“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.  

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“In a Nutshell”

         The last month’s challenges found me floundering under waves of unexpected events that pounded me down and under every time I surfaced. As I struggled for shore, and surer footing, I spun words through my head with the goal of sitting down to write, but another wave would tumble me head-over-heels, I’d submerge and scrape along the gritty ocean bottom for a few suffocating moments, only to briefly surface again.

         I decided last night that my sanity required returning to my blog. And I vowed to condense the trials of this last month into a nutshell, not to diminish the importance of the experiences, but to gain some perspective in my life again.

         Having the arbitrary decisions of others invade into my life spun my “control freak” personality into a frenzy of anxiety. I became the Tasmanian devil, a whirlwind of angry and uncontrolled energy that plows through every obstacle in its path. I will spend weeks apologizing to my loved ones for my frantic behavior.

         During the past month, we moved my son back home because the owners of his rental house decided to sell. About midway through the move, they notified us that they had “changed their minds” and he didn’t need to move after all. But it was too late. We’d already rented storage units, purchased bins and located moving boxes. We’d already made the mental shift of bringing our son back home for the remainder of this year. Then a second punch hit when our son’s sore throat morphed into swollen glands and tonsils. A quick run to a med clinic left no doubt to the diagnosis—mononucleosis. The illness left him sleeping twenty hours of each day, weak and unable to swallow, barely able to even drink. Driven by worry and unable to feel control over anything, I focused upon getting the move completed as quickly as possible, and almost drove everyone crazy.

         Now our lives take us on a new and promising pattern. We must integrate the ebb and flow of my mother’s Huntington’s driven days with the bass throb of our son’s music career. The rhythm of our daily dance will change, and I don’t know how long it will take before we synchronize our steps.    

Copyrigh 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Memorial Day"

Karl F. Abrams

      The year my father spent in Vietnam, we moved to Danville, Illinois because Mom wanted to be closer to her family. My uncle, Bob Thompson, still lived in England in the 1960s, visiting the states once every few years. Uncle Bob left his small hometown in Illinois during WWII and ended up being a liaison officer between our military and the British forces. In the middle of all the bombing and deaths, all the struggles to survive, he fell in love—with the country. He rarely spoke of his role in the war but always recounted wonderful stories of the people he met. My other uncle, John Thompson, spun a tale for me when I asked about his scars. He said he parachuted behind enemy lines during the war, but the Germans shot him early in the battle. He told me how the soldiers checked for survivors, killing them if their wounds were too serious, or taking them as prisoners. He stated that he lost consciousness before the German’s came to him and that they left him for dead. He assured me our own soldiers rescued him when they regained the zone in battle. For all my life, I felt relief that my Uncle Red managed to survive for I loved him dearly. Who would have had the patience to teach me to whistle? Who would have treated me to A&W root beer floats? Who would have laughed at my silly jokes while I sat on his lap at family picnics?

    A few years ago, I learned more of Uncle Red’s story. The part he kept hidden from a nine-year-old child. The German troops didn’t mistake him for dead. They picked him up and imprisoned him in a Nazi P.O.W. camp. I don’t know if he didn’t want to answer the inquisitive questions of a child, or if he simply preferred not to mention this part of his life. I know both of my uncles down played war and its repercussions. I believe they tried to make it less frightful for us as we waited for Dad’s return from his own war.

      So when Memorial Day ceremonies play out on television, I think of the young man who carried scars into the night, and how he tried to protect me from my own fears as my father’s battle played across another ocean. Isn’t that the soldier’s way, to offer protection?

      Each of us has an Uncle Red or Uncle Bob, or other family members sent to distant shores because of the power of duty. Luck followed our family because each of these men returned home. Many families will spend today honoring those who didn’t survive. And I wonder about all the little girls who never learned how to whistle because their Uncle Red died on a battle field.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Rain on the Rooftop"

Rain on the rooftop, a Texas lullaby     
Thunder a distant heartbeat, wind a crooning sigh     
Watch the windows weep as lightning cuts the sky     
Clouds roll and tumble, carry raindrops on a ride     
Trees cleanse their dusty leaves—shake off Summer’s dry     
Droplets form to puddles, and rivers start to fly     
Mother Earth’s cracked face smiles and laughs in reply     
To rain on the rooftop, a Texas lullaby     

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Sacrifices”

         A huge part of love means sacrifice. I don’t mean martyrdom where you bemoan your losses or announce to the world the costs of your grand gestures. I mean the simple day-to-day surrender of your needs because someone else’s needs prove greater. Placing another person’s wants first isn’t fashionable anymore. This saddens me. I believe too many people seek happiness by chasing a mirage when the reality is that contentment comes from helping the important people in our lives.

         I don’t believe anyone can traverse this life alone. I don’t believe in some magical cut-off point where parents should no longer aid their children. I don’t believe there comes a time when a child shouldn’t strive to care for his or her parents. I’m not talking about just financial support, either. We must give emotional sustenance when we see someone we love “starving.” If you look beyond all of the hype of what’s “acceptable” or “normal,” you’ll find multitudes of families who bond together, work together, and sacrifice together to reach a goal. That goal may benefit one family member more than another, but that’s okay. Some day in the future, it may be that beneficiary who steps in to offer support—to sacrifice.

          

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman