Christmas Spirit Takes Precedence Over Christmas Season

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and we had snow over the weekend. With the first snowfall of the season, I’ve had a change of heart when it comes to beginning the Christmas Season.

I used to hate it when we no sooner changed the clocks in the fall and the stores would start playing Christmas music and people in the neighborhood would start putting up Christmas lights.

It was always too soon for me.

It ranked right up there with seeing Back-To-School sales in July newspapers when I was trying to enjoy my boyhood summers.

Even starting the Christmas Season on Black Friday used to bother me, when all I wanted to try to do was digest turkey, stuffing, yams, peas, biscuits, ham, turkey, sweet potatoes, string beans, corn bread, cranberry sauce, turkey, gravy, carrots, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie and turkey from the day before.

I now know that my own ‘War on (the rush to) Christmas’ was because, with my work schedule, I was never ready to deal with all of the commercialization of the holiday. You know, having to fight the crowds to buy gifts, putting up tacky decorations on the house, drinking way too much eggnog. Instead of putting me in the Christmas Spirit, it was making me act like Ebenezer Grinch.

I have a neighbor who lets everyone on our street know when to celebrate what. October 1 the witches, jack-o-lanterns, fake grave stones and skeletons are in place in the front yard. November 1 the giant turkeys and pilgrims inflate. And on Black Friday, when everyone else in the neighborhood is either in a shopping line or trying to find a parking spot at the mall, he is hanging his Christmas lights.

When I was growing up in a Catholic family in the 60s, taught by grade school nuns, the Christmas season would begin with Advent, usually the first Sunday of December. Four Sundays to prepare for the celebration of the birth of Christ.

We believed Christmas was all about what Linus told Good Ol Charlie Brown. “And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were so afraid. And the angel said unto them, ‘Fear not, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.’ And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

I still believe that, but I am afraid I have grown to know that the chronology doesn’t work for December 25.

Santa from the North Pole works well with the pagan winter solstice rituals and made for a good time of year to kill a tree and give presents, but I am afraid Biblical historians will tell you otherwise. All indications point to Jesus of Nazareth, because of, among other reasons, shepherds being in the fields watching their flocks, was actually born during late summer or early fall, probably in September. That also coincides with the Biblical fact of Jesus being born about six months after John the Baptist, who we know was born in the spring, probably March.

Turns out these days December 25 is just a good day for Jews to go out and eat Chinese food before going to the movies.

Sorry. That last paragraph or so sounded a little Bah Humbugish. Like the Scrooge that Stole Christmas.

But I’ve had a change of heart. And not a heart two sizes too small, like Scrooge. Or was that the Grinch? I seem to be mixing my midwinter metaphors.

Now that I am a caregiver 24 hours a day for my wife Terry, who is in the middle stages of Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, I no longer have time for all of the commercialization bullshit of the holiday. I can no longer afford to buy gifts. I don’t decorate. I don’t even have time to get out to the store to pick up too much eggnog.

And because I no longer do all of the running around, because I no longer deal with all of the commercialized holiday bull, I now believe more in the miracle of the Christmas Spirit, and look for it to arrive as soon as possible.

Because the miracle of the Christmas Spirit is something we need to believe in, as Bill Murray so eloquently said at the end of the movie Scrooged: “If you believe in this spirit thing, the miracle will happen and then you'll want it to happen again tomorrow. You won't be one of these bastards who says 'Christmas is once a year and it's a fraud', it's NOT! It can happen every day, you've just got to want that feeling. And if you like it and you want it, you'll get greedy for it! You'll want it every day of your life and it can happen to you. I believe in it now! I believe it's going to happen to me now! I'm ready for it! And it's great! It's a good feeling, it's really better than I've felt in a long time. I'm ready. Have a Merry Christmas, everybody.”

Like I used to say to the coeds when I was in college, especially the hippie chicks, “There isn’t enough love in this world, so maybe we should make a little.”

Love and Peace and Joy, that is what the Christmas Spirit is all about.

Everybody acts a little nicer when they have the Christmas Spirit. Like the way my wife Terry used to act ALL the time.

Terry was the meekest, most polite and good-hearted person I have ever met. There is not a person alive or dead who ever met Terry and did not love her, did not feel the peace and joy in her heart.

About 20 years ago Terry found a group of people who were very similar to her. She joined their Bible Study group and was very happy. About three years ago her diminished cognitive skills prevented her from following what was going on, so I began taking her to their weekly meetings and one of their annual regional conventions.

And at that convention I Witnessed something extraordinary. At a convention attended by close to 9,000 people, I saw a young mother go up to a perfect stranger and say “Could you hold my baby while I use the restroom?” And when she returned from the restroom there were three or four additional people, men and women, all helping to entertain the baby until the young mother returned.

Now how many of us would ever have the testicles to do something like that, and feel in full confidence that everything would be all right?

Is there a group you know of that if you went to their convention, you could do that? The Democratic or Republican Conventions? Maybe the Teamsters?

If I went to a ball game with 9,000 people I wouldn’t trust a stranger to hold my beer, let alone my baby.

As I said a few minutes ago I grew up Catholic.  But I don’t think I could even ask someone I didn’t know to hold my baby in church while I used the little alter boy’s room.

In over 50 years of Church-going I witnessed too many times people smiling and shaking hands with the sign of peace during Mass and 20 minutes later cutting each other off trying to get out of the parking lot in order to get home to watch the game or get a good seat at IHOP.

But these people I Witnessed at that convention always seem to have the spirit that some of us are only lucky enough to experience around the Christmas Season. 

So now I believe the longer we can experience “the miracle” of the Christmas Season, Christmas Spirit, that Bill Murray spoke about, the better.

Let’s start the Christmas Season, start spreading the Christmas Spirit, as soon as possible.

How about Christmas in July?

Until next time, spread the Christmas Spirit, and don’t stop spreading it when you take down the tacky Christmas decorations.

Bud

Can I Be Peace if You Be Quiet?

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and my quiet wife Terry has become quite a talker. And it not only bothers me, it scares me.

When I first met Terry, she was so quiet, it was like pulling teeth to get her to open up and talk, especially about herself.  Now, she talks TO herself. All night. Now, when she opens up in the middle of the night it is like trying to fall asleep when you have a toothache.

I’ve told people for years that when Terry and I first met, with her poor hearing along with her thick Rhode Island accent, our conversations consisted mainly of us saying to each other; “What?”, “Excuse me?”, or as proper New Englanders often say when they don’t hear or understand what you say, “Please?”.

A few months ago, well into the middle stage of Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, Terry began talking to herself.  At first it was as if she was ‘thinking out loud.’ The voice was a whisper, like no one else was supposed to hear. When I first began hearing it I would ask her what she said, and she acted like ‘What are you taking about? I didn’t say anything.’ and she really wasn’t aware that she had whispered something out loud.

The whispering is happening more and more often, and a few times lately she has whispered to herself “She won’t shut up! She keeps talking.” like it was someone else in her head that she was talking to. Or talking about. Or both. I’m not sure.

What I AM sure of is that it scared me.

Not quite as scared as I am of the violent behavior, though. The anger, the rage. Terry has gone from a ‘flight’ type of person to a ‘fight’ type. Now I am becoming the flighter. (Is that a word? flightee?)

The worst is when Terry wakes up from a dream and there is no convincing her that it was not real. If that dream happens to make her angry, look out. She sometimes wakes up fightin’ mad.

I used to keep a sawed-off wood baseball bat in my bedroom. It was my low-tech security system, a former 34 inch, 33 ounce thick-handle Louisville Slugger, cut off between the label and the sweet spot. About 25 inches of white ash whoop ass.

On the advice of Terry’s neurologist (and my sister) I hid the bat.

