Separation Anxiety

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and I have discovered that I have more in common with my son’s dog than I already knew. I already knew we were both lovable, we both liked being scratched by my wife Terry and we both have large, fat tails.

(Let me clarify that last remark. I’m talking about his fat tail and my fat butt, not a vestigial tail that I may or may not have been born with.)

When my son was very young I was his best friend. I guess he didn’t have quite the imagination needed to have an imaginary friend.  As he grew up he compiled many, many real friends. To this day when he goes out with Nick, an old high school friend, Nick cannot get over the fact that no matter where they go, from Hoboken to Atlantic City to Philadelphia, there is always someone there who knows my son.

When my son got older and became a man, and no longer needed my fatherly advice (so he thinks), he became my best friend.

But now he has a four-legged best friend.  And his new best friend and I have something else in common.

We both have separation anxiety.

Whereas my son’s dog, Harry, reacts to being alone by destroying things (window blinds seem to be his favorite target), I react in other ways.

When my son was very young I returned home from a two-week road trip in December, arriving home on Christmas Eve. I couldn’t wait to get home and see my young family after working on the road for so long, especially right before Christmas.

When I arrived back in town, I went from the airport directly to my parents’ house, where my kids were staying while Terry was working at the YMCA, teaching gymnastics to toddlers (GymJam). The kids (only two of them at that time) were upstairs playing with their older cousin. When I called for them to come down so they could greet their prodigal father, they said they were still playing and not ready to leave. I went upstairs and informed them, in so many words, that it was time to go.  I was anxious to get home and see my wife and prepare the house for Santa’s arrival. When my son vetoed my instructions, I picked him up and carried him down the steps so we could leave.

My son has always been an independent thinker and, as he said, was not ready to leave.  He decided that his only way of breaking free of my grasp while going down the steps was to bite me on the shoulder.

Needless to say, that was the first and only time that ever happened. When we reached the bottom of the steps I carefully placed him on the floor and proceeded to beat the shit out of him. I’m not sure what hurt more, his butt or my hand. Or my heart.

(a lot of child rearing ‘experts’ believe that spanking is not the proper way to handle misbehaving children. All I know is that was the only time I ever had to do that. I was never bit again and my son never gave me another reason to spank him again. After that incident, when I gave instructions, they were carried out. lesson learned.)

After that unceremonious reception we went home. It was the first time I was home in two weeks. I was very happy to be home. I went into my bedroom and cried like a baby.

To this day I’m not sure if I cried because I just had to beat my son, or the fact that it was not exactly the homecoming I had hoped for.  Either way, I think that was the beginning of my separation anxiety.

I was reminded of this anxiety this past two weeks when I was away from home on a nine-day road trip.  I have had many of these road trips over the years, but this was the first since I became a caregiver. Since my Terry was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease.

I was hoping that while I was away, talking to Terry on the phone once or twice a day would ease my anxiety.  

It did not.

Knowing that my three children were spending time with Terry over the Thanksgiving holiday did wonders for my insecurities. But talking to Terry on the phone did not help that much.

As I mentioned in previous blogs, since Terry has been afflicted by this disease, she has become even quieter than she was when I first meet her, a shy, introverted cutie with an infectious smile.

These days, if I don’t start the conversation with her, it doesn’t happen. So talking on the phone has quite a bit of dead air. I tell her about my day and ask her about her day. But I can’t ask too many questions. With Terry’s memory, or lack thereof, it is tough.

I spoke to Terry Thanksgiving morning and she told me about the different foods the kids were preparing for the feast.  My son was making the turkey; my daughters were making the stuffing, gravy, potatoes, cranberry sauce, sweet potato casserole, green beans, rolls and sangria.

Thanksgiving night I called Terry and asked her how her day was and I asked her what she ate. She guessed “chicken?”

Wiping a tear from my eye and taking a big swallow, I reminded her that it was probably turkey, not chicken. She laughed it off, as she always does. Thank God she still has her sense of humor.

A few weeks ago we were listening to music, as we always do, and one of my favorite 70’s bands, the Pretenders, was playing one of their first big hits, “Brass in Pocket.” One of the recurring lines in the song “I’m special, so special” was playing and Terry said “I’m special, like Special Ed.”

How can you not love that?

Its funny how when the kids were growing up and I was on the road, I depended on Terry to take care of the kids while I was gone. Now, I depend on my kids to take care of Terry while I am gone.

Full cycle. Who knew?

So now I am heading home from my road trip.  I can’t wait to see my wife. To talk to her in person.  She may not be able to remember what she had for dinner but she still remembers me. She still remembers how we feel about each other.   Those are things I don’t take for granted anymore.  I know there will be a day in the not too distant future that this will not be the case.  This disease will separate us from what we have, what we are.

That is the separation anxiety I am suffering from.

Until next time, stay connected to your loved ones.

Bud