven. We removed the wall between one bedroom and the bathroom to create a wheelchair wide access point. We structured our days and nights to accommodate her ever increasing needs. When Mom moved into our home, she could get into and out of her wheelchair on her own. She could cook with me, help with laundry, and take trips to see my siblings. She would discuss the news, watch movies with me, and chat about plot lines. By the end, we did everything for her.

            Caregivers don’t talk about having to handle impacted bowels. Caregivers don’t share the horrors of watching a loved one go from eating meals to being unable to take a syringe of water. Caregivers don’t reveal the heartache whispering, “It’s time to go. We’ll be fine. We love you, but you need to let go.”

 

            Mom died in November 2012 after living with us for two years, but we were her caregivers for many years before she moved in with us. Huntington’s disease changed our family forever. We have a resilience now that prepares us to handle new crisis situations with a comparison point—“It’s NOT as bad as Huntington’s disease.”

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman           

"Reset"

Paul and Mom July 1992

            Our cabin near Leakey, Texas rests within a remote area where the hills cup around, making cellphones unusable once we turn off of FM 337 onto Rim Rock Road. My parents purchased the land over thirty years ago, long before cell phones existed, when they were about the same age as we are now. I remember lecturing them to wait until we arrived before they unloaded the supplies from one of the many projects we tackled together during those first years. Without fail, they ignored my warnings. We’d pull up to find they’d maneuvered plywood out of the truck bed on their own. Dad often quipped that they weren’t invalids!

Mom and Dad July 1992

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David and Dad July 1992

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Finished porch-July 1992

            After Dad died, spending a weekend at the cabin tumbled all of us into grief. We attempted a few trips with Mom, but she cried each time. Once she said, “I see the ghosts of who we were walking outside.” By that time, Huntington’s disease had her wheelchair bound. She’d last a few hours, and then ask for us to bring her home. Once Mom died, we made a few trips up alone where we made a few necessary repairs, cut down a few ever-intrusive cedars, and down-shifted our visit to nights of board games or stargazing. About six years ago, our Escape Hybrid needed extensive and expensive repairs. Because of its age and mileage, we found ourselves purchasing a car that couldn’t handle the rough Rim Rock Road terrain. David’s parents and siblings assured us that we could exchange our car with either their SUV or truck whenever we wanted to make a trip; but in the usual manipulative dance of narcissists, their offer proved shallow.

            For three years, the cabin remained untouched. Last May, David’s cousin and her husband took us up for a weekend. Someone had broken into the place and tossed things around searching for valuables that didn’t exist. This same cousin took me back last November for another quick visual check. Each short view left me determined to get a new SUV, which we did at the end of December.

            This weekend we carefully examined some areas of wood rot in the screened porch area. We tossed around ideas of making the repairs ourselves, but I know that’s unrealistic. We debated over the possibility of taking the area down and just having a huge deck. We discussed finding a local company to hire to do the repairs. At the moment, the damaged area doesn’t hold the danger of falling in on us. We have time to decide the best course. In the back of my mind, I hear my own voice warning my parents, “Wait until we get there. Don’t do anything stupid!”

Our hidden driveway January 29, 2022

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  One task accomplished! January 29, 2022

            That past caution reminded us to limit our visit to one major task. David focused on cutting the knee-high grass that covered the driveway and cleared some cedar. I relined the driveway with rocks.

            Both of us used the sunshine and hard labor to step back and away from work and world. We hit “reset” to return home recharged and ready.

 Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

“New Old Favorite

February 2026

My Canon Rebel T1i, a hand-me-down from my son after he moved onto higher skilled cameras, steadied my life and hand from the moment I first looked through its aperture into a world I could control. Its presence provided protection from social situations I dreaded. My Rebel and I marched together at protests, hung out at tense in-law gatherings, and joyfully recorded life around me. My parents didn’t own cameras. Growing up, we had an occasional snap shot from the instamatics or polarize one-shot cameras that faded faster than my memories. The stilted school photographs marked each year like the line some families etch into a hidden doorway. The first camera we purchased as a couple, a used Pentax K 1000, passed between us with an ease married people share over the years. It wasn’t my camera. My Rebel was mine alone. 

Last summer, my old friend began hesitating on shots. The first time I noticed it,  we sweltered in the zoo’s butterfly house. I convinced myself that nothing could perform in that high heat and humidity. The problem occurred so infrequently that I lulled myself into believing that nothing was wrong with it. When my son took it out and about for a few minutes, it performed perfectly. However, he logged it into his heart that I may have to retire my best friend and gently suggested that I start looking for another camera. My resistance, quick and stubborn, snapped at him. I couldn’t bare another loss. This last year of grief (friends, family, pets) made me reject another change.  I wouldn’t let go of my Rebel, a secure and predictable weight around my neck.

In February, a box arrived with my name on the label. Having ordered nothing, I puzzled over its contents as my son urged scissors into my hands to open it up. Knowing I’d never seek to replace my old camera, he decided he’d gift me another Canon, just as he had so many years ago. For the first time ever, I own a brand new camera! With shaking hands, I set aside bubble wrap and plucked out the box of my new best friend, a Rebel T7.

April 2026

May 2026

June 2026

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

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IOUNIO's "Freedom"

"Her Rain"

Her rain fell   

         a deluge of broken dreams,   

                     frustrated desires, missed opportunities   

         drenching the world   

                     with her bitter storms   

Her rain fell   

         a flood of regrets and sublimation   

                     poured onto her children   

         drowning each of them   

                     with her skewed and tainted love   

Her rain fell   

         a watery veil of manipulation   

                     pushing against the banks of reality   

         overflowing her boundaries   

                     with her disillusions and dissatisfaction   

Her rain fell   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Caregiving Scars"

Edna Abrams 80 yrs.

