“Pearls of Wisdom”

         Georgia impatiently paced across the parlor, pausing at the window to pull back the white lace panel. Anticipation sparked in her green eyes and splashed color across her high cheekbones. A tendril of her brunette hair coiled on her forehead in subtle defiance. She stepped away from the pane, her fingers adjusting the pleat of her lavender gown with nervous energy. She scrutinized the room for the hundredth time, seeking perfection in every detail. Carefully, she lifted a vase of fresh flowers from the center of a table and moved it to a sideboard. Her jewelry box rested on the table alone, showing off its delicate work. She wanted to impress her younger sisters with the treasures her husband showered upon her. She wanted them to envy her for her position as Bruce’s wife.

         At the sound of the bell, Georgia skipped to the settee and arranged her skirt to show off the sheen of the expensive silk. Her lips parted in a genuine smile as she listened to Gwyn’s soft voice ask the butler a question, as she recognized May’s deeper throaty laugh.

         “Georgia!” her sisters chimed in unison as the butler opened the door. In a whirl of cream and rose satin, they swept into the room and hauled Georgia off of the couch, ruining her carefully planned pose by hugging her tightly into their arms.

         “You look so lovely!”

         “Your house is beautiful!”

         “And lavender! Georgia, it’s such a perfect color for you!”

         Unexpected tears smarted Georgia eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she returned her sisters’ enthusiastic embrace.  “Oh, May and Gwyn, I’m so glad you’ve finally come!” She swiped at her tears and looked at her wet fingertips with bemusement. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” she began.

         “Oh, you’re just happy to see us!” May exclaimed. “We’ve missed you so much, too. I don’t know why Mother and Father resisted allowing us to visit you in London.”

         “But you are here—now!” Georgia kissed May’s cheek with affection. “Perhaps they will let you visit more.”

         Gwyn smiled as she sat in a chair, “I believe they didn’t want us annoying Bruce. Honestly, they only agreed to our visit here because you said you were lonely.”

         “Bruce spends most of his time in our London house,” Georgia admitted. “Why don’t I take you to your rooms, and then we can have tea and spend the entire evening catching up?” 

            Georgia worried her lower lip, a remnant of her annoying childhood habit. She straightened the shoulders on her gown one more time as she waited for her sisters to return. A trolley with her finest silver service sat near the loveseat. Cook’s renowned cakes and biscuits sat in decadent temptation. She knew Gwyn wouldn’t resist the sweet treats. She knew May couldn’t refuse accompanying their tea with tidbits of gossip. She wagered with herself that May wouldn’t make it through her first dessert before revealing Bruce’s indiscretions to her older sister.

            With determination, Georgia decided she would open the topic of her husband’s infidelities first. After all, she invited her sisters to her home for two reasons. She wanted to assure her family that she accepted all aspects of her marriage to her older husband. She also needed to know that they would stand by her decision to live with Bruce’s “short-comings.”

            When May and Gwyn appeared in the doorway, Georgia felt relief. As embarrassing as this conversation would prove, at least she would finally have someone to whom she could confide her feelings.

            “May, would you mind pouring?” Georgia moved to a nearby chair. “I want to talk to the two of you. It’s the reason I invited you here.” She paused while May filled the cups. “Mother and Father know, of course, what I’m going to tell you. I wrote them last month.” She sipped the hot tea, buying herself a moment for composure. Then she continued, “I have learned that Bruce engages in affairs with other people.”

            May’s hand fluttered a little, splashing tea onto the saucer she held. Gwyn’s cheeks flamed red as she inhaled deeply, and then held her breath. Neither of her sisters spoke.

            Georgia cocked her head, and narrowing her eyes, asked, “You know? Did Mother tell you?”

            “No,” Gwyn began cautiously, “No one’s told us anything. It’s—,” she shot a desperate look at May. “Well, Bruce did something . . . inappropriate . . .” she floundered to a stop.

            “To you?” Georgia gasped.

            “To both of us,” May carefully set her cup and saucer upon the table. “Remember how I kept trying to talk you out of this marriage?”

            Georgia’s face paled as she leaned forward in her seat. “I thought you were just jealous because of Bruce’s wealth and social standing. I was so hurt.” Her hand rested over her heart. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            “I tried, but you got so upset. And you insisted that Bruce was absolutely perfect for you.” May faltered. “I didn’t have the heart to tell you.” She looked down to find her hands nervously clenching the fabric of her dress. “I never told anyone. Then when you invited us here, I didn’t even want to come because I feared seeing your husband again.”

            “And I kept bothering her until she told me why,” Gwyn continued. “When she told me, well—he’d done something similar to me. I was so ashamed.” Gwyn’s voice shook. “Oh, Georgia, you cannot stay married to this man!”

Wladyslaw Czachorski's The Little Treasure Chest

            “Yes, I can.” Georgia stood and walked to her jewelry box. “I made a promise, and my vow must be kept.” She sat in a chair by the table, leaning forward to open the box. “Come, look.” She opened to container and began pulling out the pieces her husband gifted to her, probably after each of his escapades. “Come look,” she repeated, “at what a man believes clears his conscience.”

            With her sisters seated at the table, she pulled out a diamond and ruby broach, a glittering flower. She fingered a delicately woven gold chain and toyed with a bracelet of emeralds. “Bruce believes these lovely pieces will buy my submission and my silence.”

            She carefully withdrew a strand of pearls. Their smooth perfection cooled her flushed skin. “My husband brought me these pearls last week,” she draped them over her extended arm. “They have a particularly beautiful luster, don’t you think.” Gwyn leaned against the back of Georgia’s chair to get a closer look as May shifted forward in her seat. A small smile tugged at Georgia’s lips as she tilted her head to appreciate the glow of the pearls against her skin.

            Sighing deeply, she gazed at her prizes. “With all of these other gifts, I didn’t know the truth about Bruce. I didn’t know the guilt he disguised. But these pearls,” she raised the strand and looked first at May and then at Gwyn, “These are pearls of wisdom.”

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

             

“Some Chores”

 

         You know them. The chores you must do, but hate to do, so you avoid them until—well, until something goes wrong. Then your evasive maneuvers avalanche into a major problem.

         I could list at least ten household chores I abhor, but recently cleaning the refrigerator climbed onto the top of my list. Usually, I do a “sniff-n-toss” round every Sunday. You know, where I tentatively open every Rubbermaid container, give it a cautious sniff, and toss it if there’s even a hint of spoilage. I do a good job of remembering when I served something and can judge the exact moment when something must meet the garbage disposal. I don’t consider this weekly ritual really cleaning the fridge, though.

         Cleaning the fridge involves taking out every single item from every self and bin, and then scrubbing down the interior. I check for expirations dates, throw out anything that’s resided too long, and reorganize everything into better categories. Currently, I have hot peppers, pickles, relish, and jellies standing next to each other one door cubby. I don’t know why, but it works for me.

         Cleaning the fridge includes emptying the freezer compartment. This task daunts me, so I drag my feet when it comes to doing this. Off-and-on for years, our freezer insists upon dumping water onto the floor. This is the first signal that there’s a clog. If I ignore this warning, the water begins to pool back in the freezer where it becomes a plate of ice, adhering the basket in my freezer to the bottom. Usually, my Type A personality jumps onto this aberration immediately, and I defrost the ice. The cascade of events over the last few months forced me to look the other way, and the thin sheet of ice grew daily until the entire basket filled with ice. Our freezer looked like we’d had a block of ice delivered!

         Last night, armed with heat gun and a pile of towels, David tackled the task of melting our giant ice cube. He added a screw driver to his arsenal and eventually pried the basket from the freezer. While I cleared the basket wires of ice, he cleaned every tube and plug he could find. He muscled the fridge away from the wall and attacked the dusty backside with the vacuum, a chore I’ve neglected for doing for, well—months.

         Now our Admiral sits neatly organized and gleaming inside and out. I tell myself that I’ll keep “on top” of this chore and won’t neglect it again. I promise myself that if I notice a little ice forming on that bottom basked, I’ll flush out the tube and clear out the clog. Yep. That’s my plan.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

        

“Wet Dogs”

Koi and Bridget after baths

         We fight an unexpected battle this summer—against fleas! The mild winter doomed us to this crazy infestation. I thought I’d outsmart the bugs by starting Frontline treatments on the animals back in April. Then my vacuum cleaner fried itself, and the fleas sank their teeth into the dogs and their feet into my carpet.

         So the battle is on!

Koi scratching at those fleas!

         A few days ago, I treated the carpet with some special, magical powder, letting it settle into the fibers for two hours. If I can find time to vacuum daily, I’ll stand a chance of sucking the little vermin up in a cyclonic vortex. I see a Rug Doctor in our near future, too. If I can’t suck the fleas out, I’ll drown them!

Bridget sniffing out a flea

         Which brings me to our wet dogs. Fleas hate water. They scramble to the surface of each dog’s fur the moment I apply water. Add a little flea shampoo, and they jump ship. As I bathed Bridget and Koi today, I heard the little critters screaming as they flung themselves from wet dog into warm water.

         I wickedly smiled as Bridget scooted against the carpet, knowing the fleas would prefer dry carpet to wet dog. The dry carpet already contains the insecticide that will destroy the enemy. And my brand new vacuum waits patiently for another attack. Yes! These parasites have met their match with me and mine.

All I need is a little perseverance. I need to stick to my battle plan, even if it means the weekly smell of wet dogs.

Victory will be mine!

New flea collars and fresh from a bath!

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

        

“And Dying”

         I never intended to write about death and dying. I thought this topic could stay bound within the contexts of the current social psychological theorists, but recently I’ve found myself examining my feelings in dealing with my mother’s terminal illness.

I studied Kübler-Ross’s theory, of course, when I worked on my degree in Psychology. Effortlessly, I can recount her five stages of grief. My life over the last few years anecdotally supports much of what she wrote. I know, too, about theories on resilience. Although I haven’t consciously researched the topic of grief, I’ve definitely lived it. As I skim the endless variety of topics available to families dealing with Huntington’s disease, dealing with the last stages of this disorder surfaces in discussions.

My faith rests totally in the strength of the human mind, the spirit of community, the cycle of life. Whenever living with Mom’s Huntington’s disease pulls me under, I’ve reached out to my husband, my son, my sister, and my brother. They yank me back into the light when I feel surrounded by darkness. I have several friends, some in distant cities, who offer comfort and support through their kindness and concern.

And so we deal with dying like we deal with living. We admit our shortcomings during those endless nights and horrendous days. We don’t deny our anger and bitterness as illness chips away Mom in larger and larger chunks. We let sorrow enter our home and sit upon the sofa on Saturday mornings.

 We take each day as it comes. We linger over the good moments. We sip and savor giggles and smiles. Words like sacrifice, care, generosity, family and love take on deeper and more honest meanings as they become part of our daily life.  

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"ER"

         About two weeks ago, my mother’s internist decided to add Zoloft to her daily cocktail of medications in an attempt to alleviate her frequent bouts of crying and thoughts of dying. I quickly reminded him that he’d tried prescribing Cymbalta for her a couple of summers ago with disastrous results. He assured me that Mom would be fine with this new drug, wrote the prescription, and sent us on our way.

         That Monday, Mom took her first 25 mg. dose, and she did seem less tense in the afternoon. On Tuesday, she didn’t cry even once during the day. However, that night she had the worse episode of insomnia I’ve ever witnessed! She not only kicked her feet back and forth, but also continually threw her pillow and blankets to the floor. She would pull herself into a sitting position by grabbing ahold of her wheelchair, and then fling herself back onto the bed. This went on hour after hour. Finally, after receiving her morning doses of her medications, she fell asleep.

         When Mom woke up around noon on Wednesday, she couldn’t speak at all. She could only manage to grunt in response to my questions. I tried to feed her by spooning scrambled eggs into her mouth. She clumsily shoved the food around, her tongue lacked coordination. She couldn’t swallow the soft food. Once I noticed she couldn’t even suck on a straw, alarms sounded. I began making calls to Mom’s internist—leaving messages on the voice mail because it was their lunch hour. Each time I called, I added another symptom to Mom’s growing list. Finally, I reached someone and was told to take Mom to the ER right away.

         By this time, her body had grown completely rigid. My son and I muscled Mom into the car and drove to our neighborhood hospital. She’s already in their system, so it didn’t take long to get the preliminary paperwork done.

         “As soon as we have a bed ready in the ER, we’ll get your mother back. It should only take a few minutes.” I felt a little calmer with the assurance that Mom would be bumped ahead of the other patients in the waiting room.

         Then a teenaged girl rushed in, followed slowly by a young man on crutches. The bandages on his foot couldn’t begin to sop up the flow of blood that gushed from him. A river of blood trailed from the sliding glass doors, across the floor, and to the nurses’ station. Someone rushed up with a wheelchair, and the blood pool continued to grow under the chair. Two nurses dashed to his aide, and the security guard fetched a custodian, who calmly began cleaning the area.

         “I’m sorry,” a nurse came over to us, “we’ll see your mother as soon as the area is cleaned.”

         So the promise of seeing my mother immediately ended up taking about forty-five minutes.

         Eventually, we wheeled Mom back into a room where the usual ER triage began. Blood pressure, heart rate, oxygen level, EKG, blood work all started quickly at that point. The doctor ordered a CT scan, x-rays for her lungs, and a urine test looking for any reason for Mom’s condition.

         I think I asked everyone I saw, “Could this be a reaction to Zoloft? She just started taking it. Could she be having some kind of reaction to it?”

         No one wanted to make a committal to anything until every test returned—all with normal results.

        Finally, the doctor came to talk to us. To my question about the Zoloft, he answered, “I’ve never seen anyone react to Zoloft in this way. I think you need to talk to your mother’s doctor tomorrow.” However, by this time it had been twelve hours since Mom’s dose, and she had regained her ability to answer simple questions.

         “Do I continue to give her the drug?” I asked.

         “That will be up to her doctor.”

       I made one of my executive decisions that I wouldn’t give Mom another dose without having a long conversation with both Mom’s internist and her neurologist.

        On Thursday morning, I called the internist as soon as his office opened. He returned my message quickly and said that he didn’t think the Zoloft had anything to do with Mom’s condition the previous day. Because I expressed so much concern, he agreed to have the dosage cut in half “for a few days.” My gut screamed that it was too much of a coincidence that Mom had this horrible HD incident within three doses of a new medication, but I couldn’t seem to get anyone else to make the connection! That is, not until Mom’s neurologist called.

         “Don’t put her back on the Zoloft. She’s having an overdose reaction,” he warned.

        “Both Mom’s internist and the ER doctor seemed to think it was okay, but I kept feeling that something wasn’t right,” I told him.

      “For most people, adding Zoloft wouldn’t have this affect,” her neurologist explained. “But for your mother, and the way HD’s hit her brain—along with the other medications I already have her taking, well—it’s good that you stopped the dose. Bring her in on Monday so I can check her over.”

         Exhaustion forced Mom into a deep sleep almost all of Thursday, and I fretted because she didn’t eat any food or drink any fluids for another day. On Friday, she could drink and eat again, but I had to feed her and hold her mug for her. During the weekend, Mom slowly regained more of her ability to move and to speak. By the time her neurologist saw her on the following Monday, she was speaking in short phrases again and could raise her arms up to shoulder level briefly.  

         Recovery comes slowly, though. Before the incident with Zoloft, Mom occasionally couldn’t remember me or David, especially after she had a round of insomnia. Now it’s almost daily that she’ll ask one of us who we are. She’s fixated on wanting me to take her home, forgetting that she’s lived here for eighteen months. The optimist in me clings to the hope that she’ll get more recovery as each day passes. My sister just left after helping us for the past four days, and Mom seemed to improve a little. Maybe she’ll be closer to normal once my brother arrives on this coming Friday.

HD brain on left. Normal brain on right

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman