“Waiting for Results”

         “This is the doctor’s office. Your mammogram came back abnormal. We need you to schedule two more tests, a spot compression and an ultrasound.”

         With these words I add to my growing layers of stress. My worrisome molar with a possible new crown now fades to insignificant. Like most women, getting any kind of call for further tests means anxiety driven days and sleepless nights. I’ve done this drill on several occasions. Right before David and I got married, I had a pap smear come back with a “code” that required a second test. Everything turned out normal, but I had a tense couple of weeks while I waited to reschedule an appointment and get the results. I had a mammogram come back years ago with a “thickening” in one area that needed another look, so I’ve actually experienced this particular call back before. Still . . .   

         When I contacted the place where I go for my mammograms, the office had already scheduled an appointment for me on the fifteenth of this month. The kind receptionist said, “Of course, we can fit you in earlier if you’d like. That’s no problem at all.”

         Clutching the calendar in my hand, I realized that Mom has an appointment with her nephrologist on the fifteenth, I have the first phase of my root canal on the fifth, so the next date open is next Tuesday. I must make it five days in worrisome limbo just to get the tests done.

         The optimist in me cocks her head and states plainly, “Everything’s fine” because I’ve done this before. She begins the litany that it’s another thickening, just something different that needs to be checked more closely. Right now, her voice rings loudly and true since it’s only been minutes since that phone call.

         By this afternoon, doubt will nibble at my optimism. She’ll start slowly and imperceptibly to where I won’t notice the little nips she’ll take from my confidence. By nightfall, she’ll gobble up my hope and leave me restless and fearful. Doubt gathers strength in darkness. When the house falls into the silence of slumber, she’ll begin to whisper, “Maybe there’s something really wrong.”

         I will talk and write my way through this stress. I will process everything I think and feel with words. I’ll clutch my journal to my side like a life saver. Whenever I need to reassure myself, I’ll jot down words my optimist says. I’ll reread her reassurances as I cope with these next few days. I’ll write my blog, too, because sharing this means I’m not alone. I’ll talk to David, to Paul, to my mother (probably over and over again). I’ll call my sister as she’s gone through biopsies on two occasions with benign results.

         Within all of these words, I’ll find a way of focusing on hope and discouraging dread. I’ll say, “Stay in today” and not project into all of the unknown “what ifs” that doubt whispers into my ear.          

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Our Children Kill Each Other”

tears well in our eyes   

indignation puffs us full   

of righteousness   

at children carrying weapons   

we cry in dismay   

at cold-hearted killers   

living desperate lives in disparate lands   

far from our safe homes   

children as soldiers with an arsenal of death   

not ours   

not our responsibility   

tears well in our eyes   

as we cling to the Second Amendment   

our right to arm our children   

with hatred   

camouflaged in mistrust      

we cultivate our subtext of fear   

creating cold-hearted killers   

within our own homes   

children as soldiers with an arsenal of death   

yet not ours   

nor our responsibility   

tears well in our eyes   

disbelief sucker punches us again   

as our children kill each other   

questions, finger pointing,  and the blame game resumes   

but nothing changes   

while the new order of horror   

nurtures cold-hearted killers   

within our own homes   

children as soldiers with an arsenal of death   

ours   

our responsibility     

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"For the Camera"

The old photos reveal nothing     

      show no hint of the abuses     

           that darken your future     

      Gape-tooth smiles, youthful     

           mugging for the camera     

                don’t predict     

                    anorexia     

                    drugs     

                    despair     

The childish arms that hugged     

      friend and family     

            Now     

       hang skeletal     

                by your sides     

While your sunken eyes     

      and forced and frozen smiles     

           lie     

           lie     

           lie     

                for the camera     

Pretending your world glows     

Making believe he’ll finally     

      notice you     

      love you     

           fit you into his small and selfish life     

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"My Husband Drives Me Batty!"

David with Pipistrel Meghan

Often, women claim that their husbands drive them batty, but in my case, the phrase takes on a new meaning. Little David loved bats from an early age. He took felt and fabric to construct his own “Teddy Bat”. He searched the school libraries for any books on bats, checking them out over and over again.

By the time I met David, his passion for Chiroptera meant our “dates” often consisted of sitting by a field off Bat Cave road to watch the lively flutter of bats as they left Bracken Cave. Not long after we married, David joined Bat Conservation International, Inc. (http://www.batcon.org/) and pulled me into the world of bats with him.

Western Bats Poster
by David Chapman

As an artist, David designed several posters for BCI and the National Parks service on bats in different regions of the United States. He used his skills for a BCI Christmas card, some stickers, and the Discover Bats educational package. He illustrated books on how to care for and rehabilitate captive bats, too.