        

           Knowing your personal strengths and weaknesses means you learn when to tune in to your inner voice that warns, “Watch your step. Take your time. Give yourself distance from others to think.” Many times, though, the cacophony of other voices drowns out that quieter internal tone. Hours, days, weeks, and even months press by when you listen and respond to everyone but your own ideas and emotions.

            Your life becomes a long list of “To Do” and “Should Do”. Family and friends lecture those of us in caregiver roles to “take care of yourself first” without realizing such advice cannot be taken without another person actually stepping into your home. They throw out suggestions for you to get away and take a break, but it’s extremely rare that they enter into the responsibility you’ve undertaken for any extended period of time.

            Huntington’s disease attacked my mother fairly late in life. In her 60s she stopped the voracious reading she’d done her entire life. Her passion for cross-stitching died overnight. She talked about being depressed, but insisted her “blue days” didn’t warrant a doctor’s visit. Her tendency for anxiety increased. She complained frequently about not going out or doing things, but then pulled the plug on suggested outings and activities. Sometimes, her feet would move in a restless dance, but she’d stop them the moment anyone called attention to them moving. In her early 70s, she still drove her car and walked a mile each day. She had a couple of times when her legs folded up under her midstride, but HD didn’t blip on any of her doctors’ radar. At 78, Mom had a TIA that propelled her into a Huntington’s disease nightmare. The neurologist treating her at the hospital still didn’t recognize HD, but a young nurse caring for her had worked with an HD family. It was her insistence that forced the doctors to run genetic tests, which gave us the diagnosis.

            No amount of research prepared our family for the years of caregiving that became our family destiny. For two years after the diagnosis, Mom lived in an assisted living complex walking distance from our home. I visited her every day unless I was ill. On those occasions, my husband or son spent part of the evening with her. Her motor skills spiraled into a decline that forewarned us that eventually she’d need to move into our home. She went from walking on her own, to using a walker. She broke her wrist, had cauliflower ear from a fall, and split her nose on her coffee table. Her internist shifted her into a wheelchair because no one wanted her to break a hip. During those two years, our lives revolved around making certain Mom never felt alone. She made friends with her aides, threw parties for both residents and staff, and daily insisted that she missed her apartment. She knew, though, that she’d never live alone again.

            My retirement from teaching on year 30 became imperative. No one talks about the extremely high costs of assisted living. Mom’s care during the two years she stayed there increased from $4,000 to $5,000 a month as her nursing needs changed. Shifting her into the 24/7 care that Huntington’s disease would eventually require meant that price would increase out of our budget. The cut in my take home income from retiring to care for Mom was still financially better than moving her into the more intensive care.

            In 2010, Mom moved into our home. For the next two years, life increasingly revolved around her and her needs. My son rented a home in our neighborhood to be close by, and during the last six months of Mom’s life, he moved back home to help me while my husband worked. The bond formed with the three of us caring for Mom still connects us today. Mom’s deterioration once we moved her here slowed down. Her neurologist noted that she felt happier and more secure. Her mental decline never happened as with many HD patients. If she got enough sleep, she stayed sharp and focused. My greatest fear, that Mom would eventually be unable to swallow, started in November 2012. She went three weeks without food and three days without water. 

            No one writes about or talks about the scars carved into the caregiver’s heart. Ten years later, I still catch myself thinking that I need to rush over to Mom’s apartment if I’m out running errands. My caregiver’s scar means I listen for Mom’s bell to ring some nights. That scar reminds me that a disease took over our existence as it destroyed my mother’s life.           

Edna Abrams 81st birthday 2011

Edna Abrams with her nephew and his wife 2011

Mom listening to live music with family 2011

Mom at cabin in Leakey, TX 2011 age 81

IOUNIO's "Isolated" captures my feelings perfectly.

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Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

“Rat Ripple-down—Part Two”

  The second impact for us on removing the pond out back came with a new garden out front. The fountain, a cheerful fairy, needed a different location. We hauled huge rocks from our cabin in Leakey, purchased a new bird bath, and wheelbarrowed the fairy to a spot to show her off  to our neighbors. No longer tucked into the backyard for my personal joy, she sits encircled by rocks and flowers for all to see.

I decided this spot would display colorful annuals that I’d change by grabbing whatever caught my fancy when shopping at local nurseries (or sometimes the grocery store).  It’s fun selecting blooms that fit my mood and budget. Unlike the perennials I long to place in the new spot out back, I want this smaller garden to change  multiple times each year. 

The simple enjoyment of pulling into the driveway to blooms and blossoms is a wonderful ripple down to our rat solution. I miss the serenity of the pond out back, but it’s tied to memories of Koi drinking from the fairy bowl. Her new role as a planter shifts my grief to a celebration of life simply moving forward. 

2025

2026

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

IOUNIO's "Shadows in My Veins"

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"Your Silence"

I have no excuse for hurting you
Saying
“I didn’t understand”
doesn’t erase your pain
When you stripped bare
our differences,
I built a defensive wall
to shelter our friendship
to protect us from the World’s invasive
discord and discontent
I begged for less
Your silence honors me

Copyright 2018 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

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"Stillness"

Today I need to step outside of myself
            to embrace caution
            to access this new information
            to slow down my pulse with measured breaths
 
Today I need to locate my panic’s source
            to immobilize my fear
            to heed my heart’s warnings
            to analyze my certainty I’ll be hurt again
 
Today I need to be still
            to reflect upon my younger self’s doubts
            to acknowledge her searing pain
            to wrap her safely within the tranquility of my experiences

 
Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
 
 

IOIUNIO's "Isolated" wraps around me today as I find the perfect poem to share with you. 

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