It’s a Wonderful Life

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and recently I’ve been watching my favorite Christmas movies. White Christmas with Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye, Scrooged with Bill Murray, and Love Actually with a large ensemble that includes Hugh Grant, Colin Firth and Liam Neeson.

One of the Christmas movie classics I chose not to watch this year was It’s a Wonderful Life. The only part of that movie that I really liked was the fact that the cop and taxi driver were named Bert and Ernie, way before Sesame Street was even a glint in the eye of the late, great Jim Henson.

So it wasn’t a tough choice to make.

Like everyone, though, I’ve had some really tough choices to make over the years. Some worked out well. Others, not so much.

I was recently asked that if I could go back and change any of the choices I’ve made, which ones would I change.

Without a bit of thought I said “none.”

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve made my share of bad choices in my life. Some real whoppers. Like eating two Whoppers from Burger King before going on a three-hour bus ride. That was a three-hour tour that ranked right up there with the SS Minnow!

But the reason I said ‘no’ so quickly was because I’ve seen the Back to the Future movie trilogy enough times to know that if it was possible to go back and change a mistake I made in the past, it might not have led me to where I am right now.

There have been many books written and movies made that have touched on this theme. About 30 years ago there was a movie that not many people saw, called Mr. Destiny, where the late, great John Belushi’s kid brother Jim went back in time and changed his life for what he thought was for the better. He regretted it.

The most famous version of this scenario, of course, was It’s a Wonderful Life.

We’ve all made bad choices in our lives. But we have all (I hope) made good choices, as well.

I’m reminded of a tough choice I had to make about 40 years ago when I first moved from college in Miami to my first job in Rhode Island.

I was starting to drive into a snowstorm, exiting the college campus that I had just begun working at that fall, and I was stopped at a red light next to a bus stop. There were three people standing there in the freezing rain/sleet/snow.

I first realized that one of them was a new friend of mine, a guy who befriended me when I first moved to the Ocean State, when I didn’t know anyone. Then I saw next to him was this girl who I’d seen on campus and I really wanted to get to know. And the third person was an old, frail women who didn’t look too good.

My back seat was broken and still stuck in the down position to make the trunk bigger for the move north, so I only had one seat to offer. When I got out of the car, still not sure who to offer the passenger seat to, I found out that the old woman was waiting for the bus to go to the hospital.

So, which one do I give a ride?  I had a choice to make. A tough choice.

Who would you have given the ride to? 

What I did was this. I gave my car keys to my new friend and asked him to drive the old woman to the hospital on his way home, while I hung out at the bus stop with the girl, Terry, who I am now married to.

That turned out to be a good choice.

A really tough choice I had to make 27 months ago was to quit my job to become a full-time caregiver for my Terry, who is now entering the latter and toughest stage of Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease.

At that time there were several people close to me who knew I could not afford to quit my job, and tried to persuade me to continue working, and hire someone to help with Terry.

They made a good argument, but I couldn’t do it. I was not about to let others take care of Terry. She was my wife.

First my daughter came home from Augusta, Georgia, where she lived in a mansion with a pool, working as an au pair (French for nanny), to live with us and help take care of Terry.

Once I convinced her that I had everything under control, she moved out and got on with her life.

Then my son came home from D.C., where he had just begun a new job after getting a big promotion, to help out with Terry’s care.

But I realized he had his whole life ahead of him and needed to get back into the work force, whereas I was at the tail end of my career. It made more sense for him to work and for me to quit my job.

So shortly after entering my 36^th year at a job that, despite being a 70-hour a week job, a job I loved, a job that was attractive to many (only 300 or so such jobs exist in the country, a job that 88 people applied for when I got it), I quit.

I had received a higher calling.   That was a good choice that I will never regret.

I must admit that some days I really wish I was still working those 70-hour weeks, opposed to the 168-hour weeks I work now.

Sometimes I feel like the job I do now is killing me. But then I remember that it is the disease that is killing my Terry, not me.

And I remember that I am fortunate that I was able to quit my job to care for her, the most important person in my life.

Then I remember that this is, indeed, a Wonderful Life.

Until next time, try to remember how wonderful, actually, your life is, even when your Christmas isn’t white, and people are being like Scrooge to you.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Bud

budfocht@gmail.com

Time Is No Longer Relevant

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and according to Albert Einstein time is relative. Well, Einstein and his brothers might have made great bagels, but according to me, time may be relative, but time is not relevant. At least not anymore.

I’m reminded of what Tommy Chong said when Cheech Marin asked him “Hey Hippie, want to buy a watch?” and Chong replied with his classic response, “I’m not into time, man.”

That’s me. I am no longer into time.

I saw a beautiful sunset the other day. The front of our house faces southwest so our large picture window not only allows the afternoon sunshine to warm our kitchen, but this time of year when the neighbor’s large trees have lost their leaves the sunsets are more visible.

There was a time, however, when I would have been a little upset about the fact that the beautiful sunset was taking place at four frigin’ thirty in the afternoon!

Not anymore though. Time doesn’t really matter to me anymore. Having to be at a certain place at a certain time rarely happens these days. Mainly because it is extremely hard for us to do.

We get up when my wife Terry is ready to get up. We eat lunch when she is hungry. We get washed up (showers on good days and messy Depends days) and dressed when she is able. We go to the store when her mood and her bathroom schedule allow. Time of day doesn’t really enter in anymore.

Before I quit my job 26 months ago to become a full-time caregiver for Terry, now entering the latter stages of early onset Alzheimer’s Disease, I wore a watch, had a clock on my cell phone, a clock on my desk top computer, a clock on the landline phone on my desk, a clock in my car and when I got home I had a clock on the microwave, a clock right below it on the stove, a clock on the mantel in the living room, a clock on the VCR (yes, I am old) below the TV, a clock on the stereo and in the bedroom a clock radio.

Now, I don’t even bother changing the clocks when Daylight saving begins and ends.

No, the time of day no longer matters to me. And as far as time marching on, well I am afraid, to quote the great John Prine, summer’s end came faster than we wanted.

The last time we had to be at a certain place at a certain time was a doctor’s appointment. Our annual visit with the neurologist took place a few weeks ago and I am afraid it was not very promising, not that they ever are. It seems the disease is now doing some extensive damage in the left side of Terry’s brain, which is why her communication skills are taking a big hit.

The worse part is that now her entire brain is decaying. Shrinking. And she had a tiny hat size to begin with.

It started in the front, with her hippocampus. You know when you recognize someone and are trying desperately to remember their name and right before they come up to you to say Hi you remember it? That was the hippocampus going through your memory files looking for that person’s name.

Terry’s hippocampus was the first to surrender to the dark side. It then spread to the outer layer, the cerebral cortex, which caused her to start freaking out about a year ago, getting pissed off to the point of violence.

I think the technical name for it is “Bat-Shit Crazy.”

We started taking meds for the outbursts and the freaking out slowed down tremendously. Unfortunately, the ‘episodes’ have returned. I always hated reruns!

The decay spread to the right side of her brain after that. I noticed when we would have a catch she would stop using her left arm. I would have to throw the ball to her left side to make her use both hands.

And now it is wreaking havoc on the left side of her brain, the frontal, temporal and parietal lobes on the left side, wreaking havoc with her ability to communicate. Especially understanding what I am telling her.

She has been speaking gibberish for some time now but understanding what is said to her is now decreasing rapidly, and that is scary.

Trying to give Terry direction when I am dressing her, washing her, feeding her or brushing her teeth is getting more and more difficult.

The recent visit to the neurologist was the sixth annual appointment. He’s a good guy and I have always asked him to shoot me straight, and he does. He told me that judging from the amount of decline between visit number five and the recent visit number six, well, based on that, let’s just say there may not need to be a visit number eight in 2020.

The doctor asked me how I handle the stress of doing what I do, the stress of dealing with what we are going through. I told him I cry in my beer. A lot of beer.

Poor me. Poor me. Pour me another beer.

Optimistic people who have no real problems like to say, “When you are given lemons, make lemonade.”

Well, based on what Terry and I have been given, I’ll be making Poo Poo Platters, Manure de Jour. I’ll be grilling up some Shit Burgers.

It looks like we have a lot less time left than I had hoped. Statistics say eight to 10 years after being diagnosed. Those optimistic people say sometimes it lasts as long as 20 years. With early onset Alzheimer’s, however, it sometimes lasts as little as five years. (see Coach Pat Summitt)

Terry was diagnosed five years ago, although we feared there was something wrong for almost a year before that.

The time of day no longer matters to me. All that matters to me now is how much time Terry and I have left and trying to keep her happy for as much of that time as possible.

That is the only thing that is relative to me.

Until next time, enjoy the time you have. And Einstein’s bagels.

Bud

Prayers Are Answered Different Ways

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and I feel like I just found out that I won the lottery.

No, they didn’t find a cure for Alzheimer’s. That wouldn’t be like winning the lottery. That would be more like feeding 5,000 people with just a handful of fish and a few loaves of bread. It would be like Lazarus rising from the dead. Like turning water into beer. (I don’t drink that much wine)

No, this lottery I feel like I won is one I actually used to pray for. I just didn’t realize I had won it until now.

Thirty-some years ago I had a secretary who used to love playing the slots in Atlantic City and buying lottery tickets. After a while of her offering I finally gave her a buck and asked her to play a ‘Pick 6’ for me. I did that once a month for a few years until one day I hit five out of six numbers, winning $5,000. We had just bought a house so we could really use the money.

Two weeks after winning that lottery our sewer line broke. Guess what the repair bill was?

That’s right, $5,000.

Well, easy come easy go. Looking back, I wasn’t upset, I was happy because if we hadn’t won that money we would have been up financial sewer creek.

A year later when we had our third child I began playing the lottery again. We really needed some financial help and besides, I had the perfect six numbers. 4-5-6-8-10-18. Those six numbers included all five of our birthdays, day and month. I justified playing the lotto by the fact that I was playing for the family (and the numbers were easy to remember).

When I was working 70+ hour weeks during the long winters I would actually pray to win the lottery so I could spend more time with my wife and kids.

In those prayers I wasn’t asking for Warren Buffett money, so I could buy an island, on even a boat to get there, or even a truck to pull the boat. I come from modest means and all I wanted to win was enough money so I didn’t have to work. Not looking to live the lifestyle of the rich and famous, just the same way I was living at that time. The only difference would be when I woke up in the morning I could say to my wife, ‘I get to stay home with you today. I don’t have to go to work today.’

Like a snow day without the snow.

I wasn’t being lazy. I have always had a good work ethic. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to work. I just wanted to spend a lot more time with my family. That was always the worst part of my job, the long hours.

Some five years ago, when my wife was diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s disease, I stopped saying that lottery prayer. I was too busy praying for more important things. Life and death things.

When my son recently told me he had played the Powerball it reminded me of those prayers I used to say about winning the lottery. And I suddenly realized, my prayer WAS answered. I just didn’t realize it. It wasn’t exactly answered the way I asked. The way I hoped. The way I expected. But it WAS answered.

Two years, one week and two days ago I quit my job to become a fulltime caregiver, to take care of my wife Terry, and I have spent every one of those days by her side, 24 hours a day.

And THAT, more or less, is what I had prayed for.

Granted, the circumstances are about as different as they could possibly be from what I had envisioned in my retirement, what I had hoped for. What I thought I had prayed for.

The bottom line, however, is that I get to spend all day, every day, with my partner, my wife, the most important person in my life.

The measly stipend I receive from my too early retirement, along with Terry’s disability assistance, has so far kept us financially afloat. (Like I said we come from modest means, so I know how to make do.)

It is not like we go out much. I went the entire month of June and the entire month of August without putting gas in my car, and I have yet to buy gas in October. (I used to average 25,000 miles a year when I worked.)

And tonight, we get to sit on our couch and watch both the Red Sox and Patriots play, Terry’s two favorite teams.

Between you and me, I’d rather be spending my retirement with my wife the way I envisioned, the way I dreamed, riding bikes in the park or sitting on a beach. That would be much better than how I really spend my time, wiping her butt after she ruined another perfectly good Depends after laughing a little too hard. (Granted, I’d rather her laugh too hard and get messy than to not be laughing at all. Most of the time I feel that way, anyway)

The fact is I DID get what I asked for. I get to spend all of my time with the most important person in my life.

Part of me wants to say, ‘be careful what you ask for.’

Until next time, remember that when you pray for something and think the prayer has not been answered, it sometimes turns out the prayer was just answered in a different way than expected.

Bud

budfocht@gmail.com

Back in the Saddle Again

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and it has been a while since I’ve been able to sit at my lap top and think out loud. And by think out loud I mean write what I am thinking as a caregiver.

Fifty months and 95 blogs ago, when I first became a caregiver, I used to do this once a week, once my wife, my life partner, my Terry, was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease. Over time as time became more precious and I had much less of it (like hair and testosterone), the blog posting has gradually gone from weekly to every two weeks to monthly.

Until lately when I could not even find ONE day a month to sit down and not only collect my thoughts but put them down. I would say put them down on paper but that would just show how old I really am. (My first few years at work I wrote on a manual typewriter. Wasn’t even electric. Frigin’ manual.)

I have received hundreds of e-mails (okay, dozens. maybe a handful, if the hand belonged to a firecracker accident victim), asking me if things were okay and wondering why no recent blog posts. There is a simple reason. I HAVE NO STINKIN’ TIME!!

But after the fourth or fifth e-mail I recently received asking me if Terry and I were okay because they hadn’t seen a recent post, I figured I better find some time.

I wish I had better things to write about.

The good news is that, for the first time in years I can actually say that things are better now than they were a month or two ago, when we went through some pretty tough times. Like what Andy Dufresne had to crawl through to escape Shawshank. Only he had a light at the end of that tunnel. Andy crawled through a river of shit and came out clean.

From the time Terry and I get up in the morning until the time she goes to bed, I have no time to myself. I can’t even take a shower until Terry goes to bed. You don’t want to hear about my other bathroom habits, and what I have to do to take care of them.

These days being a caregiver is 50% trying to entertain Terry and 50% trying to keep her safe. A few years ago, when I first knew Terry’s trips around the sun were extremely limited I made a resolution to make every day the best it could be for her.

But that was before the acting out, the violence. Before she began acting like Attila the Hun on the first day of his period.

When she gets sad, I feel so sorry for her. But when she gets mad, I feel sorry for me.

March, April and May came in like a lion, but they did not go out like a lamb, more like the shark from the movie Jaws. With transitions from lion to rabid mountain lion to Tasmanian Devil on the way.

During the month of May things got worse by the day. I dreaded getting up in the morning. Five to 10 outbursts a day, getting louder, more frequent and more violent by the day. Rock bottom arrived on Mother’s Day weekend, the week we were supposed to travel to visit Terry’s family.

Except for other caregivers who care for their spouse, no one knows what it is like to go through what a caregiver goes through.  Sure, they know you feed, bathe, dress and care for someone 24 hours a day. But they can’t know how it feels when the person that is most important in your life, the person you gave up your entire life for, the person you spend 24 hours a day trying to keep not only safe but happy, when that person hits you and screams ‘fuck you’ at you in a violent rage.

I’ll tell you what it feels like. It tears your fuckin heart out!

And my heart’s been torn so much I began taking aspirin every day because of the chest pains I now get on a daily basis. I used to lock the house doors when I needed to see a man about a horse but now I am afraid of dying in the bathroom and no one can come in to help because Terry no longer knows how to unlock the doors.

The neurologist put Terry on a new medicine, designed for bi-polars and schizos, and after a violent reaction the first weekend, things began to improve. The episodes became less frequent and less violent.

Like the song says;

If you’re going through Hell

Keep on going, don’t slow down

If you’re scared, don’t show it

You might get out

Before the devil even knows you’re there.

We kept going and we got out. But once it looked like we were out of the woods another symptom cropped up. Convulsions.

Not like seizures or anything like that. More like when you are dreaming that you are falling, and you wake up with a body shake. Or when you have something small and precious in your hand and you begin to drop it. The way your arms and hands react to that, like trying to catch the soap slipping out of your hands in the shower. Only Terry does that when she is not holding or dropping anything.

Several times a day, and more frequently as the days go by. It mainly happens when I ask or tell Terry to do something. The message is no longer getting from the brain to the muscles without going through roadblocks and detours.

The neurologist asked me last fall at our annual visit if she was having any hallucinations (none at that time) or convulsions (none at that time but he knew what to expect). I wish I could still say no to those questions when we visit him again in a few weeks.

Along with the involuntary arm movements there is another problem we are experiencing. Terry can no longer deal with settings with large crowds. Even when the crowd is made up of family members.

We were finally able to take that trip to visit Terry’s family but being in the backyard with 20 other people, even though they were brothers, sisters, cousins, nieces and nephews, and her mother, she could not get comfortable. She couldn’t laugh or be happy. She wasn’t mad or upset, thanks to the new meds, but not happy either.

But once we got home she was laughing again.

My lifelong best friend recently walked his daughter down the aisle and thank God we were able to witness it. But once the ceremony was over and the major party began, we had to leave. Terry got to see a lot of old familiar faces that were like her second family for the first 30 years of our marriage and that part was great.  But the fact that we had to leave so early was just another reminder to me how I can no longer enjoy so many things.

But after a horrible month of May the summer gradually improved, and we were able to enjoy that. Even though it was the first summer in 50 years I was not able to see, smell or put my toes in the ocean.

It is funny the things you miss, things you take for granted until you can no longer enjoy them.

That won’t happen when it comes to my wife Terry. I can never take what we had, what we still have, for granted. I sure do miss her, though.

Until next time (hopefully I am back in the saddle again and next time won’t be three months), enjoy what you have and don’t take anything, or anyone, for granted.

Bud

Mayhem

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and while many people around the world were celebrating May Day yesterday, I was dealing with Mayhem.

I intended to write something yesterday about May Day. I even painted a pole and decorated it with flowers for inspiration. I based my May Pole on the only one I ever saw; the one Oscar and Felix were dancing around in Central Park during the credits of the early ‘70s TV show “Odd Couple.”

I never got a chance to attach the ribbons to the top of my May Pole yesterday. I was dealing with too much mayhem.

Mayhem. You know, chaos. And I don’t mean KAOS, the evil organization my favorite spy of all time, Agent 86 Maxwell Smart used to battle. Although, I was feeling like I was losing CONTROL. There are so many times when I wished I had a cone of silence.

Theses days I have no silence, just Mayhem. Like havoc, disorder, bedlam. Mayhem.

These days it is like I am stuck in an Allstate insurance commercial. Always dealing with that guy in the suit with the black eye and a butterfly bandage above the other eye who represents mayhem. The ringing cell phone you try to reach underneath the passenger seat in the car while driving. The satellite dish on the roof of your house that you try to adjust yourself. The wife having violent hallucinations due to Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease.

I spend so much of my time putting out fires I should join the IAFF.

I thought I could handle it when my meek and mild wife began hallucinating, talking gibberish and becoming violent.

Causing mayhem.

I grew up in the ‘60s, when, in Catholic grade school, we would have the May Procession. I remember it as a lot of standing and singing, but it always smelled good with the flowers. Back then there were hardcore Catholics, going to Mass said in Latin, and I was taught that sometimes, even if you were good, you had to go through Purgatory to expiate your sins before going to Heaven. Well, lately I have become pretty convinced that I have done my time in purgatory.

Lately I feel I have been rolling downhill like a snowball heading for hell.

But the Pope recently said something that people mistook as him saying there may not really be a hell.

That is something my wife Terry has believed for the last 15 years or so, once she began studying the Bible. She believed that Heaven was for a very select few, the rest of the people who lived good lives would return to a new system and live on a perfect earth, like a Garden of Eden.

And those who lived lives not worthy of reward, well they would not go to hell. They would just die. Done. End. Fin. No hell. Just nothing. Game over, losers!

Well, I can testify that there certainly is a hell, and I believe I am living in it right now.

Things in the Bible are often said three times for emphasis. “Holy, Holy, Holy.” The cock crowed three times. Gomer Pyle saying “Surprise, Surprise, Surprise.”

I wish I could have written this yesterday, so I could have cried out “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday.”

I realize I am not an aviator or a sailor, but I am afraid I am in distress. I am in distress seeing my wife in distress.  We are experiencing extreme anxiety and sorrow. Pain.

There are several signs that I am living in hell. For one, my dreams are better than my actual life.

When I was living in Miami in college, I was always the last one to bed and the first one to get up in the morning. I was having too much fun to sleep.

Since college days I have not been a morning person. Lately, I absolutely hate mornings. When I get out of bed in the early AM (to see a man about a horse) I am as quiet as I can be because I dread it when Terry wakes up. I want pre-mornings in bed to last as long as possible. Because lately my wife wakes up fightin’ mad and stays that way almost till noon.

There will be 15-20 minute periods here and there when she will calm down, and I take advantage of those moments to feed, wash and dress her. Too often the calm periods don’t last as long as the task. The worst is in the shower. I am so scared that she will freak out while in the slippery tub.

Or in public.

My beautiful wife’s outbursts have not only gotten more often but have also reached new audiences. They used to be just for me, but over the last month my son and daughter have experienced them. This past week Terry freaked out on me in a store. And the one that really scared me was the other day when she freaked out in the car while I was driving. That especially bothered me because we have a 5 hour, 250 mile drive ahead of us in the near future to visit Terry’s family.

I know what you are thinking. Yes, there is medication to help prevent these outbursts. Thanks for the tip. I began them last October, and they worked, now and then. But back in the winter Terry became unable to swallow pills. So, being a college ‘edge-a-ma-gated pour-son,’ I came up with an alternative. I would dissolve her meds in a shot of water. That way she could drink the meds. They tasted like shit, so I had a second shot, a chaser, of juice, Gatorade or green tea. She would do the shot of meds, make the “bitter beer face” and then do the shot of good tasting liquid.

Done deal.

Until a month or two ago, when Terry could no longer do the med shot. She started spitting it out. SPITTING IT OUT!! One day’s worth of her meds cost whatever $630 a month divided by 30 equals. Don’t spit that out!

But she did. She spit it out once on the floor, once on her own shirt, once on me. (three times for emphasis) Time to come up with a new plan.  So I began going straight to the chaser. Dilute the meds in water and mix it with a drink. First attempt was bad. The Gatorade didn’t cut it. Orange juice worked for a few days but then I had to go to the hard stuff. Pineapple juice with coconut flavoring.

Some mornings it works, sometimes it doesn’t. So, I came up with a newer plan.

Crushing the meds between two spoons, mixing them in with her favorite yogurt, and adding granola so when she feels a crunch in her yogurt she isn’t specious.

So far, so good, but the situation is fluid. Always changing. Whenever I think I figured out the solution to the problem, the problem changes. Reminds me of 8^th grade algebra and trig.

This is my hell. My state of torment. Sorry Dante, there is nothing Devine about this and it certainly is not a Comedy.

It is mayhem.

Until next time, appreciate the harmony in your life. Chaos is only enjoyable when spelled with a K and is being fought by Agent 86.

Bud

April Fool

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and even though this is my 62^nd April 1^st, I am still playing the fool. The first of April is the day I always remember what I am the other 364 days.

Now that I am at the tail end of middle age, I think back to THE middle ages, medieval times, the age of discovery, when the fool was the stand-up comedian, the court jester. The funny guy.

My age of discovery, grade school, was when I first got a taste of being the funny guy, and since then that has always brought me joy.

Nowadays, when there is rarely any joy in Mudville, that is what I do all day, try to entertain my wife Terry, who is in the middle stage of Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease.

These days I am always playing the fool. Every day is April 1. I WISH someone was playing a practical joke on me.

The first joke I ever told in public, outside of my house or circle of friends, was in grade school. The teacher was talking about ostriches. I raised my hand and, when called upon, told her that I had recently visited an ostrich farm. I told her that these two large ostriches were walking toward a smaller one. All of a sudden, the smaller one stuck his head in the sand. Then the one big ostrich said to the other big ostrich, “Where did he go?”

No one laughed until the teacher did, then everyone did. The teacher made me tell it again to the teacher and class across the hall. It was an older class so some laughed, some threw things at me. Some did both. I felt pretty good that day.

These days, the days I feel pretty good are pretty few and far between. Like once every Blue Moon. And not just because Terry hardly laughs at my jokes anymore, or even gets them. But after a tough day yesterday she did last night. Must have been the Blue Moon we had last night. (It was probably watching Villanova and her Red Sox win.)

In high school, after playing tackle football in the Kenwood neighborhood, we would drink beer in Rizzo’s backyard or by the creek (pronounced crick) and try to make each other laugh. That was a talented crowd so you had to bring you’re ‘A’ game or keep your mouth shut. That was my quiet period.

In my professional career I enjoyed our dry, monthly 8am staff meetings, so I could say anything remotely funny and that would break the mood and get a laugh.

In college I had a roommate for three years who would laugh at the drop of a hat and we hung out with girls who would do the same, so I enjoyed making them laugh.

And as far as practical jokes go, every day could have been April 1 the way we carried on in the college dorms.

In college I could always find a way to make the girls laugh. Make the girls like me, however, was a different story. But after college I finally found a girl who I made laugh, I made like me, and even love me, almost as much as I loved her.

I miss that girl.

My wife Terry today is no longer the Terry I feel in love with almost 40 years ago. Granted, I am not the same knucklehead I was either. All of my knuckles are much larger now, including the one on my shoulders.  (How could I have become old and wise if I wasn’t once young and crazy?).

But Terry’s knucklehead is shrinking. Rapidly. It’s like it has picked up speed. Her change lately has been a major decline, like sledding down Kilimanjaro, like falling down the steps of the Empire State Building (I realize there are probably 20 buildings bigger but I’m old, so I use old references).

It wasn’t like I didn’t know this was coming. I have been preparing myself for this ever since the good doctors at the Loyola Clinic in Baltimore gave us the news four years ago that turned our world upside down. I wish that was a practical joke.

I thought I was ready for this. Turns out I was the fool.

I really thought I could handle it. I think The Bible says something about God won’t give you more than what you can handle.  At least not without his help. I am afraid I am getting pretty close to finding out just how much that is.

My friends all tell me I need a break from caregiving. Just a few hours a few times a week. But I can’t. It is not like leaving an infant with someone to babysit. The infant doesn’t know or care who is changing its diaper.

And not only that, but I can’t relax and enjoy my time away from Terry because the entire time I am not with her I am hurrying to get back to be with her, to make sure she is okay.

A couple of days ago, Good Friday, was a good day. We didn’t good outside as planned, it was very cloudy, almost dark. (ever notice it is almost always cloudy on Good Friday?) But we still had a good day. Terry was in good spirits most of the day and was laughing at times.

Yesterday was just the opposite. Terry woke up fightin’ mad, extremely ornery almost all day, and it makes for a long day.

My days may go slow but the months and years are going fast. I can’t believe it has been 18 months since I quit my job and became a full-time caregiver.

There will be a day way too soon when Terry doesn’t know or care who is taking care of her, and maybe then I will be able to ‘enjoy’ some time for myself. But I’m certainly not looking forward to that day.

So until then, I will play the fool.

A practical joke usually makes the victim feel discomfort, perplexity, confusion.

Terry and I both feel all of those things these days. It seems like we are both the victim of a mean, April 1^st practical joke.

Until next time, don’t be a fool. Just enjoy each other while you can. Happy Easter.

Bud

March Madness

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and the month of March used to make me mad. Now, I am afraid, with the passing of every month of March, my wife is slowly going mad.

Before I took an early retirement to become a full-time caregiver, I got pretty good at being in two places at once. But being in three places at once was always a challenge, and that is what the month of March used to demand of me.

In my former line of work, the month of March was truly maddening. Exciting, but maddening. Of our 20 varsity sports, our two flagship sports, the ones that got us on national TV every year, were both winter sports, basketball and wrestling. And on every March 1, those two sports would be gearing up for their conference championships and national post-season competition.  Exciting stuff. But the problem was, at the same time, our spring sports had already begun competing.

Being a baseball guy, the spring season was always my favorite, and March 1 began the anticipation of spring weather. The reason I got into my field of endeavor in the first place was because when I was a college baseball player the person who had the career I eventually took up worked closely with the baseball team.

But when I worked in the month of March, before I could concentrate on and enjoy the baseball season, I had to deal with the winter sports in the most important part of their seasons.

I was a multi-tasker before anyone ever used that expression.

Now that I am a full-time caregiver for my wife Terry, who is in the middle stage of Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, the multi-tasking I now perform makes what I had to do in my former career seem like a piece of cake. And I really like cake.

There are several phrases that I truly believe I will never say in my lifetime. Phrases like “Yes dear, as a matter of fact that outfit does make you look fat.” “No thanks, I don’t drink.” Or even “Yes, I think Trump is a great, honest and fair man and a great, honest and fair President.”

And so far, so good on those three phrases.

But the one phrase that I was most sure I would never say in my lifetime was “I miss my job.”

Well, if the Philadelphia Eagles can win a Super Bowl with a back-up quarterback, the Houston Astros can win a World Series with one of the lowest payrolls in baseball and the United States can elect a self-proclaimed “very stable genius,” I guess all bets are off.

I used to work 70-hour weeks, nights and weekends, from late August till late May, for 35 years, and now I must admit that I miss it.

I miss having written a game story on deadline and being proud of it the next day when people tell me how much they enjoyed it more than the story in the newspapers. I miss writing a feature story about a student-athlete that not only appeared on our web page or in our alumni magazine but in the athletes’ hometown newspaper and hearing from the parents how happy they were to read it.

I miss traveling to places like Florida State, Georgia Tech or U. of Miami for NCAA baseball tournaments. Traveling to places like Kentucky’s Rupp Arena, Virginia’s John Paul Jones Arena or Allen Field House in Kansas for basketball games. Or traveling to Carver-Hawkeye Arena in Iowa, the Bryce Jordan Center at Penn State or Lehigh’s Grace Hall for wrestling matches.

And even more than traveling to those cathedrals of college sports, I miss traveling to places like New Rochelle, Poughkeepsie or Albany, NY, places that I used to drive to with my co-pilot, my shotgun rider, my best friend, Terry.

The first 20 years or so of my job I traveled mostly with the teams, while Terry was home with the kids. But once the kids were old enough to fend for themselves, Terry was my navigator as we drove to the games.

Before GPS was on everyone’s phone, we traveled with printed out directions and a Rand-McNally atlas road map. If we hit a detour, road construction or heavy traffic, Terry could read the map and tell me where to go.

About five or six years ago, when Terry could no longer figure out where to go when looking at the map, is when I started to worry. That was one of the first signs that her cognitive skills were decreasing at an alarming rate. About three years ago when she no longer knew how to drive the five miles to her job, is when I took the car keys away.

And that is when I began my career as a caregiver. At first it was part-time, before and after work. Then I began coming home at lunchtime. Finally, 17 months ago, it became a full-time job and I had to quit the job I now miss.

The job I had for 38 years, 35+ on the NCAA Division I level, was not easy. It was hard, but it was supposed to be hard. If it wasn’t hard everyone would do it. Or at least try to do it. There are only about 300 of them out there, and I had one. When I applied for that job in 1981 I was one of 88 applicants.

Looking back now I was lucky to have that job. But now I feel luckier to have the job I now have.

Caregiving is not easy. Sometimes when I’m hurt, and I want to give up, I try to remember Terry is worth it. I try to remember the amazing person I fell in love with. I try to remember the words of a very wise Rastafarian.

“If she’s amazing, she won’t be easy. If she’s easy, she won’t be amazing. If she’s worth it, you won’t give up. If you give up, you’re not worthy. Truth is, everybody is going to hurt you; you just gotta find the one worth suffering for.”

Well I certainly found that person, and I certainly am suffering.

Seeing Terry’s mind deteriorate before my very eyes is a killer. But I know she is worth it. And like my former job, I know I am lucky to have this one.

I’m lucky to be able to be her caregiver. So many Alzheimer’s patients have total strangers as their caregivers. Their spouses are either dead or can’t quit their jobs to do it or just aren’t up to the task.

I’m lucky that I was able to quit the job I loved to care for my best friend, my partner, my Terry.

This March will probably be the toughest one I’ve ever had, tougher than the one when Terry was first diagnosed, and tougher than every March since then.

Until next time, fill out your bracket and enjoy March Madness. It will be tough, but I will try to do the same, without getting mad while my best friend is going mad.

Bud

budfocht@gmail.com