“Giving”

            The Christmas my sister asked for a stereo with a turntable, my parents realized disappointment lingered under the tree since they could only afford that one gift for her. At the grand age of ten, I’d asked for a multitude of toys—all small items easily within my parents’ tight holiday budget. My brother, only five, found joy in individually wrapped Hot Wheels and packs of Wrigley’s Double Mint gum.

            Our Christmas mornings began early. My parents never restricted us to waiting until a “decent” hour when it came to opening gifts. I suspect they felt as much excitement as us kids. A shouted, “Santa’s come!” would rouse the entire household. Somehow, a pot of coffee already brewed on the stove, and my folks would sip from their mugs and listen to our exclamations of surprise as we sorted and opened our gifts.

 

            Of course, on that Christmas, my sister opened her stereo. Dad proudly showed her all of the features—AM and FM stereo and a turntable. They had also purchased a couple of 45s and an album for her. I recall her face as she rubbed her hands over the box, turned the album in her hands to read the back cover, and then watched as my brother tore into another package. I’d whittled my pile down by then, but a few gifts still encircled me on the floor.

            My brother and I opened a couple of boxes each while my sister sat with her records in her lap and her stereo, enclosed in cardboard, by her side. Tears welled in her eyes, and she mumbled something. And as any fifteen-year-old girl would do, she scurried down the hallway into the haven of her room. My mother ducked into her own bedroom, then entered my sister’s room. After a few minutes, they both rejoined us. My sister’s tears dried, her mood lifted again as she and my father decided to set up her stereo in her room.

            In later years, I learned that my parents had anticipated my sister’s letdown in receiving one main gift. Wisely, they’d set up three envelopes, one for each of us children. Inside, they’d placed the receipts for the gifts they’d nestled under the tree. When my sister left the room in silent tears, Mom showed her the envelopes and explained that they’d spent the same amount on each of us.

            I’ve come to appreciate the foresight my parents showed on that long ago Christmas. The five years that stretched between my sister and I, and again between my brother and I, meant we often fell out of sync in our wants and needs. By staying on a prescribed budget and spending the same on each of us, they gave us more than simple presents. They showed us that they’d try to treat us equally, and yet as very separate individuals. That’s a tremendously important lesson for parents to teach—a wonderful life lesson to give.

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Should Be . . .”

 

            I should be collecting all of my Thanksgiving decorations into a neat pile to make packing them away for the next year easier.

            I should be dressed in my work-out clothes, ready to run out the door and charge into my day.

 

            I should be making the beds, jotting down the grocery list, paying the bills, adding up our accounts.

            I should be organizing the Christmas gifts that need to go out in this week’s mail, double checking to make certain I’m still within my holiday budget.

            I should be trimming the hedges, raking the leaves, and tidying the gardens before cold and rain return.

            I should be working on my novel, reading a new book, scanning those old photographs into the computer.

            I should be focusing on the “next” plan, calculating how to reach my newest goal, and determining the next step to take.

            I should be---BUT I’M NOT!

            Instead, I linger in bed, a lazy cat following beams of sunshine.

            Instead, I flirt shamelessly with inactivity.

            Instead, I prop my feet up while Bitstrip searching.

            Instead, I listen to Padme’s purr and Koi’s soft snore.

            Instead, I savor the solitude of morning.

            Instead, I luxuriate in slow motion.

            Instead, I drift from thought to thought and dabble in dawdling.

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Sedona"

         When my father died so unexpectedly from a massive heart attack, my world titled. Everything I did and said seemed unbalanced and skewed. A few weeks after his death, the school district wanted me to go to training in Sedona, Arizona with a group of wonderful women, and I cried nightly because I couldn’t make any decisions. A phone call from one friend who was also going on the trip convinced me to come along.

         Sedona began my healing. Notice, I use the word “began” because recovering from grief takes years. I took the first steps to life without my father by boarding the flight from San Antonio to Phoenix. The trip there remains a blur in my memory, but I distinctly recall standing at the car rental kiosk with five other women, and none of them wanted to drive the minivan from Phoenix to Sedona. Being fall, darkness would accompany us on the drive for more than half the trek. Now, I’ve never minded driving, even to places I’ve never visited, but my mind felt cotton swaddled and addled half of the time. Perhaps that’s why I ended up driving? At any rate, I soon positioned myself behind the wheel with one friend as navigator.

         Our exit from Phoenix went without obstacles, slowed only by the five o’clock traffic common to most cities. Having driven many times in Houston, Phoenix’s highways seemed fairly easy to navigate. Before long, we zipped onto a wide open stretch of highway. I remember conversation flowing around me filled with chuckles and “remember when” scenarios. A sunset exploded across the western sky, and darkness swathed our car as we sped along. For endless miles, our isolated van passed no other vehicle. The highway had few lights, with exits creeping up unexpectedly. My navigator, listening to the chat from the back seat, missed the exit we needed to take, and the next one didn’t appear for another five or six miles. We looped around, took a left turn instead of a right, and briefly pondered the possibility of driving aimlessly up and down desert highways like some Twilight Zone characters. Eventually, we rolled into Sedona’s warm lights and found our motel.

         Snow and ice descended during the night. Not much by Arizona standards, but as a Texan, I felt uneasy as I moved behind the wheel of the rental. Taking things slow and easy, we made our way from our motel to the hotel hosting the workshop. The presenters crammed activities and information into us at warp speed, and by the end of the first day we each longed for the escape that shopping in this wonderful little town offered. We hit the specialty shops with enthusiasm. I longed to do a little hiking on some of the trails, but as the designated driver, I didn’t get go that first day. By the end of the second day of training, I felt as though I’d explode if I didn’t get to walk to at least one of the famous vortexes of Sedona.

         When everyone else wanted to go see a movie, I opted to grab my camera case and head out on a trail that zigzagged beyond our motel. My spirit (numbed by so much grief and loss) found peace as I strolled along. I don’t know when I started crying. I don’t know when I stopped. I stayed out on the trail for over two hours, pausing when I needed to feel grounded. I took photographs of many of the views, yet I knew I couldn’t capture the healing energy that flooded through me.

         Grieving has taken on a new meaning over the last couple of years, for I’ve learned we can mourn for the living as they struggle through their final sorrows. Within the next few years, I will return to Sedona to walk, once again, the trails that eased my wounded soul.

 Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The First Year”

            I don’t remember last Christmas. Who pulled the decorations from storage? Placed the tree before the window? Purchased and wrapped gifts? Everyone said I did these things, but my memory begins in the movie theatre watching Les Misérables. I distinctly remember laughing at the incredulous comment, “They sang every word!”

            January tumbled in with Mom’s Celebration of Life, where friends and family lingered in our home until two in the morning. Crisis hit when all of the life insurance paperwork, sent certified mail, vanished into a black hole. The kindness of the mail store owner, who tracked down the package, prevented my total meltdown. My determination to keep busy, busy, busy, busy meant I returned to the classroom as a substitute teacher. I grabbed any job I could get at any school in the area. Slaying grief took energy.

            In February, we made the first trip in over two years to my brother’s home in League City. Because Mom’s HD prevented her from taking long trips during the last few years of her life, we relied upon my brother to take care of the house my parents left to him. Little did we know that he didn’t want to worry us about his problems. We arrived to a growling refrigerator, defunct vacuum cleaner, rusted (and dangerous) microwave, and a matching deceased washer and dryer set. Fortunately, all of those lost papers had not only been found, but processed. Insurance money allowed us to replace the broken appliances.

            March and April blew in with my honing down to a short list the schools I’d work with as a substitute. I’d discovered a love for the younger kids, and put off accepting work in the hope of getting a slot at one of the four elementary schools in my area. I took jobs as secretaries, even, just to get on those campuses. Fortunately, I always ended up in a classroom. I turned down long term sub offers from four different campuses. Although I needed to work daily, I couldn’t make any long term commitment. I realized that working provided a buffer for me as I eased out of my overwhelming loss. A long term assignment equaled responsibility I couldn’t handle.

            Mother’s Day found me remembering the good things about Mom. We’ve all worked very hard to separate our memories of Mom from Huntington’s disease and the monster it became in all of our lives. And by June, my brother toyed with the idea of visiting San Antonio to celebrate his birthday, but he decided not to make the trip. He said it’s just too hard, after driving from League City to San Antonio monthly for four years, to make that trek again. So in July, I arranged for my sister to rendezvous with us in League City. Our goal? To spend time together as a family without the stress of caregiving pulling us down. We went out to eat, and we went to a movie. Together, we tackled some household chores too big for my brother to do alone—like cleaning the garage. And we enjoyed each other’s company. Somewhere during those slow summer days, I gathered enough courage to contact a literary agent and submit my chapters and synopsis from my first novel—a dream my mother encouraged.

            Hot August days piled onto the calendar, and I decided not to go back to work. I no longer needed to leave my home to handle my sorrow. Back in December, we’d hauled furniture and clothing by the truckload to Goodwill. I’d spent days in Mom’s old room, painting the walls neon green and the ceiling and trim black. With the passage from the room into the bathroom resealed, we reclaimed the area and converted it into my son’s studio. But many little things remained untouched. I began the much slower process of sorting through every drawer and closet in the house. At one point in time, we’d combined two additional households in with our own. I’d stashed duplicates and triplicates of many items into any available spot. By not returning to work, I forced myself to sift through all of these things and make decisions.

            September found me eager to make more changes. I painted the kitchen and dining room Morocco Red. David took off a week and together we battled against old floor grout. We succeeded in sprucing up our twenty-five-year-old floors. I spent time in the yards and gardens. I began compiling my blog posts on Mom’s last two years into a book. By October, I began writing my second novel. Creating a new world pulled me out of my own life for hours at a time.

            And so I find myself back in November. So far this month I’ve escaped into movie theatres. We made another trip to League City to visit my brother and shared Ender’s Game. We’ve laughed through Thor and caught Catching Fire. With today’s anniversary of Mom’s death, we’ll escape into a comedy—something funny and mindless like Delivery Man. For Thanksgiving? We’ll head to the local Golden Corral’s buffet. If we’re home, I’ve always cook a huge meal, but not this year.

            Anyone reading this recitation would believe we’ve set aside grief, but we haven’t. During those quiet minutes each morning, or those still moments before falling asleep, I’ve drowned in her loss. Memories of that last November weigh me down, and I stay silent about my empty feelings. Do I call my brother today? Do I ask my sister how she’s doing? Maybe I should just wait and see if they contact me. You see, I’ve burned this day into my heart since I sat with Mom for hour after hour last year. I, alone, bore witness to those last seconds of her life.

 

            Within each day this first year, I’ve focused upon my mother before her disease stole so much from us. I drifted back to my childhood, where her nighttime ritual included sitting on the edge of my bed, rubbing my back in gentle circles as we talked about my day. My mind lingered on Mom’s grin spreading across her face as she leaned into an embrace. Her strength and courage carried me through her illness and guided me through her suffering. Her generosity and love nourished me in my childhood and still guides me as an adult.

            There are all of these moments I’ve wanted to share with her, where I’ve wanted to hear her commentary or her laugh, and where I’ve longed to tap into her thoughts just one more time. Even after a year, I wish I could say, one more time, “I love you, Mom.”

              

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Winter's Rain"

It’s raining outside.   

            That cold, winter’s rain that seeps into   

            every fiber of your body.
You long to   

            stand out in the wetness and   

                        melt   

into the gutter.   

            Swirling,   

                        ebbing,   

                                    flowing   

                                                down into the sewer.   

            You carry paper boats, and leaves, and   

            tiny, jeweled pebbles with you   

                        And you’re cold,   

                        You’re numb   

You have no toes, no arms,   

                                                no soul.   

                        When you should laugh,   

you cry bitter, hot tears of—   

                                                oneness.   

You have actually melted into the     

            Universe—you’ve gone from   

Substance to Time.   

            From Time to   

                                    Space.   

You feel nothing; yet everything.   

                                                You are,   

and again,   

                                                You are not.   

And when the rain stops, what then?   

You begin to lose the numbness—   

                                                            the oneness.   

You   

            dry   

up into a brittle essence of fire. You   

                                                            burn   

                                              with the pressure of other bodies—needs.   

And—   

            you   

                        wait   

                                    for the next   

                                                winter’s rain.   

Copyright 1976 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman