“June’s Mission”

Over the course of this last year or so, I’ve shifted to dancing throughout our home for a thirty-minute exercise routine. Some days, I’ve asked Siri to start an indoor walk and done loops around larger stores and our local mall, which contains unique specialty stores along with larger chains and offers a fun route. Occasionally, I’ve ventured to the park, which was closed for months on end when all of the parking lots got repaved. Last year’s July’s flood and its scars on our neighborhood have receded, but other losses make strolling on one street too hard. 

It slowly dawned on me that I no longer feel unease for missing my longer outdoor walks. Although both of my knees can handle our neighborhood’s small hills, I felt no guilt for missing the long walk challenge since I almost never missed closing my exercise ring with other activities.The journey to and from the park on Saturday convinced me that I need to focus on this longer walk, and other sweeps through our neighborhood, again. 

For this next month, I set the challenge of trekking at least a mile each morning. I must to return to that mind space where missing my walk tinges my day with a shade of guilt. The routine and ritual, lost to me because it was easy to slip into tricking myself into believing all exercise is equal has to be mentally reset.

June’s Mission proves simple—outdoor walks. If I want to add a dance to my favorite songs, or tack on an indoor walk within a shopping trip, that’s just adding flavor to the mix. A long morning spent in the yards doing gardening gets counted only after my mileage goal is met.

  Every June morning starts with a mission to pound pavement—rain or shine!

Slick sidewalks and more rain ahead!

Ditches filling up!

A little rain doesn't hurt anyone!

Copyright 2026 Elizzabeth Abrams Chapman

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“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           

"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    

"Joining the Gym"

         I ended my last gym membership almost ten years ago when Mom moved to San Antonio. Prior to her relocating, I spent an hour or so every day after work doing cardio. I loved swimming laps, spinning on stationary bikes, or jogging on a treadmill. I moved competently through the weight machines like a pro—alternating upper and lower body workouts that left me slim and trim.

         That special hour I allocated to myself after a day of work shifted to visiting with my mother when she moved into her apartment. At first, I didn’t really miss the time spent at the gym because David and I still managed to hike to the park. At that time, we had a grocery store in the neighborhood and often walked over to pick up odds-n-ends. Some weekends, we took out our bikes and rode down 1604, crossed I10, and headed to St. Hedwig, making a loop through the back roads. Needless to say, I had way thinner thighs back then!

         As Mom’s needs changed, I found less and less time to take care of myself. It amazes me how people always advise me to “take care of yourself” and to “have time for yourself” because that’s almost impossible for a full-time caregiver. You catch moments throughout the day and evening. If you want time with your spouse or other family members, you end up sacrificing even more private time. As Mom’s Huntington’s disease progresses, I’ve found it more difficult to find large chunks of time for any activity. Finding time to write becomes a major feat where I often write only a few words at a time.

         When my son decided to move back home temporarily, he made me promise to join his gym, Lifetime. He knew that I’d talk myself out of a workout without a partner to encourage me. With his help, I think I’ll carve out an hour or so three times a week.

         My gym membership came with a free consultation with a trainer. The buff ex-Marine asked me for my personal goals. I said I wanted to wear my wedding band again. I don’t care about my dress size or hip circumference. It doesn’t matter if I have a little jiggle in my thighs. And I told him I desperately needed to reduce my stress. He seemed perplexed that I didn’t aim to drop a ton of weight, but I insisted that I’m looking for a healthier me.

         This week, my son and I have managed two trips to the gym. Both times I’ve headed for the pool to do laps (not as many as I could do ten years ago, but at least I’m moving). Then I’ve slipped into the sauna to bake for ten minutes, and I’ve followed that with running the hot tub jets over my aching arms and back. Then I take my time dressing and sink into a leather chair to wait for Paul to surface from his routine. I actually sit. I don’t think. I pause. I breathe.  

Gym memberships have come and gone since 2012. The last one bit the dust when COVID-19 shut everything down. By that time, our local park had added excellent trails for extensive walking. Just within the last couple of months, one part of our park added exercise equipment! It's a 1.5 mile trek from our home to the equipment and them back again. I walk EVERY day and use the equipment every other day.  

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“A Little Rain”

 

 
            A few days ago, the heat index made movement impossible.  Then storms pummeled some areas with high winds, hail, and deluges of rain. Our neighborhood, though, received “just enough” of everything. The winds danced our trees around like dervishes with temperatures dropping with our mornings back into the 70s. SKECHERS on and hat tucked on my head, I ventured to the park just after sunrise to document the impact of a little rain from our early morning hours.    
            Our city designed drainage to flow into a park with a pond to receive overflow. For too long, though, these ditches have stood bone dry. The morning of my walk, water rippled and danced. Already, the cooler temperatures coupled with cloud covered skies meant the park’s fields greened almost overnight.
            This interlude will sit with us temporarily. By next week, we’ll creep back up to 100°.

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Trapped"

 

In her dreams   

         she sorts laundry into piles   

         she pays her bills, and she files       

         she cooks dinner every night   

         she turns off the bedroom light   

In her dreams   

         she tops her glass with iced tea   

         she swallows effortlessly   

         she speaks words without delay   

         she finds joy in every day     

In her dreams   

         she hikes along the fence line   

         she scrambles down the incline   

         she gathers rocks and fossils   

         she walks among daffodils   

In her dreams   

         she beats her disease’s stealth   

         she holds on to youthful health   

         she falls in love at first sight   

         she dances in the moonlight   

In her dreams   

         she wins against crippling strife   

         she regains pleasure in life   

         she conquers her past’s mishaps   

         she destroys the steel-toothed trap   

In her dreams . . .     

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

        

“Indulgence”

            My new doctor challenged me with a weight loss goal and the simple instructions: WALK. An easy challenge for most people, but anyone with problem knees understands the intricacies of this task. Back at the beginning of the pandemic, enjoying my unexpected time off, I overused and injured my left knee. Two weeks of RICE followed by a PA’s examination and the warning to rehab very, very slowly and carefully meant I avoided further injury and didn’t need any follow-up treatment.

            I celebrated my vaccination by renewing my gym membership. It took a few weeks of trying different times to discover the perfect period for me to exercise without too many other people around. My goal to be heart healthy couldn’t ignore COVID-19.  

            At first, my knee hummed at me with irritation if I hit the treadmill for longer than fifteen minutes. After a frustrated six weeks, I shifted to the bicycle. I came home triumphant when, day after day, my knee handled thirty minutes at Level 1 without protest. I noted improvement in other ways. The first time I attempted to walk through a local mall, my knee demanded rest about half-way into the circuit. By Christmas, I wove effortlessly through the crowds. Of course, around this time, COVID’S Omicron burst onto the scene causing me to backburner a return to the gym.

            Two weeks ago, I drove to our park and tested myself with a 1.3 mile loop over the park’s dam. For three days, I found other paths that looped around the area. In the past, I would have walked to the park, too. That dare I didn’t attempt until yesterday. After reading a few articles on the benefits of walking, I realized that confining myself to thirty minutes hedged me in to trying for a quicker pace. For me, allowing myself a full sixty minutes of nothing but “ME” time turned into a luxury of day dreaming and birdsong listening. With my mind set on spending an entire hour on my journey, the hurry shifted emotionally to an indulgence.

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman