“The Foot Long Generation”

Our children live at home— 

dreaming, planning, reaching, and working 

within a reality of Pink Slips and Red Ink 

meeting Maslow’s levels by 

staying, sharing, settling, and waiting 

Our children leave our homes— 

dreaming, planning, reaching, and working 

but return with Divorce and Failure 

postponing their destinies by 

bleeding, retreating, suffering, then healing 

Our parents live at home— 

yearning, coping, striving, craving 

becoming our children by 

needing, depending, trusting, and relenting 

Our parents live in homes— 

yearning, coping, striving, craving 

relinquishing their destinies by 

falling, breaking, suffering, dying 

Copyright 2010 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

“Her Fall”

I held your tiny hand, tugged you away from danger    

            carried you safely to the other side    

I protected you from water’s edge and ocean’s undertow—      

            the drowning tears of your uncertainties   

I watched from the sidelines as you changed—  

dwindling into someone I no longer recognized  

Now, dismay burdens me,    

cements me in place as you scale the precipice  

I call out, “Don’t! Turn back! Wait for me!”  

            as your compulsion drives you higher, higher  

I perceive the cracks in your mask  

            even as you disillusion those who still believe in you     

I reach futilely skyward, my feet anchored in place,  

            unable to halt your ascent over crumbling rock  

I try, and try again, to guide you to sure footing      

            but you ignore my words, indulging in illusions of independence  

I weep, a witness to your self-destruction,      

as your frailties and obsessions force your fall 

 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

“Anxiety”

calls in greeting with the bright full moon  

dances in my blood with the flux of hormones  

recognizes my fears and delights in them  

throws back her head and laughs with glee   

dashes from neuron to neuron in abandon  

stops my heart with an iron grasp  

catches my breath and won’t let it go  

haunts every night with racing thoughts  

creates possibilities out of mist  

ebbs and flows throughout the months  

curls in the pit of my stomach like a knotted rope  

holds me prisoner within my mind  

Copyright 1999 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“I Do—Over”

      I found myself riveted the other night to one of those bridal gown shows. During the first episode, my shock never wore off at the costs of the gowns these women would wear for only a few hours of one day. During the second episode, I watched in dismay as a young woman’s mother and friends almost bull-dozed her into buying a dress she didn’t like. By the third episode, I felt the triumph of a bride-to-be as she modeled her gown for her father for the first time. The entire evening, I kept remembering all the things about my own wedding and reception that I never liked.

Exchanging rings!

      I’ve joked with David for years that I wish I could have a wedding “ I do-over.” Maybe we’ll renew our vows one year and have the type of ceremony and reception we really wanted! Both of us wanted a ceremony held outdoors, perhaps in the grounds of a museum. Instead, we ended up getting married in the church David’s parents attended. My parents hadn’t lived that long in League City, Texas. Most of their friends lived in San Antonio, as did a large number of David’s family and almost all of my friends from high school. David and I lived in College Station since I was still attending Texas A & M. I didn’t know what I was getting myself into—my parents living in one location, David and I in a second location, and the wedding in a third location!

      I tried to streamline our wedding wherever I could. My parents planned on continuing to pay for my college degree (I had a summer session and a full fall semester to complete after marriage). They also sent extra money every month to help David after he moved up to College Station because he didn’t find a job for four months. My father took us out to look for wedding bands and paid for the simple gold rings because David had no income until a couple of weeks before our ceremony. My parents also paid for the hotel, dinner, champagne, and breakfast of our one night “honeymoon.”

      With all of these additional expenses in mind, I picked out a simple street dress for my wedding dress. I did my own hair, nails, and make-up.  My sister, a new mother, also wore a very plain dress as my matron of honor. David didn’t even own a suit. His parents let him get one for the wedding. I made certain I carried our traditional yellow roses; and that my father’s cousin, a pastry chef, made our wedding cake. David’s grandfather volunteered to photograph the wedding and reception, but the film in his camera started slipping. We ended up with a handful of pictures and practically a full roll of double exposures. To this day, I only have a few pictures that we could salvage. One of my best friends missed the ceremony because David’s brother, an usher, told her our wedding wasn’t the Abrams wedding. She and her mother stood outside the door, thinking they had somehow gone to the wrong church. Imagine their dismay when David and I finally exited the church at the end!

Cutting the cake

       My parents wanted to have the reception at the same VFW hall they used for my sister’s wedding reception, but David’s parents insisted we have it at their home and that we prepare the food ourselves instead of hiring caterers. Obviously, I regret that decision. Instead of a nice wedding reception, we ended up with a pool party. We didn’t get a toast. We didn’t have a first dance as a married couple. I didn’t get to throw my bouquet. I cried when we left.

      Even all these years later, I feel sadness when I think of our wedding day. Perhaps that’s why I found myself glued to the television watching young brides search for the perfect dress. I know that’s why I felt satisfaction when one timid bride stood her ground on the type of dress she wanted for herself and her bridesmaids because I identified with her overpowering need to please others.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman