Looking Out for Number Two

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and I have decided I need to be more selfish.

That is not a typo, I did not mean selfless. No, I’m going to be more selfish.

(Speaking of typos, in French, the word for typo is coquille. But when you translate that word into English it means seashell. Talk about things being lost in translation. It is a good thing I don’t blog in French. It would look like a sandy beach with all my seashells on it.)

And speaking of one of my favorite places to be, a sandy beach, I am going to start thinking more about myself.

When my wife Terry was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease 15 months ago, the good doctors at the clinic said that one of the top things I now have to do as a caregiver is to take care of myself.

In all the reading I did when we first got that horrible news, a common theme was that one of the most important and most often forgotten tasks for caregivers is caring for themselves. A caregiver’s physical, emotional and mental health is vital to the well-being of the person they are caring for. To be a good caregiver, you must be good to yourself.

I thought they meant “don’t get too stressed out” or “make sure you have some ‘me’ time.” Things like that.

I read helpful hints like: “Taking care of your own emotional health and physical needs makes you a more effective caregiver.” 

I didn’t really agree with that one. In my mind, what made me a good caregiver or not was determined by how safe and how happy I could make Terry. The quality of her life would be the judge of my caregiving effectiveness.

Taking care of myself was pretty far down on my list of things to do that spring, and ever since for that matter. It has been all about giving Terry a great vacation, a great day, a great moment. After all, those doctors at the clinic who said I need to take care of myself were the same ones who told us it was “Bucket List time.” They actually used those exact words.

Which brings me back to me being more selfish. I recently began thinking about my mortality.

I took Terry to New England for a four-day weekend over the Fourth of July to visit her mother, four of her sisters, one of her brothers, along with a dozen nieces, nephews, grandnieces and grandnephews and a couple of brothers-in-law thrown in for good measure.

Needless to say, there were a lot of pictures being taken. When looking at them, I kept asking myself, “Who is that fat guy in the picture with Terry?”

“Holy shit, am I a load!” I kept thinking while looking at the pix. At least I hope that was me thinking that and not me hearing my in-laws saying that under their breath.

That’s when it hit me. (Then, and when I was carrying two suitcases and my lap top up three flights of stairs in my mother-in-law’s house.)  “If I had a heart attack right now who the hell was going to take care of Terry?”

Terry can no longer take care of herself.

That scared me. It was my wake-up call. I’m not going to hit the snooze button and wait until I get a REAL wake-up call, like chest pains or other weight-related ailments.

It is about time I got this under control.

For most of my life I weighed in at 185 pounds, which was fine for a 6’1” frame.

As the kids arrived I used to tell them every spring that I was mad at their mother because during the winter she somehow shrunk all of my summer clothes.

I usually put weight on in the winter and take it off in the spring.

The last few (hey, 10 can be a few) springs, the weight I took off (any pounds?) did not equal the weight I put on (many pounds!) during the winter.

But I was always in pretty good shape. Okay, decent shape.  Okay, when my student workers at the athletic contests asked me if I was an athlete in college I’d always say, “No, I was not an athlete, I was a baseball player.”

But when my playing days were over I was a runner (okay, a jogger). But I used to run (jog) three to five miles every day at lunchtime. I even broke 6:00 in the mile (once). That would keep the weight off.

The last 15-20 years I have not been able to run, so I rode a bike and walked. I used to walk or work out every day at lunchtime. Having an office in a gymnasium helps make that a bit too convenient to not take advantage of.

I would play around with some weights but the highlight of the workout, the thing that kept me in shape (or close to it), was the Stairmaster.

The Stairmaster was the greatest invention of all time. It would kick my ass, I’d sweat like a pig, but it never hurt. With my old joints and old injuries, too many machines hurt when I try to use them.

No one has a Stairmaster anymore. It has given way to the Elliptical. The Elliptical is like cross country skiing, with your arms and legs moving in long strokes. I am afraid I am not coordinated enough for the Elliptical. Especially if I’m chewing gum. Plus, it hurt my back when I could actually work it.

There are two different exercise/weight rooms on campus and neither have a Stairmaster anymore.  The only Stairmaster still on campus is in the trainer’s room.  I can’t bring myself to work out in there, in front of those brave varsity athletes who are injured or are receiving treatments or rehabbing. In my book, that is a place of honor.

Without a Stairmaster to sweat on I began to walk for exercise. I am afraid I would have to walk close to a marathon to get a workout like the one the Stairmaster used to give me. But at least it was something.

For the last several months, however, it has been nothing.

I haven’t been walking or working out at all at lunch time. Instead, I have been spending my mid-days in a car, driving home to spend mid-day with Terry. To make sure she is okay, to help her fix her lunch, to help her carry out the few chores she can still do. To help her with her Bible Studies.

Terry no longer knows how to work the remote control so I help her find a show on television. Watching Wimbeldon has been great for her the last few days. It brings back memories of when she played in college and during the summers of her youth. It makes her feel good.

Driving home and being with Terry at lunchtime instead of exercising has taken its toll on my body. (That, and maybe the amount of beer I drink and ice cream I eat. Maybe.) I am now weighing in at an all-time high.

I need to drop some pounds, lose the beer gut, get back (or closer to being) in shape. I’ve said that before, and I’ve done it before. I just haven’t done it as many times as I’ve said it.

When trying to lose weight people try all these fancy diets that don’t always work. It is really simple. You have to burn off more than you take in. Period. Doesn’t matter what you eat or how much you eat (or drink), as long as you burn it off, and then some.

Since I am no longer able to burn off calories as easily as I was in my younger days, I need to take in less. A LOT less.

Starting today, the weight loss has begun. I need to take care of myself, for Terry’s sake. She needs a caregiver. She needs me. What better incentive can there be?

From this day forward, I am going to be looking out for number two.

That is not a seashell, I mean a coquille, a typo. I did not mean to say the name of  Robert Ringer’s number one best-selling book from the late 70s, Looking Out for Number One.

I have been looking out for number one for the last 15 months or so. Terry is my number one. I’m now going to start also looking out for number two.

Until next time, you look out for your number one. I’ve got to start looking out for number two.

Bud