“Grandmother’s Cookbook”

                        My mother’s childhood showcases trauma and loss. Her father lost their farm during the Depression and moved his family into the small town of Danville, Illinois. Her oldest sister, Lois, drowned while swimming in the local lake within a few years. Around the time Mom turned nine, her mother died. Her father, left with five children still at home, found himself unable to care for his three youngest girls. They ended up within the foster care system. Fortunately, the small town meant all of the Thompson siblings went to school together. She visited her sister Nellie, a newlywed, often. Mom remembered the marble-topped furniture in their home, the lean years of lunch consisting of half a head of iceberg lettuce sprinkled with salt, and the wild antics of her older brothers, known for pranks that resulted in scoldings from the local police. Only a few treasured pieces came into Mom’s possession once she reached adulthood. She received a golden bracelet, which she wore at her wedding. The bracelet became a tradition to wear at weddings with my sister and me encircling our wrists with it. I inherited this lovely piece and used it for the cover art of my novel.

            The other prize from Mom’s childhood came in the form of The American Woman’s Cook Book, edited by Ruth Berolzheimer. All of the frequent moves made by my parent’s military lifestyle meant somethings never made it to the next assignment, but Mom always tucked this cookbook into a box that came with us. Over the years, both of my parents pulled this book off the shelf for recipes. My husband and I turn to it regularly, with me recently vowing to try new-to-us recipes weekly. The volume, though, contains not just ways to prepare various dishes, but also a look into life for the housewife in the 1940s. The thick work contains color plates of finished delights. It suggests menus for parties and holidays. Within its sheets one can find pages of food equivalents. Struggling with ideas for school lunches for the kids? Need a tip on how to set your plates for a fancy dinner? Want the perfect Hollandaise Sause (one of our favorites)? How about the best banana nut bread or pancakes on Earth? You can even find specific instructions on how to help with the war effort.

 

This volume represents a life that showcases hardship and hope.

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

      

“Caregiving Scars”

 

Edna Abrams 80 yrs. 

            Knowing your personal strengths and weaknesses means you learn when to tune in to your inner voice that warns, “Watch your step. Take your time. Give yourself distance from others to think.” Many times, though, the cacophony of other voices drowns out that quieter internal tone. Hours, days, weeks, and even months press by when you listen and respond to everyone but your own ideas and emotions.

            Your life becomes a long list of “To Do” and “Should Do”. Family and friends lecture those of us in caregiver roles to “take care of yourself first” without realizing such advice cannot be taken without another person actually stepping into your home. They throw out suggestions for you to get away and take a break, but it’s extremely rare that they enter into the responsibility you’ve undertaken for any extended period of time.

            Huntington’s disease attacked my mother fairly late in life. In her 60s she stopped the voracious reading she’d done her entire life. Her passion for cross-stitching died overnight. She talked about being depressed, but insisted her “blue days” didn’t warrant a doctor’s visit. Her tendency for anxiety increased. She complained frequently about not going out or doing things, but then pulled the plug on suggested outings and activities. Sometimes, her feet would move in a restless dance, but she’d stop them the moment anyone called attention to them moving. In her early 70s, she still drove her car and walked a mile each day. She had a couple of times when her legs folded up under her midstride, but HD didn’t blip on any of her doctors’ radar. At 78, Mom had a TIA that propelled her into a Huntington’s disease nightmare. The neurologist treating her at the hospital still didn’t recognize HD, but a young nurse caring for her had worked with an HD family. It was her insistence that forced the doctors to run genetic tests, which gave us the diagnosis.

            No amount of research prepared our family for the years of caregiving that became our family destiny. For two years after the diagnosis, Mom lived in an assisted living complex walking distance from our home. I visited her every day unless I was ill. On those occasions, my husband or son spent part of the evening with her. Her motor skills spiraled into a decline that forewarned us that eventually she’d need to move into our home. She went from walking on her own, to using a walker. She broke her wrist, had cauliflower ear from a fall, and split her nose on her coffee table. Her internist shifted her into a wheelchair because no one wanted her to break a hip. During those two years, our lives revolved around making certain Mom never felt alone. She made friends with her aides, threw parties for both residents and staff, and daily insisted that she missed her apartment. She knew, though, that she’d never live alone again.

            My retirement from teaching on year 30 became imperative. No one talks about the extremely high costs of assisted living. Mom’s care during the two years she stayed there increased from $4,000 to $5,000 a month as her nursing needs changed. Shifting her into the 24/7 care that Huntington’s disease would eventually require meant that price would increase out of our budget. The cut in my take home income from retiring to care for Mom was still financially better than moving her into the more intensive care.

            In 2010, Mom moved into our home. For the next two years, life increasingly revolved around her and her needs. My son rented a home in our neighborhood to be close by, and during the last six months of Mom’s life, he moved back home to help me while my husband worked. The bond formed with the three of us caring for Mom still connects us today. Mom’s deterioration once we moved her here slowed down. Her neurologist noted that she felt happier and more secure. Her mental decline never happened as with many HD patients. If she got enough sleep, she stayed sharp and focused. My greatest fear, that Mom would eventually be unable to swallow, started in November 2012. She went three weeks without food and three days without water.

            No one writes about or talks about the scars carved into the caregiver’s heart. Ten years later, I still catch myself thinking that I need to rush over to Mom’s apartment if I’m out running errands. My caregiver’s scar means I listen for Mom’s bell to ring some nights. That scar reminds me that a disease took over our existence as it destroyed my mother’s life.

Edna Abrams 81st birthday 2011

Edna Abrams with her nephew and his wife 2011

Mom listening to live music with family 2011

Mom at cabin in Leakey, TX 2011 age 81

 Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

"Summer Begins"

  

Summer begins  

shedding stress by    

lusting for Father Ralph  

I become Meggie   

slipping into heartbreak  

reliving my own devotion  

veiling my Catholic guilt under Italian lace 

missal clutched in small, white-gloved hand   

crystal Rosary, blessed by Pius XII,  

soothing my restless fingers  

his Irish brogue a supple song   

his blue eyes like laughter

he kneels before me, eye-to-eye   

proposes a date  

he’ll be my father—  

a surrogate breaking bread 

erasing my disappointment 

drying my tears with his finger tips  

tugging my hand to the crook of his arm 

his brilliance dazzles me

my heart worships him 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman with repost 2023

 

“Cliff’s Edge”

 

 

Defiant waves pummel and kick    

striking against soaring towers    

Mists and cold spray leave the edge slick    

siphoning my waning powers     

I stand alone on the cliff’s edge    

collapsing within my despair    

I crawl cautiously to the ledge     

where brutal winds whip at my cares     

My fingers bleed with razor cuts    

sliced by the terrors that grip me     

I desperately grasp at the ruts    

carved by the sea’s eternity    

I lay prone on the jagged ground            

in submissive subjugation        

My chest constricts as I look down            

at Death’s beckoning temptation  

 

September 28, 2011      

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Starting with Nothing”

             A few days ago, we ambled into a “remember when” conversation after our son commented that he’s never met a woman from his generation who embraces a view that the partnership of marriage can start from nothing and work slowly forward over many years. The women he knows want a partner established in career with a steady income, vehicles that run, and the promise of eventually becoming “stay at home mothers” instead of remaining in the work force. So different from my own beliefs.

            Our first apartment, in Bryan, Texas, had orange shag carpet. For the first four months of marriage, we sat on the floor, eating off of a large paper box. A friend had given us the foam mattress from a hide-a-bed to use as a bed. Our clothing, folded into neat piles, rested directly on the floor. We didn’t even have a laundry basket at first, and the few wire hangers we had held heavier items like our coats and jackets. The television set, black and white, didn’t have working horizontal hold. It rotated the single channel we tuned through rabbit ears. A wicker chair with matching stool and a white pole lamp, pieces I purchased while in high school, finished the furniture we owned. David entered marriage with one small old suitcase, one paper bag of clothing, his guitar (a gift from a friend), his bass, and cabinet with amplifier. My uncle had given us a partial set of American Airlines silverware. Our pots and pans, mix-matched, barely filled our cooking needs. That was okay. We barely had food for groceries. Those months, before our first paychecks arrived, were our pinto bean days.

            Around September, one of David’s aunts loaned us an old mattress and table. We picked up a couple of folding chair, which graduated us to fine dining! We pooled our wedding gift cash to buy unpainted wood chests. Finally, our clothing had a home. The foam pad shifted to the living room for a “couch”.

           

            Those sparse first months gave us the ability to do sacrifice for later goals. My college loans got payed off at a double rate. Once we moved from College Station to San Antonio, we kept our budget strict. Together, we roamed through department and furniture stores to select the furniture that fit a style we both loved.

            For us, part of the success of our long marriage started in those first months of struggle. It gave us a foundation for working together for long-term goals.

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman