Reality Takes a Holiday

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and Happy Flippin’ New Year.  For those who live by the worldview that the proverbial glass is half empty, reality bites. Those who think that the glass is half full often live by the belief that this is the only reality we have so let’s make the best of it.

And then there was this stoner I knew in college back in the ‘70s, who’s glass was always full, often with something noxious, like the people last night celebrating New Year’s Eve. That stoner had a favorite expression; “Reality is overrated.” He had a home-made poster hanging in his dorm room that read “Reality is for people who can’t handle drugs.”

That stoner graduated in three and a half years with a double major, Business and Economics, and the last I heard he made his first million dollars selling a virtual reality computer program that he created.

I am afraid my wife Terry and I are beginning to lose sight of reality, virtual or not, and I am afraid drugs are involved. Mainly because our reality bites.

In the ‘60s, my formative years, there was a youthquake. All those baby boomers coming of age and realizing that adult life bites. The Viet Nam War. Race Riots. Bouffant Hairdos.

In many U.S. cities 1967 was the “Long, Hot Summer” full of violence. Their glasses were half empty. In other U.S. cities 1967 was the “Summer of Love” and their glasses were half full.

Before we knew about virtual reality, people in the ‘60s were looking for anything non-reality.

The adults turned to non-reality television. TV shows like Star Trek, The Twilight Zone, and Gilligan’s Island were the most popular shows. They were shows that dealt with fantasy, to take the adult minds off of the metal coffins coming home from Southeast Asia. Take their minds off of the racial, economic and political forces that generated inner city poverty, causing riots in Newark and Detroit, among other cities.

So while the ‘60s adults turned to escapism through television and high balls (mixed drinks, not a double hernia), the ‘60s kids turned to escapism through drugs. Drugs like Marijuana, LSD, and Quaaludes.

Before the ‘60s, marijuana was just “reefer”, something musicians used to help make their jazz ‘smooth’. After the Mexican Revolution pot was introduced to the U.S. for recreational use back in the ‘20s. Soon, Reefer, Mary Jane, Grass, became illegal in the U.S. in the late ‘30s. Almost a century slower than ending prohibition, laws against the use of pot, medicinal and recreational, are gradually going up in smoke across the country.

In the ‘60s the counterculture used LSD for consciousness expansion. The popularity of ‘acid’ grew when the Grateful Dead fans found out about it.

Quaaludes were sedatives with effects much like beer. But taking a ‘714’ was almost like drinking 714 beers. Never took one but saw people who did and I would not advise it.

My drug of choice has always been beer, just not 714 of them at a time. Whether my glass is half empty or half full, it is usually containing beer.

I didn’t drink much in high school but when I went to college in fun-in-the-sun-Miami, where the drinking age was 18, I found a constant companion.

After playing baseball in 90-degree heat and 90 percent humidity, coming off the dry and dusty ball field, it was Miller Time!

And in the evenings beer was helping us white guys dance, (has been since 1842), so we could meet girls in that horrible ‘70s “disco era.”

Over the years I have never lost my fondness for the brew. I mean barley, hops, malt. Beer is like cereal in a can. I never really got into the hard stuff, liquor like scotch, whiskey or bourbon. I was always a Bud man.

But these days I find myself drinking a little more than I used to. Even drinking harder stuff, like vodka, gin and Southern Comfort.  Trying to find some comfort by self-medicating.

These days my wife Terry, who four years ago was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, is being medicated with a drug called Zoloft, an antidepressant.

The Zoloft has successfully stifled Terry’s anger issues. But her grasp of reality is loosening. Not sure if it is the Zoloft or just the Alzheimer’s. But whatever it is, reality is taking a holiday.

Like that stoner I knew in college.

Last summer our kids gave me a present, a day off from my caregiving. A couple of my buddies took me to New York City for the day. While walking around the Big Apple I saw all of these people talking on their blue tooth phones, so it looks like they are talking to themselves. I mentioned to my friends that when we used to see people walking down city streets talking to themselves they were usually crazy, and now it was tough to tell if they are crazy or on the phone. My friend Jer said “You can tell. The crazy ones are the ones that smell like piss.”

Well Terry doesn’t smell like pee, but she isn’t wearing a blue tooth either.

I am afraid the talking to herself is almost constant now, unless I am engaging her. When I get up from bed with Terry two or three times between 5am and 9am for her to use the bathroom (because if I don’t I’ll have a mess to clean up later), the rambling makes no sense what-so-ever, often repeating the same five or six words 10-15 times in a row.

I give Terry the Zoloft on one of those bathroom breaks, usually just around sun up, so it has time to kick in before we get up for the day, which is never before 10am these days. The later we get up the better.

About a month or two ago Terry became unable to swallow her pills. She would get frustrated, pissed and sometimes violent when she couldn’t swallow them and I tried to make her. And she takes four of them a day. So now I put a shot of water in a cup and dissolve the pills in it, so she can just drink it. It doesn’t taste too good so I also give her a chaser, a shot of green tea or lemonade.

“Problem solve-ED,” as Inspector Clouseau used to say with his weird French accent.

One of Terry’s five sisters gave her a baby doll last summer, to help her stay calm and comfortable. Another sister sent a couple of beanie babies, Max, a dog from the secret movie about pets, and Coconut, a big-eyed monkey. One of our daughters got her an Abominable, from the old Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer movie, and she also has a small grey puffy bear.

I was thinking of getting Terry a Trumpy Bear, but I am afraid that might have the opposite effect. I know it wouldn’t calm or make me comfortable, just like the real Trumpy.

Every night when Terry goes to bed I place the dolls in different places in the living room. I used to do that to our kids with their stuffed animals in their bedroom when they were little. (by the way Elf on the Shelf stole that idea from me). Every day when we go into the living room after breakfast Terry laughs and sees the dolls like she is seeing them for the first time.

These days that is what my caregiving is all about, trying to entertain Terry. Thankfully, I have always loved doing that. An old friend of mine from the ‘70s, who I haven’t seen since the ‘80s, recently read this blog for the first time and told me that it reminded him of something our favorite teacher in college once told him when they were talking about me always making jokes. “Bud is a guy who would rather see you guys happy than himself.”

I don’t know about that, but it certainly applies to me with Terry. It is not just what I would rather, but it is what Terry needs.

There is an expression, “high maintenance”, when referring to significant others who require too much attention. I never use that expression because of its negative implication, even though by definition it is true. But you would never call your newborn “high maintenance” because it is understood that is what newborns are all about. I mean if you have a special needs child you would never refer to them as “high maintenance” even though it applies.

Same with Terry. But it is sometimes difficult to explain to others what our lives are like these days. Or rather, it is difficult for others to understand what our lives are like these days. Friends asking me to go out. Relatives wanting to come over to visit.

“HELLO! I’D LOVE TO BUT I FLIPPIN’ CAN’T DO THAT ANYMORE.”

When family members want to visit I try to explain to them that I cannot host them. If they visit I cannot pay much attention to them. I can’t even have a real conversation with them. Whenever I try to have a conversation with anyone, even our own kids, if it goes past a minute or two Terry will be put off.  I have to stop every 10 seconds and try to engage Terry. When she is sitting in a group of people who are talking it is as if we are talking Mandarin, Chinese. It might be the most spoken language on the planet but most of us don’t understand it and neither does Terry.

One man’s reality is another man’s illusion. I am afraid Terry’s reality is full of illusion. So it is my job to keep Terry’s glass half full, whether it is full of reality or illusion. Because if I don’t, her reality bites.

Until next time, try to keep it real, but more importantly, try to keep the glass half full.

Bud

budfocht@gmail.com