So far, the only thing Terry has hit me with is her open hands. Let’s keep it that way. I can handle that. To paraphrase Paul Newman’s Butch Cassidy and his reason for you not hitting your mother with a shovel, that baseball bat could “leave a dull impression on my mind.”

I didn’t want to do it but on more advice from Terry’s neurologist, as well as family members and friends, we put Terry on Zoloft, to go along with the Alzheimer’s meds (Donepezil and Nemenda) that she has been taking for years.

I was hesitant to give Terry the Zoloft, an antidepressant, because I didn’t want to numb her down. The last year or so she would laugh harder but also get more pissed off more often. Her emotions began to extreme out.  I did want to stop the anger. I needed to stop the anger, but I didn’t want to stop the laughter. I needed Terry’s laughter. Terry laughing is the greatest sound in the world. Better than the sound of crunching leaves or crunching snow under foot. Better than the sound of crashing waves on the beach. Better than the sound of bubble wrap popping.

It has been a week on the Zoloft and so far, so good with the anger. The violence and anger have decreased greatly, and I am still able to make her laugh every day. The problem is Terry takes more cat-naps during the day, falling asleep for two to 20 minutes at a time on the couch while watching television.

Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE it when Terry takes a cat-nap. It gives this big cat a chance to do things, like visit the big cat litter box in peace.

But because of the cat-naps during the day she sleeps less at night. And when Terry is awake at night, I am awake at night.

Lying awake in bed she will whisper to herself the entire time, sometimes saying the same five or six-word sentence 10-15 times in a row. Good thing I hid that bat, I might have hit myself in the head.

Sometimes I think I need a Zoloft!  At first, I probably did. I tried to stop the talking. It was so monotonous and when I am sleep deprived I am not the most patient person. (probably not when I have had my eight hours either).

But trying to stop the whispering just made Terry angry, and we don’t want that! What is that expression? ‘Happy wife, happy life?’ Well I have another expression. ‘Pissed off wife, hide the knife!’

So, I have learned to just let her go on talking. Like when the baby has to learn to cry itself back to sleep instead of getting picked up and rocked. Just let her talk herself back to sleep. The only time I interject now is when the voice begins to get angry. Then I try to nip it in the bud before Bud gets nipped.

A couple of times Terry has woken up in the middle of the night upset at me because I put her in the dark, so I had to put the light on. As the late-great John Lennon said, Whatever Gets You Through the Night.  So now I sometimes have to sleep with a bright light above our bed.

Another down side to the Zoloft is the decrease in Terry’s ability to take direction. Not that she was very good at it before we started this new med, but I have definitely seen an immediate decline the last week since she began taking it.

And I’m not talking about tough directions, like where to find Atlantis or how to make an atomic bomb. I’m talking about directions like “brush, spit, rinse, spit. Brush, spit, rinse, spit” or “take your shoes off” or “stop hitting me.”

But that is just another thing I have to work on. This caregiving thing is a fluid situation, always changing. It is like being a Marine; adapting, improvising, overcoming.

Except instead of someone shooting at me, my wife is slapping me or worse yet, talking to me when I am trying to sleep, with a bright light over me.

Okay, maybe I’m not like a Marine. But maybe some kind of soldier. Maybe like one of my favorite singers Sade (pronounced ‘SHAH day’ for those of you who don’t Jazz and R&B) used to sing.  Maybe I’m a Soldier of Love.

A few minutes and a few paragraphs ago I wrote that the worst part was Terry waking up fightin’ mad.

Upon further review, I know that’s not true. The worst part is that one day way too soon I won’t hear that monotonous talking in the middle of the night anymore. And I don’t think that silence will give me peace.

Sometimes there is no peace in quiet.

.

Until next time, appreciate things your loved ones do that might bother or scare you.

Bud

budfocht@gmail.com

Paper Clocks

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and 29 years ago this week my youngest child was born. Our third. After that, when people asked how many kids we had I would always say “Three, one of each.”

Back in 1988, when our foursome became a fivesome, I had a favorite song, Handle With Care. by a band that people in the biz called a “super group”, the Traveling Wilburys.

The band was mostly made up of a bunch of unknowns, like Bob Dylan, George Harrison, Roy Orbison and Tom Petty. Yesterday Tom Petty went Into the Great Wide Open and it made me get a bit nostalgic.

I am having a first anniversary this week. I was told by some that the first anniversary is paper, but others have told me that it’s a clock. Do they sell paper clocks?

We men are infamously known for forgetting anniversaries, even the first ones. I remembered this one, though, even if I am not sure if I want to.

There are many anniversaries that we all remember.

On the negative side, there is June 28, 1914, when Austria’s Ferdinand was assassinated, starting WWI and eventually causing WWII. Twenty-seven years later there was December 7, a date that will live in infamy. And of course, 16 years ago there was September 11.

On the positive side, there is Memorial Day, the unofficial start of summer, when people honor those who died while serving in the U.S. military by going to the beach. The Fourth of July, when people have cookouts, parades and blow off parts of their hands with fireworks to celebrate the birth of our nation.  And of course, there is December 25, when people celebrate the birth of Jesus by killing a tree to put inside the house, trample over each other in stores to get the last Electronic Helmet, whether it be Marvel Legends or Star Wars, and give Fruit Cake to relatives that they don’t really like.

I am having an anniversary this week and I’m not sure if it is positive or not. Not sure whether to celebrate or not. Not sure whether to go to the beach, buy an electric helmet to light fireworks or just eat one of the many fruit cakes I have from relatives.

There are other anniversaries this week, and I’m not sure if they are being celebrated or not either.

Forty-six years ago this week Disney World opened, teaching millions of Florida vacationers how to stand in line.

Forty-two years ago this week Ali beat Frazier in the rubber match of what has to be the best three-match series in the history of sport. That is if you call two men giving each other CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy) a sport.

One hundred and twenty-seven years ago this week one of my childhood idols, Groucho Marx, was born.  What do you mean not all the kids in the 60s wore greasepaint mustaches and eyebrows?

And then there is the anniversary I am having this week. One year ago today I quit my job, my career that spanned over 35 years, to take on a much more rewarding but also much more challenging job as a caregiver. I spent 42 years on three college campuses, now I spend 24 hours a day on my own campus.

During most of my career I would day dream about what I would do, how I would spend my days, if I no longer had to work. Winning the lottery, retiring, whatever, when I was no longer going to work every day I had it all planned out, exactly how I was going to spend my free time.

It sounded great.

What do they say about making plans? Ones that don’t often go awry often make God laugh.

As it turns out, I had more time to myself when I was working 70 hours a week than I do now.

Being a caregiver for my wife Terry, who is now in the middle stage of Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, is figuratively and literally a 24-hour-a-day job.

On the positive side, I get to hang out with Terry all the time. I can give her the care and attention she needs. I get to enjoy a life of leisure, without worrying about the problems associated with work.

For that I feel truly blessed.

But on the negative side, blah blah blah. I was about to start venting. I was about to start typing as fast as my fat little fingers could go about how tough I have it. (actually, I have long, slender fingers and could even have been a creepy hand model in my retirement).

The negative side is that one year ago Terry was so much better off. Twelve months ago she still knew how to call me on her cell phone. Now she would have trouble picking out a cell phone from a group of five objects on a table that included paper and clocks.

One year ago, Terry could still write her name. Now she has trouble making her X in the right spot. A year ago, she could still help washing the dishes or folding the laundry. Now, she has a 50-50 chance of putting her shirt or pants on backwards or putting her shoes on the right foot.

What a difference a year makes.

No, I am afraid I will not be celebrating this one-year anniversary. I AM celebrating the fact that I have been able to be with Terry every minute during the last year, but I can’t celebrate where we are right now, or where we are heading.

Until next time, as Tom Petty sang, “I know what’s right, I got just one life. In a world that keeps on pushin’ me around. But I’ll stand my ground and I won’t back down.”

Bud

budfocht@gmail.com

BF’s BFFs Unfortunately Aren’t Forever

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and it has been well documented since biblical times that not only bad things but also good things often happen in threes.

Rings in a circus. Pieces of a good suit. Stooges.

I have been very fortunate to have had three great best friends in my life. And even though they are all still alive and living locally, I miss all three of them greatly, especially the third one, my wife Terry.

Terry and I were best friends for over 35 years, before she entered the middle stage of Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease. I am afraid that even though my wife Terry is still alive and for the most part healthy, my best friend Terry is now gone.

And I miss her.

My first best friend was Tommy, who lived down the street from me and we bonded in the first grade. All through grade school and high school we were like brothers. We were so close that when his family took a two-week vacation to the Jersey Shore each summer they would bring me.

Growing up, on rainy days we made model cars and airplanes together in his car port (and I swear I didn’t sniff that glue, that much, on purpose.). On sunny days we played countless games of wiffleball in his back yard when we weren’t riding our bikes, the first ones in our neighborhood with the banana seat and butterfly handle bars. On snowy days we played one-on-one tackle football when we weren’t throwing snowballs at trucks going down our street. On hot days we swam in my family’s pool. We played a million one-on-one basketball games.  We watched the first two Ali-Frazier boxing matches together. We worked out together at home with the latest exercise invention, the ‘exer-genie’, and on the Universal weight lifting machine in the high school locker room.

We drank our first beers together (although Boones’ Farm Apple Wine and Strawberry Hill came first) and picked up our first girls together.

We came of age together in the late 60s and early 70s.

Senior year in high school Tom’s girlfriend (a cutey too good for him who became his wife and stayed with him to this day for some unknown reason) and my girlfriend (a fun girl who I enjoyed but out-grew) did not get along, so Tom and I did not see as much of each other as we had in the past.

To this day whenever I hear songs from the late 60s, Cherish by the Association, Sweet Caroline by Neil Diamond, anything from the Stones’ Sticky Fingers album, it reminds me of my time with Tom.

And I miss that.

Tom went northwest to college and I went south, and although we have kept in touch over the years and still see each other at our annual high school golf outing, we were never best buds again.

And I miss that.

The next best friend in my life was and is Jack. Jack and I have known each other since kindergarten. All through grade school and high school we had many mutual friends, but we never really ‘hung out.’ We ran in different crowds.

Jack and I did play baseball together. We were never on the same regular season team when we were young, but we were on several post-season all-star teams together. When we were 16 we were finally on the same regular season team together and became close friends. 

Senior year on the high school baseball team we realized we were heading to the same college, in fun-in-the-sun Miami, to play baseball. We worked together in the summer prior to college, played on the same American Legion baseball team, and headed south in the fall as roommates.

Living, partying, and playing ball in South Florida, we had about as much fun as a couple of 18-year olds could possibly have without be convicted. (Convicted? No, never convicted).

After our freshman year Jack returned north to attend school but we still saw each other all of the time during semester breaks and during the summer.

Whenever I hear certain songs from the 70s, ELO, Hall and Oates or the Doobie Brothers, it reminds me of great times Jack and I had back then.

And I miss that.

For the last 43 years Jack and I have been closer than brothers, sharing weddings, births, even deaths. He was the best man at my wedding and is the godfather to my son. We won championships playing adult football and softball together. The only times I went out without Terry, it was with Jack.

And I miss that.

Last fall, the day the clocks changed, Jack and I took part in a sun rise, two-club-only golf tournament. I was out of the house for four great hours, while my daughters stayed with Terry. Seven months later Jack and I took part in our annual high school fund-raising golf outing, while my kids stayed with Terry for six hours. In June Jack and our close friend Jerry took me to New York for a day in the Big Apple and a Yankees game, while my kids stayed with Terry for eight hours.

In the last year, whatever 365 x 24 hours is, I have spent a total of just 18 of those hours away from my third best friend. My wife. Terry. And it is not because we love being with each other THAT much. I am afraid it is out of necessity.

In the summer of 1982 Terry and I were married and since then she has been my best friend. Until recently. Now, I am afraid she is no longer the person I fell in love with. No longer the person I married. No longer the person who I spent over 30 years with raising a family.

And I miss her.

I really miss her, a lot!

Now, the woman I married is unfortunately no longer my best friend. I talk to her all day, and I listen to her all day and night when she is ‘thinking out loud’, but I cannot have a real conversation with her. I can tell her what I am thinking, what worries me, what I am concerned with, but she can no longer give me advice. She can’t even comprehend what I am trying to say to her. All I can do is try to make her laugh, or at least smile.

Although she is still the most important person in my life, my wife is no longer my best friend. She is more like a toddler. A toddler that I must take care of.  A toddler I must bathe, dress, feed, try to amuse. But unlike a toddler, who you can teach things to, Terry is not learning anything. She is forgetting everything. So when she acts out, I have to keep myself from scolding, from correcting, from getting pissed. I have to swallow it and move on. I can’t tell her why I am upset because it doesn’t do any good. She is not going to learn from it.

And in truth I am not upset with her. I am upset at what this fucking disease is doing to her. Doing to us. It has taken my best friend away from me.

And I miss her.

Until next time, tell your best friend what they mean to you, while they still know what that means. Nothing lasts forever. Not even BFFs.

Bud

budfocht@gmail.com

Thank God for God

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and I truly believe that the only reason I am still living the great life I am living is because of Devine Intervention.

Let me clarify “the great life” I am living and “Devine Intervention.”

When I say Devine Intervention I’m not talking major miracles here.

Major miracles are like Lazarus of Bethany coming back to life. Water changing to wine at that wedding in Cana. The 1980 United States ice hockey team made up of college kids beating the professional, steroid-enhanced Russian team in the medal round on its way to the Olympic gold medal.

Those are major miracles, of Biblical proportion.

No, I’m not talking about that drastic of interventions. I’m talking about some of the less-noticed ones. But I noticed. And I am thankful.

My senior year in college I was somehow able to secure one of the top graduate assistantships in my field, in the athletics department at a university in New Orleans. I was set to begin my career in NOLA, one of the most unique cities in the United States, famous for its cuisine, music, and of course Mardi Gras. A 21-year-old partying, student-athlete’s dream come true.

Until the director of athletics at my own college in Miami, having known me from the baseball team, offered me the same deal, only at my alma mater. I had a choice to make. Go to a large university in the Big Easy and learn my craft, my chosen profession, and be all by myself in an exciting new town, or stay in my comfort zone and return to my many friends, girls and guys (especially girls), in fun-in-the-sun Miami to begin my professional career.

I unwisely turned down the New Orleans gig and chose to return to South Florida.  Unwisely because at the very last minute the funding for the job at my alma mater fell through.

Shit! Should’ve gone to New Orleans, where the person who replaced me went on to a lucrative job with the NCAA and later with the Professional Golfers’ Association (PGA).

But as my grandmother always used to say, “When God closes a door He always opens a window.”

That window was a last minute grad-assistantship at a small college in Rhode Island.

I was thinking ‘Rhode Island? Is that part of New York?’ Rhode Island is a pretty small state. In fact, the smallest. How small WAS their small college?

Well, it was big enough to have an intercollegiate tennis team among its 15 NCAA Division III varsity sports.

And the rest, as they say, is history. I spent three years in New England, fell in love, went on to get a real job in New Jersey, went back to RI to marry the star of the tennis team, and we began our life together.

I often wondered what if I had chosen that large university in New Orleans over the small college in Miami. What if the Miami job hadn’t fallen through? I would have never met my soulmate, my wife Terry.

Devine Intervention. I am sure of it.  And I am very grateful.

When I said I was grateful for living the great life I am living, by no means did I mean I am living the high life, but I am still living, still breathing. And so is my wife Terry. And we are living and breathing together.  

And by together, I mean 24-hours-a-day together.

I once wrote a feature story that ran in a national publication on a married couple that coaches together. Both teachers, the husband was the girl’s high school basketball coach and his wife was his assistant coach. And the wife was a college head field hockey coach and the husband was her assistant.  In the story, I wrote how the best thing about a married couple working together was that they were together all of the time. And the worst thing about it was the fact that they were together ALL OF THE TIME.

Once Terry entered the middle stage of Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease and required 24/7 assistance, I was very fortunate to be able to retire (five or six years earlier than I had planned on) to take care of her. If the statistics on the Alzheimer’s web site are correct, my premature pension (better than a gold watch, much less than a nest egg) should last just about as long as my wife’s shrinking brain does.

So when I miss going out with the guys, going to the Phillies games, going to the Jersey Shore, I have to remind myself that I am going to miss Terry so much more.

When times get tough, when the frustration of her condition causes her to display uncharacteristic behavior such as anger and even violence, I have time-to-time felt sorry for myself. “Why is God doing this to Terry? Why is He doing this to me?”

I have to keep reminding myself that God doesn’t work that way. He is not doing this to us. In fact, He is helping us handle this.

We all have our own crosses to bear. We all have our own problems. There is a common belief, one that I support, that goes something like this: If you formed a circle of people, and everyone making up the circle could take their worst problem and put it in the middle, and then go around the circle and everyone had to pick one problem from that pile in the middle to have, most people, seeing what others have to deal with, would take their own problem back.

No matter how bad Terry and I have it, I know that there are people out there who have it worse. As we will in the future.

I’m reminded of that poem about the footprints in the sand. Something about walking with God on a beach during your life and seeing two sets of footprints. During the difficult times the person noticed only one set of footprints and wondered why God had left him alone. He later came to know that God did not leave him. The one set of footprints during the difficult times was God carrying him.

When I get pissed at our situation, when I get hurt (feelings, not physical bruises) because Terry lashes out at me even though I wait on her all day, feeding her, bathing her, dressing her, trying to entertain her, I have to take a step back and be thankful. Thankful for the good times we had over the last 38 years. Thankful for the good times we have now, like when Terry laughs.

I have to be thankful. Because I know the good times are getting less and less, and the tough times are getting tougher. That is what is so bad about this disease. It is only going to get worse. It IS getting worse.

More and more often these days, there is only one set of footprints in the sand.

Thank God for the good days I have with Terry. Thank God for allowing me to be with her 24/7 during the middle and last stage of this fucked up disease.

Thank God for God.

Until next time, no matter how bad things get, thank God and be grateful for what you have.

Bud

61*

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and I just celebrated* my 61^st birthday. I am afraid the word celebrated needed an asterisk.

The greatest baseball player ever, Babe Ruth, hit 60 home runs during the 1927 season. To let you know how many that really was at that time, there were only 16 major league teams back then and 13 of them had less than 60 home runs that season. As a team.

Not including his own team, the NY Yankees, Ruth hit more home runs himself that season than 13 of the other 15 teams hit.

Back then teams played 154 games in a season.

Roger Maris hit 61* home runs during the 1961 season, the first year MLB expanded to a 162-game schedule.  Because of the love for the Bambino, combined with the extra eight games, some baseball ‘purists’ wanted an asterisk next to Maris’ new single season home run mark of 61 bombs because he had extra games to do it.

I recently turned 61 years old. And I have to tell you, the word celebrated in the first paragraph has an asterisk because it was by far the worst birthday I have ever experienced.

I am sure as the years go by I will experience worse birthdays, but until now this was the worst.

And let me tell you, I’ve had some bad ones.

There was this one birthday that comes to mind, about 25 years ago, when I had this new, beautiful secretary. I came into work on my birthday a little bummed and she noticed I was a little out of sorts. When she kept asking me what was wrong I confided in her that I was having a bad morning.

I told her how every year my parents would call me on my birthday, 7:05 in the morning, to ask me if I knew what they were doing so many years ago on that date. But for some reason that day they didn’t call. When I was in the kitchen getting ready for work that morning my wife didn’t mention anything about my birthday, nor did the kids, as they hurried their own preparation for the day.

So when I was feeling a little sorry for myself at work, my secretary suggested we go out to lunch. I don’t usually eat lunch, opting to work-out instead, but she was just trying to cheer me up, so I said okay. When we arrived at the restaurant that she had suggested, it was closed. Of course!, I thought.

She then suggested that since she lived right around the corner from that restaurant, we should go to her place for a nice lunch, and maybe, since it was a summer Friday, to just blow off the afternoon and have a few cocktails at her place.

I’d never done anything like this before and despite the fact that she was beautiful, I never thought of her as anything but a fellow worker.  But that day I was feeling low and she was being soo nice, so I said sure.

When we got to her place she fixed us a couple of drinks and then, after a few, she said she wanted to show me the redecorating she had done in her bedroom. We entered her bedroom and she said she would be right back, that she was going into her walk-in closet to get into more ‘comfortable’ clothes.

A few minutes later she came out of her closet with a birthday cake, followed by my parents, my wife and my kids, all carrying presents and singing happy birthday.

And there I sat on the bed, with nothing on but my socks.

That was a bad birthday.

But this years was worse.

My wife Terry, now in the middle stages of Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, had no idea it was my birthday. No big deal. That was the least of my concerns these days. My only concern is trying to help Terry have a good day.

Terry’s emotional spectrum has grown to the extremes these days, with her highs being higher but her lows are much, much lower. She gets very happy to the point of dancing and laughing. And there is no better sound than Terry laughing. But she also gets very mad, frustrated I assume, to the point of violence.

The worst part is half of the stuff she gets made at these days is not even real. She is losing touch with reality, and that is scary.

My son came over after work and asked me how my birthday was and I summed it up by saying “It is rare that you enjoy a birthday in which you get hit,” especially when you get hit by the person who you spend your entire 24 hours a day feeding, bathing, clothing, taking care of.

Terry gets very agitated these days over trivial things, like being hungry. So I have the dilemma of feeding her as much as she wants, and watching her grow from 100 pounds to 150 pounds in the last year, or trying to manage her intake and run the risk of getting screamed at and slapped around.

I try to be positive around her, I really do, but it is really tough to see the person you love, the person you spend your entire day caring for, yell at you, curse you and even swing at you.

I’m not stupid. I know it is not Terry who is doing this. It is this fucked up disease. But I swear it reminds me of the book/movie The Exorcist sometimes. It is not the little girl Regan doing these horrible things, it is Satan. The Devil.

And I am not sure that it isn’t Satan doing this to Terry as well.

Terry was always a good, Catholic girl growing up, and when we were married she was always the perfect role model for not only our kids but the kids she taught gymnastics to at the YMCA, the kids she coached track, basketball and soccer to in CYO and the kids she taught physical education and computers to in grade school.

But about 15 years or so ago, when she seriously began her Bible Studies, her health issues began. The more she studied the Bible, the closer she got to God, who she began calling by His old school name, Jehovah, the more health issues she had.

To the point now where her brain is literally shrinking. She can no longer read the Bible without help, or anything else, for that matter.

Maybe it is Satan. Maybe it is just the way life goes sometimes. I don’t know. But I do know that it sucks!

It sucks more than having a bad birthday. It sucks more than putting an asterisk next to a record number. It sucks more than getting caught in nothing but your socks.

And what sucks even more is knowing that this most likely is not going to be the worst birthday I will celebrate*in my life.

I just hope that there are many more birthdays with my wife that may or may not suck. MLB extended its season from 154 to 162 games. I hope the amount of games Terry and I have in our season can be extended.

Until next time, I need more birthdays, good or bad, with Terry. I need more games. If need be I’ll take the asterisk.

Bud