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