Townsen's Long-eared Bat
by David Chapman

Eventually, David registered his name on a list to aid injured bats. It surprised no one when he ended up keeping two pipistrels that couldn’t be released. These two bats visited local schools for years as David conducted his personalized “bat talks” for the children. Caring for bats isn’t easy. The two we had needed to be hand fed. That meant we couldn’t leave town unless we could take them with us, or arranged to train another person to feed them. David taught my father how to feed and care for out bats as our back-up system. My parents would come up to San Antonio, feed bats, cats, and dogs when we left town for more than a day.

Visiting Evening Bat!

David’s zeal for bats introduced us to wonderfully dedicated scientists and volunteers. We met Merlin Tuttle, Amanda Lollar, and Barbara French. We volunteered long hours at Bracken Cave, cutting back weeds, laying trails, and doing grunt work. David Bamberger invited us along with other volunteers to Selah, Bamberger Ranch Preserve to witness the construction of The Chiroptorium (http://www.bambergerranch.org/).

Red Bat
by David Chapman

Over the years, I couldn’t help but absorb some of David’s bat knowledge and bat enthusiasm. Many times we’ve hopped into our car (Paul, too) to run a rescue on a downed or injured bat. Since I’ve retired, I’ve fielded many phone calls from panicked homeowners about a bat on their porch or under a ledge. When we go to the cabin, the bat houses are checked for inhabitants, and I’ve gotten quite good at snapping pictures of a flight at dusk. Our home, too, has more than just David’s bat art on the walls. We never visit a shop without our eyes searching for a little bat to add to David’s collection. Even friends and family members purchase unusual sculptures or carvings and send them to us.

My fondest memory, though, centers on the very first bat flight I witnessed at Bracken Cave, but I’ll save that story for another day!

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Hydrogen Peroxide and Vaseline”

         About four or five years ago, my mother had a growth on her nose. At first, we just thought it was a pimple and hoped it would go away. It changed very slowly at first. Then in a week it almost doubled in size. I scheduled an appointment with Mom’s internist. He took one look at the spot and said, “Basal cell carcinoma.” He feared it had grown too large, taking up part of her left nostril, so he referred us to a plastic surgeon for removal and fixing the hole it would leave.

         We arrived a couple of days later at a plastic surgeon’s office. She took one look at Mom’s nose and said, “I don’t remove these. I just fix the hole that’s left after they’re removed. You need to go to a dermatologist to have it taken off.” She didn’t abandon us, though. She requested that her receptionist schedule an appointment with a group of doctors with whom she often worked, making certain we saw someone later in the day. Mom and I treated ourselves to lunch and headed over to the dermatologists.

         Basal cell carcinoma hits people with blue or green eyes, fair skin, and blonde or red hair. Mom fit the description 100%. She’d also spent years sunbathing without sunscreen. During her teen years, the common practice for tanning was to slather baby oil all over your skin. Mom explained that she didn’t intentionally sunbathe often because she always burned. As a matter of fact, if she stepped onto a beach it seemed like she burned! I remember her nose often being pink from sun exposure when she came in after hanging the clothes.

         Anyway, the dermatologist sliced off the growth for a biopsy, telling us we’d have results in about a week. He was pretty certain he did not get all of the cancer cells, warning that Mom would need another procedure called Mohs surgery. Sure enough, we received notification within a week to schedule another appointment.

         A different dermatologist with the group specialized in this procedure. His laidback attitude relaxed both of us, and he insisted that I could sit and watch him work. Layer by layer, he went deeper into the nostril until the cells came out cancer free. It left a pretty large whole in Mom’s nose, but he simply “stole” some skin from her temple and quickly fashioned a patch. A few stitches later, and she looked almost as good as new.

         The main instructions for her recovery proved simple. Keep a bandage on the spot for three or four days, clean the area with hydrogen peroxide every day and slather Vaseline on the wound to prevent scarring. Of course, it worked beautifully.

         Since that first Basal cell carcinoma removal, we’ve had to go back on two other occasions to have growths removed from Mom’s nose. Her hands and arms get zapped with cryotherapy, freezing off suspicious areas. The other day, the doctor removed another spot on Mom’s nose (the opposite nostril), handed me the Band-Aids and reminded me to get out the hydrogen peroxide and Vaseline. We know the drill.

         Once I got home, I started thinking of how quickly my mother will heal with the simple “clean and slather” combination. Then I started wondering if it would help Bridget’s hot spots. They still plague her after weeks of cone wearing. I’ve tried Benedryl spray and ointment, Neosporin, too. I went to Polly’s Pet Shop and purchased ointments guaranteed to help, but her spots still linger. So on Thursday I started cleaning her skin irritations with hydrogen peroxide and protecting them with a thick layer of Vaseline. Within twenty-four hours, they looked better!

         Again, it turns out that sometimes the simplest proves to be the best. Two household items we always keep in our medicine cabinet, applied daily, will heal both man and beast.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman