“Mental Health”

 

            In March of 2020, I participated in the Psychological Impact and Coping During Covid-19 research study done by The COVID Research Team, Ferkauf Graduate School of Psychology at Yeshiva University. The detailed questionnaire asked about changes in sleep, eating, concentration, and mood. I completed one month, three month, and six month follow-ups that continued to monitor my personal response to the pandemic.

            This drill focused my attention onto the resilience caregiving gave to our family. With Huntington’s disease, we’d already survived tending to a horrendously devastating disease. We’d already experienced pulling in our lives to a tight circle that relied on finding positivity and grace in handling Mom’s long, slow death. Caregivers don’t leave their homes that often. Visitors dwindle down once friends realize that the news never gets better. Caring for Mom honed my coping strategies for isolation and uncertainty.

            My mental health advantage took a battering when the flaws of friends and family members pushed to the foreground. Some people refused to wear masks, stay home or social distance. They continued their proclamations of individual rights through vaccine rejection. A few have become seriously ill with Long COVID symptoms. Several died. They refuse to follow their own doctor’s suggestion spouting that they know better than the medical community.

            Their attitudes broke my heart. Their declarations that their own needs outweigh the health of a community made me realize that we lack common ground. They closed their minds to anything I offered by demeaning me and my well-documented sources.

            These relationships forced me to add a layer of mental health checks to my interactions with other people. My high tolerance for toxic family and friends shifted because of the pandemic. My own mental health required no contact with those who spew propaganda. My own mental health compelled me to nurture friends and family who show a level of empathy, grace, and community in their lives.

 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

                       

“Root Rot Regrowth”

                The redbrick house sat so close to the railroad tracks that it shook whenever a train thundered past. No decorations adorned the walls. No knickknacks sat on the dressers or hutches. No one dared leave a glass on the kitchen counter. At one time, the house belonged to a railroad company for employees to use for overnight stops. Eventually, my great-aunt Helen settled there to take care of her syphilis insane ex-husband . . . but that’s another story.

            I loved Aunt Helen’s house because of the porch that covered its front. Wicker chairs, a bench swing, and enormous planters filled with Mother-in-law tongues provided a hideaway for me and my siblings during our visits to League City, Texas. My grandmother, uncle and his family lived next door in a nasty, dysfunctional home. I preferred Aunt Helen’s tales of her wild and reckless youth to the more difficult to understand stories of my grandmother. As a child, I could barely understand a word she said. Later, as an adult, I learned to appreciate the richness of a Cajun cadence.

            Aunt Helen taught me to propagate plants. From her, I learned to appreciate separating new growth from the roots. She showed me how to pinch off a philodendron at just the right spot and just how much sunlight it needed to grow in a glass jar. Kneeling in her gardens, I separated bulbs and appreciated the hardiness of the Purple Heart Wandering Jew plant, which thrive in my yard today—grown from clippings from her garden more than fifty years ago.

            The Mother-in-law tongue plants became my favorite plants to nurture. I loved everything about them: the green outlined by yellow, the long and slender sword-like leaves. My imagination latched onto their name that alluded to the sharp tip of a mother-in-law’s criticism.

            After Aunt Helen died, her plants went to various friends. I inherited one that resided with me in my college apartment. One winter, I negligently left it outside on the porch. It died a horrible, frozen death.

            For some reason, many years passed before I purchased two Mother-in-law tongue plants. I fell in love with it all over again! This time, I made certain to bring them in each winter. Once the plants crowded in their pots, I’d repot them into a slightly larger container, always attending to their preferences. Both plants thrived!

            Until they didn’t.

            Not enough sunlight.

            Too much water.

            Suddenly, I found myself on my knees, hose in hand, gently tugging each leaf grouping apart. Mush in some sections. Healthy leaves in another. I focused on recovery. Every day, I visit these plants and murmur an incantation of encouragement.

            Just enough sunlight.

            Water measured with caution.

            Regrowth.

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Our Greenhouse Experiment”

 

Hot tub haven

            Back in November, I came up with the idea of taking our old, defunct hot tub and converting it into a “greenhouse” to weather some of our larger, cold sensitive plants. A little brainstorming possibilities, a run through Home Depot for supplies, and we created a cradle for our aloes and ferns.

            Checking the interior temperatures daily shows a successful experiment. The tub’s warmth, always at least ten degrees above the outside temperature, has allowed us to feel pretty confident that the plants will survive this winter safely.

               Until this yesterday.

            Outside, the cold air dipped to a little below freezing. The thermometer read in the forties. That’s probably the lowest our Aloe Vera will tolerate. The ferns, too, may survive this freezing dip if it doesn’t last too long. By this afternoon, the highs should top out in the low fifties, meaning our “greenhouse” will climb into the sixties. Once our daily highs hit the sixties again, we’ll do a visual check to make certain everything survived this snap.

Hot tub haven!

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman  

 

“Go With the Flow”

 

Sunset from the front 

  

Rocky road at the cabin

Our Bronco II

Escape Hybrid

        We just terminated our plans to visit the Leakey cabin this weekend. A cold front blusters into the area, dropping temperatures for this weekend to the low twenties. As no one’s used the ancient space heater in at least four years, we don’t want to get up there to find there’s no heat. Waiting until next weekend shifts the lows into the upper forties. Even if we have no heat, we’ll manage with warm clothing and the military wool blankets stored up there.

            The wonderful part of now owning an SUV that can tackle the rugged cabin road means we possess a flexibility that we surrendered about six years ago when our previous SUV needed extensive and expensive repairs. We purchased a sedan that met our daily needs with the assurances by my in-laws that they would loan us one of their high clearance cars or trucks to access our cabin. Those of you who deal with narcissists know that their offer turned immediately into “strings attached” transactions. When we borrowed a vehicle from them, we always left our own car for them to use. This exchange—car for car—was more than other family members did, where sometimes my in-laws let other friends or family use cars for months.

            Each attempt to do a car swap ended with them changing the loan terms whenever we did the trade. The last time we tried a switch for a four day weekend, they changed the amount of time to wanting their car back within twenty-four hours—just because. They didn’t tell us that, though, until we’d loaded their car with our supplies. I cried the entire two hour drive. We never borrowed a car again.

            For us, having our Bronco Sport means changing plans impacts only us. Ice and snow or sweltering summer heat can shift our plans instead of a dependence on the grace of others who always play a game I never understand.

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

Trips whenever we want!

 

“Too Much Time?”

 

            Like many people, I started working at sixteen and never stopped. The two years as caregiver for Mom as she circled down into the late stage of Huntington’s disease translated into a grueling 24/7 schedule. I returned to work “part-time” as a substitute teacher with the idea that I had freedom to adjust my days as I pleased. Even pre-pandemic, school districts experienced a shortage of substitutes, and I became a sucker for a plea from a secretary to book weeks in advance. I broke my vow to “cut back” to only working two or three days a week as my calendar filled year-after-year.

            Then COVID-19 halted me in my tracks. The spring of 2020 suddenly loomed open and empty. At first, I reveled in the wonder of having enough Time for anything and everything. I finished neglected yard and garden projects. I reorganized every closet and drawer, and ventured into the garage and attics for a purge. I detailed the cars to a showroom shine. I binged on television and movies, and read blissfully.

            Hours? Days? Weeks? Months? Tracking time became unnecessary.

            Until lack of use drained the Mazda’s battery!

            I realized tracking time needed a new type of routine other than up at 5 AM, Monday thru Friday to work all day. Slowly, a weekly sequence evolved. Mondays I designated for ERRANDS DAY that included a grocery store run and take-outs to support local restaurants. To avoid draining the car batteries, Tuesdays turned into CAR DAYS. The RX8 zips down a stretch of highway at 70 mph to keep the engine purring. Wednesdays shifted to WASH DAYS. That means stripping all of the beds, tossing in the towels, and tackling our multitude of throws along with our usual clothing. The tradition of NO CHORE Thursday (started when caring for Mom) continued to this day. I assigned Fridays for COMPANY CLEANING: bathrooms disinfected, mirrors polished, furniture dusted, floors mopped. Saturday and Sunday opened up as free days, too.

            My system means my days don’t blur without some kind of “tick” to mark them. I don’t have to remember if I’ve driven the car from one week to the next, or if I’ve forgotten to wash Koi’s bedding. A glance at my phone yields the weekday, and my morning chores fall into place.

            Of course, it amazes me that I finally have too much time.

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman