"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

"Grandmother's Cookbook"

                        My mother’s childhood showcases trauma and loss. Her father lost their farm during the Depression and moved his family into the small town of Danville, Illinois. Her oldest sister, Lois, drowned while swimming in the local lake within a few years. Around the time Mom turned nine, her mother died. Her father, left with five children still at home, found himself unable to care for his three youngest girls. They ended up within the foster care system. Fortunately, the small town meant all of the Thompson siblings went to school together. She visited her sister Nellie, a newlywed, often. Mom remembered the marble-topped furniture in their home, the lean years of lunch consisting of half a head of iceberg lettuce sprinkled with salt, and the wild antics of her older brothers, known for pranks that resulted in scoldings from the local police. Only a few treasured pieces came into Mom’s possession once she reached adulthood. She received a golden bracelet, which she wore at her wedding. The bracelet became a tradition to wear at weddings with my sister and me encircling our wrists with it. I inherited this lovely piece and used it for the cover art of my novel.

            The other prize from Mom’s childhood came in the form of The American Woman’s Cook Book, edited by Ruth Berolzheimer. All of the frequent moves made by my parent’s military lifestyle meant somethings never made it to the next assignment, but Mom always tucked this cookbook into a box that came with us. Over the years, both of my parents pulled this book off the shelf for recipes. My husband and I turn to it regularly, with me recently vowing to try new-to-us recipes weekly. The volume, though, contains not just ways to prepare various dishes, but also a look into life for the housewife in the 1940s. The thick work contains color plates of finished delights. It suggests menus for parties and holidays. Within its sheets one can find pages of food equivalents. Struggling with ideas for school lunches for the kids? Need a tip on how to set your plates for a fancy dinner? Want the perfect Hollandaise Sause (one of our favorites)? How about the best banana nut bread or pancakes on Earth? You can even find specific instructions on how to help with the war effort.

 

                 This volume represents a life that showcases hardship and hope.

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman      

I am like IOUNIO's "Time Traveler" today, as my fingers trail thought the pages of Grandmother's cookbook. 

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"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

"Family Gatherings"

          My siblings and I talk weekly. The habit, established years ago when you paid for a long distance phone call by the minute, resists change. I usually contact my sister during the week. We chat about family and friends. Although each of us have only met the other’s friends a few times, over the years the life events of these people weave into our conversations. We spend time discussing world events and allergy seasons. We share with one another the grind of our jobs (both retired teachers who now substitute to keep out of trouble.) My sister lives in a small Texas town and participates in her church, political party events, and the “this-n-that activities” of her community. We divide our worries and our woes and multiply our joys. These phone calls ebb and flow with a life of their own. Sometimes they last only a few minutes. Other days we drain our phone batteries.

          In contrast, talks with my brother have slipped into such predictability that variations bring unexpected pleasure. I call my brother during the weekend. We enjoy a little contest on who will call first on Saturday without it being too early. These tête-à-têtes time out to fifteen minutes, give or take. My brother loves following weather, so a hurricane in the Atlantic will swirl us into a longer conversation. If I need to download a problem, he offers a sympathetic and non-judgmental ear. If he faces car trouble or a plumbing problem, we’ll figure out a way to fix the situation. As he is single, he sometimes needs another pair of hands to handle household challenges, but I know he’ll never ask for help. Every few months, I suggest that I visit. Sometimes my sister will rendezvous with us. Sometimes my husband and son will make the trip with me. All of us feel it’s important to help my brother maintain the family home.

          Getting to spend weekends or holidays with my siblings always proves a challenge. My sister and brother-in-law spread their holidays in several directions:  their son, daughter-in-law and grandkids; my brother-in-laws siblings; my brother; and my family. Many holiday choices are dictated by my brother’s work hours. If he has consecutive days off, he’ll head for San Antonio. Often times, he only gets a single day at Thanksgiving or Christmas, and so he’ll make the shorter two hour drive to my sister’s house. It isn’t unusual for them to have Stouffer’s Lasagna as a Thanksgiving meal. When my brother has more days off and decides to come to San Antonio, we celebrate the event will special holiday treats and trimmings.

          Over the last few years, my sister and her husband have tied themselves to their town because of responsibilities for one of their community obligations. My brother-in-law runs the local KC hall, and someone almost always uses it on Thanksgiving. His responsibilities include inspecting the hall after the event. This year, my sister convinced him to delegate some of his duties. She called yesterday with the wonderful news that, although they wouldn’t make it up for Thanksgiving Day, they’d arrive on Friday morning! My nephew and his wife and kids have other plans, and so they won’t be adding to our holiday, but we like that different branches on our family tree begin their traditions with family and friends.

          During this week, television sitcoms revel in the mishaps and mayhem of dysfunctional families gathering for Thanksgiving. I appreciate the humor mixed within the discord, but feel especially blessed that our holiday will embrace a laidback air of “adulting” with shopping during the day and nice dinners and drinks in the evenings. 

Copyright 2016 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

"My Vote"

 

         As political leaders play their games on television and over other media, I pull back and worry. I worry about my siblings and myself, and our fifty-fifty chance of inheriting the mutated gene that causes Huntington’s disease. Our genetic code may switch on soon, and our cognitive and emotional well-being becomes endangered. This disease will compromise our ability to work, drive, or walk, think and talk. Both my sister and I retired from education within the last couple of years, and so we have small retirement incomes. Both of us have husbands who earn their own incomes.

         My brother stands alone.

         So as the political pandering continues, I feel angry and frustrated by the portrayal of low income people as not having good character. The words “lazy” and “irresponsible” keep being thrown around with imperial disregard to the life events that lead someone into a low paying, “dead end” occupation.

         My brother has learning disabilities. He attended school at a time when our educational system could identify learning differences, but our teachers didn’t know how to address these problems. I remember spending hour after hour each evening and on the weekends drilling my brother on letter sounds, basic phonics, and sight words. He learned to read because he has a remarkable memory. Eventually, we discovered that his visual disability actually distorted letters and shapes. His eyes perceived images, but his brain processed what he saw into contorted versions. My brother’s school struggles led him to want to work with other children who faced problems. He attended a junior college to study Early Childhood Development, received certification to work with young children, and became a teacher for Head Start.

         His low salary at Head Start meant that he eventually left the work he loved and took a job as a custodian, first with a school district and later with a local hospital. He felt comfortable with this highly physical and repetitious work. Over the years, I’ve watched my brother work harder than anyone I know. He volunteers to work holidays, does extra shifts if someone call in sick, and stays through hurricanes to be the first to clean up after storm damage. My brother’s always works forty hours a week, or more. His income stays under $18,000 a year. He represents the working poor in this country.

         My brother lives a modest life. He budgets every penny to break even each month. He has no cell phone. During the last hurricane, we had to call the local police and beg that someone drive by his home to make certain of his safety. My brother doesn’t own a computer, and he obviously doesn’t have internet. This year his vacation consisted of staying at home and going to see two new releases at his local movie theatre. He has no IRA, or a pension plan from his employer. Even if his income allowed it, his learning disabilities make it difficult for him to understand the financial nuances required to make retirement decisions.

         If my brother carries the Huntington’s disease gene, he eventually will depend upon governmental programs—for everything. I cannot be my brother’s keeper. My own finances won’t stretch enough to cover his entire salary if HD forces him out of work. My sister cannot be my brother’s keeper. She and her husband’s retirement incomes won’t bare the weight of a second household.

         When I hear and see mindless people thoughtlessly and cruelly making judgments about those who have less, anger floods through me. These heartless people, who often have so much, don’t want to understand that Life isn’t fair, and so we must have social structures, provided by our government, to care for those who cannot care for themselves. I don’t mind that some people manage to manipulate the “system” and get more than they “deserve” because that won’t be the case with my brother, or my sister, or even myself if we succumb to Huntington’s downward spiral.

         I am not a statistic.

         My sister is not a statistic.

         My brother is not a statistic.

         So when I cast my vote in November, I’ll select the politicians that err on the side of humanity.       

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Summer Games: Red Rover"

             Our quarters at Dover A.F.B. lent itself to play. Laid out in the pattern of a giant U, base housing had a row of attached houses to the right, center, and left. The front doors and yards of the houses faced outside the U, and we rarely played in that area where the perfectly clipped and edged lawns and pristine white sidewalks reminded us that the families enlisted in the military along with their fathers and mothers. The back doors of our homes dumped into a common play area. Some families, like us, put up fences around their yards for their dogs. Other families kept their back yards open to the field. A huge black topped parking lot filled the cup of the U and provided not only a slot for the family car, but also the perfect roller skating and skate boarding surface. Beyond the parking lot, toward the center was The Field.
            In this field, we played together on endless summer nights. Roaming the area like a pack of stray dogs, all the kids from our section shifted in play from football to baseball to games like “Crack the Whip” and “Mother, May I?” Some evenings, when we gathered a large enough group after dinner, we’d divide into two teams to play “Red Rover.”
            “Red Rover” intimidated me. My pixie sized body rarely broke through the linked hands, meaning I became captured round after round.  The other team never failed to get delight in watching my futile attempt. Every time they sang, “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Lizzy right over!” I’d critically analyze the opposing line for the weakest link. My heart pounded, my breathing picked up, and my little scrawny legs pumped furiously as I flew across the distance to fling myself at the selected spot. I tried torqueing my body at the last second to add force to my plunge, but it never mattered.  The hands never broke free. I’d hang like a wet rag, winded and ashamed while guffaws and catcalls erupted from both teams.
            I learned strategy and tenacity from playing “Red Rover” because I didn’t give up. I could have opted out of this game, retreated to the safety of home and a piece of Mom’s fresh baked pound cake. Or I could have pretended I wanted to play on the slides and swings with the other younger kids. Something in my personality drew me into this challenge, and the humiliation of defeat after defeat never swayed me from my desire to play. Perhaps all of these summer games of childhood served more purpose than keeping us out from underfoot at home. I learned teamwork, tactical planning, perseverance, and doggedness. I tasted victory and survived loss—all of these elements necessary in maneuvering through adulthood’s life games.



Me STANDING between my younger cousin 
and my sitting Aunt Louise


Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Taboo"

            Movement catches his attention as he passes her door. He pauses, peering through the narrow crack. She stands facing her dresser, her head bent as she searches her drawer, and her blonde hair a curtain protecting her face from his scrutiny. His eyes fixate on her private dressing. His pulse kicks up its pace as he finally steps back in embarrassment. He creeps soundlessly down the hallway to his own room.

           Weeks later, she stands at the pool’s edge, dipping her toe into the water to test its coolness against the fever of summer. Swiftly, she pulls her tight t-shirt over her head, slips out of her denim shorts, and then tosses her underclothes carelessly into the messy pile. Her dark tan, which covers every inch of her lithe body, proves her worship of the sun. She dives smoothly into the coolness, surfacing midway in the pool, her long hair drifting in golden tendrils around her shoulders. She tilts backward, trusting the water to hold her afloat.

           Upstairs, he watches her peaceful moonlit swim for only a moment. Then, before the rules of society bind him in place, he dashes down the stairs, shedding his clothing in haste. He hits the back door at a full run, bare feet pounding on grass and patio. Airborne for only a second, his muscles constrict in anticipation.

           Startled by the splash, she whips her legs downward, treading water as she spins to locate her predator. His hands snag her right leg, and he tugs her under, using the cover of play to skim his hands over her thighs and whisper them across her breasts. She surfaces, exploding with irritation at his surprise attack, pleased that she lured him into the pool. She bats his hands away, squawking in mock indignation as they play their childhood game in adult bodies, the undercurrents hot with each brush of skin.

           Feeling powerful and cruel, she slips out of his reach and swims to the ladder. She pulls herself up, pausing for effect with her head thrown back, neck kissed by moonlight. His scalding gaze burns her skin, and suddenly shame flames her cheeks. She gathers her clothing clumsily, clutching the t-shirt and shorts tightly to her chest as she quickly runs to the back door. She flies up the stairs, mortified by this sibling skinny dipping. With resolution, she slams and locks her bedroom door, thwarting all temptation.

David Chapman-artist

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

"Middle Child"

 

Middle child

between curly hair with doe brown eyes

and an only son

one five years ahead, the other five behind

imitating the elder while

lingering in childhood with the younger

envying her poised elegance and

longing for his sweet innocence

Middle child   

between worldliness and naiveté   

flanked by her play for independence 

and his everlasting childhood    

expecting more from myself  

learning by her mistakes 

benefiting when parents learn  

it’s something kids just do  

Middle child   

between reserved solitude

and gentle attachment 

becoming reliable and resilient  

out of necessity and then habit  

passing white glove inspections    

knitting and purling the blanket of family 

needing its comforting warmth   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"A Saturday Off"

           My sister and brother-n-law appeared on our doorstep yesterday afternoon to give David and I a break from caring for my mother. I cannot describe the relief that flooded through me since it's been six weeks since our last break. The first item on my agenda? To head to the store for grocery shopping. I had one egg in the fridge and two heels in the bread box. Instead of rushing through the store, I took my time, making certain I gathered every ingredient for this next week's meals.

          Everyone pitched in to cook tacos for dinner, and then my sister met the challenge of Mom's nightly obsessive routine: bed, family room, bed, family room, bed, bowl of ice cream, bed, bathroom, bed, family room. Fatigue finally pulled Mom into sleep around 9 o'clock.

          David and I grabbed our tooth brushes and a change of clothes and headed to our son's house a few blocks away. We usually stay home when my siblings come to help, but that means we still hear the demanding little bell pinging in the morning. This visit we decided we really needed a solid night of sleep. We'll all gather for an early lunch. If Mom's up to it, we'll take her to Cheddars. We've found that if we get to a restaurant early enough, before the crowds or noise, Mom can handle eating out.

          I don't know how to spend the remainder of our free day. I toy with the idea of running to Target or Walmart to grab a paperback. A book geared for escapism, but that I can finish in two days. I think David will entertain himself with games and guitars. He's actually painting again and has a piece up on the easel.

          If I have learned anything through my mother's experience, it is to find joy in the simple things. Spending an evening listening to my son's latest vacation adventures, getting to finish a cup of tea before it turns lukewarm, sleeping past sunrise on a Saturday morning become precious commodities.

       

A few moments together away from responsibilities

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

        

"Recharging Batteries"

         This morning, as I plugged my cell phone into an outlet, I found myself wishing that I could recharge my batteries as easily. Today’s Monday, and fatigue rolled out of bed with me this morning. Often people counsel me, “take care of yourself” while I take care of my mother, but it’s a difficult task to accomplish. No matter how tired I feel, I still have to tend to my mother’s needs. I rely heavily upon David to help in the mornings (he often gets up after only four or five hours of sleep when she will no longer sleep). Once 8 o’clock arrives, though, I’m on my own until David returns at 6 PM.

         Weekend visits from my siblings help dramatically, but they fly by too quickly to really get much of a break. Both my brother and my sister usually arrive on Friday evenings and leave early Sunday mornings. That only gives us Saturday. Often, we use that free day to accomplish errands that David and I need to do together. Sometimes we pick up Paul and enjoy a nice evening meal at a favorite restaurant. But almost always we spend part of that “day off” still in our home helping with something Mom needs.

         I dream of spending an entire weekend in bed, reading a paperback novel grabbed from the grocery store checkout counter. I snooze whenever I want for as long as I want. When I finally get out of bed, it’s to light scented candles and take a bubble bath without getting dragged out by someone else’s needs and wants. I get to spend as much time as I want swinging in my tree, and I don’t run any errands, cook any meals, make any beds, or deal with anyone’s demands.

         For now, my batteries never get fully recharged. Some days, like today, I start at 40%. I am fortunate because I haven’t dipped into the dangerously drained levels yet because of the aid from my husband. I worry, though, that his batteries need recharging, too. My son, brother, and sister all help frequently and cheerfully, but the block of time they can stay limits my ability to get fully revitalized. Eventually, we’ll need a vacation where we can really plug in and recharge.   

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Grammy Sitting"

 

Edna Abrams May 2011

            Care-giving quickly becomes a shared family responsibility. It didn’t take me long to realize I’d rely upon my husband, David, to survive each day. As Mom’s Huntington’s Disease progresses, she can do less and less for herself. Imagine sitting on your living room couch, unable to even move yourself into a wheelchair. The limited mobility Mom had at Christmas time, to transfer on her own from couch to wheelchair, wheelchair to another room, and from there to the bed, ebbed away by this spring. As her weakness increases, so does her anxiety at being left alone in a room. Her body’s refusal to move at command means she needs assistance in almost everything. She can still feed herself, but her food must be pureed because the muscles she uses for chewing and swallowing are compromised. She can still lift her lidded cup up and sip out of a straw, she can still brush her teeth, and she can still enjoy her nightly bowls of ice cream. Huntington’s Disease robs Mom of her ability to communicate. We try to phrase our questions with “yes” or “no” responses, or we offer short phrases to her that she can repeat with her choice. “Would you like music or quiet?” Repeating the key words again, “Music? Quiet?” We learn to give long enough wait time for her to form the answer she wants. Mom’s very lucid. She recalled effortlessly that I’d left a bottle of Visine in a drawer in her sitting room coffee table back in November. She knows and remembers people, places and events. However, to function within her limitations, she obsessively maintains structure and routine to her day. The clock doesn’t guide this routine, but the sequence must be obsessively maintained.



Edna and Charles Abrams 

          Mom’s day begins as early as four in the morning. Some days I get up with her, many days David takes her to the restroom, wheels her in to watch television in her sitting room or our family room. She’ll stay up for only a little while, anywhere from ten minutes to half-an-hour. Then she’ll ring her bell and ask to go back to bed. Once there, (if we’re lucky) she’ll snooze for another hour. If she’s restless, we’ll hear her spinning in her bed until she rings her bell again. By 5:30, she’s up for the day. Over the last month, David’s takes over in the mornings. He’ll give Mom her medications, fix her breakfast, bathe and dress her all before he leaves for work at eight. Then my ten hour shift begins. During the first months, I had more freedom to do things like water the yard or read a book, but now Mom wants me pretty much in the same room with her most of the day. I write in fits and spurts—a sentence here, a paragraph there, scribbled lines or ideas in a spiral notebook. It’s a good thing I type at lightning speed! Mom’s day starts to unwind around 5 o’clock. She’ll do a similar pattern as she does in the morning where she’ll rest for half an hour, get up for an hour, go back down until finally she’s settled for the evening. David often takes over with this up and down round to give me a break.

Edna Abrams and Paula Browning
Jan. 2011

            Our other break comes from my son, Paul. When he rented a house in the neighborhood, I thought I’d only call on him in emergencies. However, by midweek I’m often short tempered and needing to escape the house, even if it’s just to do errands like grocery shopping. Paul takes over on those days. We’ve gotten into the habit of calling it “Grammy sitting.” Paul’s high energy and ability to entertain my mother mean she looks forward to his visits. He brings her news and commentary. His humor and patience provide Mom with the break she needs from me, too. Paul’s weekly relief service is supplemented by monthly visits from my brother and sister. They’ve alternated weekends, so that provides two weekends each month that we get to sleep a little late! I cannot predict how long our lives will revolve around care-giving, but I do know that it would be impossible to face without our family pulling together. 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Fearless Lizzy"

 

            I spent my childhood roving the neighborhood with a feral pack of my sister’s friends. Living on an Air Force base, our parents (translate that to mothers-our dads were flying) meant we left  home at dawn, showed up to feed for lunch, and then disappeared again until porchlights signaled us to come home after dark.

            The summer of ’64, we discovered the playgrounds for the officers' children had superior equipment. The enlisted men had to provide swing sets for their kids that weren’t even dug into the ground. If we swung too high, the entire structure would lift up into the air, spilling us onto the dirt. The officers’ area offered swigs set in concrete bases, an assortment of monkey bars, tetherball, a large fiberglass turtle to crawl on or sit under, and a wonderful climbing set of bars shaped like a train! Adding to the attraction was the fact that this area was banned from us to use.

            Being the smallest and youngest didn’t deter me from keeping up with our wild horde when we ventured into the forbidden zone. I loved nesting under the turtle. Kicking my feet high into the air to propel me into the blue summer sky while on the swing made me squeal. The bars shaped like a train, though, scared me. The older kids challenged each other to jump from one end to the other. At one section, they would swing, pick up momentum, and let go to soar through the air to wrap around a pole that seemed a mile away. The force of their jump would allow them to spin and slip down the long shaft.

            Most days, the older kids left me alone to amuse myself. One fateful day, a couple of boys hoisted me onto the train and sang challenges that I could jump from bar to bar just like them. I remember my sister’s wide eyes and heard the worry in her voice as she warned me not to let the boys bully me. But I climbed up, gripped the thick bar, swung my short legs madly in an attempt to propel myself through the air, and hit the ground.

            My personal memory ends with impact.

            My sister recounts the panic when blood seeped from my forehead. A couple of the boys ran to get help from any of the officer’s wives, knocking on doors and begging for help. They got reprimands instead. We weren’t supposed to be in that playground. The double whack of the bar in front of me and the ground behind me left me unconscious. My sensible sister knew not to even try to move me. She sent the boys to go get our parents.

            Most of the time, Dad missed illnesses and emergencies as he spent months gone on TDYs. This time, he was outside mowing the yard when the terrified boys raced up yelling that I’d fallen and wouldn’t wake up.

            I have no memory of Dad sweeping me from the ground and into the car. I can’t recall the emergency room nurses or doctors checking me out, cleaning my head wounds, and wrapping me with bandages. I have no recollection of saying, on the way home, “Who are you?”

            The U-turn Dad took seems visceral in my mind, but I distinctly can recount that I heard Dad’s words when he carried me back into the ER, “She’s still broken.”

            Fearless Lizzy spent three days in the hospital with a concussion. Nurses or doctors woke me up all night long, quizzing me about my name and age. If I napped during the day, someone would swing by, wake me up, and ask me if I knew where I was. I got all of the ice cream I wanted. Once the doctors felt I was in my right senses, they let me go home.

            I never, ever, returned to that playground. If older, bolder kids challenged me to follow their escapades, I’d glance to my sister for feedback. A slight nod from her meant I could attempt the dare. I trusted her judgement for a long time before I learned to trust my own.

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  My sister, baby brother, and me 
  

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  Me standing next to my YOUNGER cousin. I was small!

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman