I Need More Sand

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and I need more sand.

When I was in college in Miami and would go to the beach a major no-no was getting sand on someone’s blanket.  When you are covered with baby oil or wearing Bain de Soleil “for the San Tropez tan” the last thing you wanted was sand sticking to you as you were trying to catch rays.  (My major in college was ‘Solar Epidermal Radiation’ which translates to ‘getting a sun tan’)

While staying at a summer house on the Jersey Shore a cardinal sin was tracking sand into the house. You had to use the outdoor shower before entering the house after a day on the beach.

When I was a kid reading comic books, it seemed the bully would always kick sand into the face of the meek and mild character.

Sand used to be something you didn’t want stuck to your skin, in your house or in your face. But now I can’t get enough of it. I need more of it.

Sand is a granular material composed of finely divided rock and mineral particles. It is smaller and finer that gravel and coarser than silt. The sand at the beach was created over the last half billion years by various forms of life, like coral and shellfish. The whiter the sand the more limestone.

Mathletes will tell you that the amount of grains of sand on a beach is a finite number, meaning it can be calculated. Although it is a pretty large number, it is not an infinite one.

I realize that now and I need more sand.

Going back as far as ancient Egypt, people used sand in hourglasses to measure the passage of time. Hourglasses can be reused indefinitely by turning them over once the sand runs out.

If only.

Christopher Walken’s character Bruce Dickinson in the famous Saturday Night Live “cowbell” skit, when he is Blue Oyster Cult’s music producer for the song Don’t Fear the Reaper, says “Guess what? I got a fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell.”

Well, the only prescription that I need is for more sand.

I need more sand for my wife Terry’s hourglass. I am afraid it cannot be turned over. When I picture Terry’s hourglass it has wings on it, depicting that her existence is fleeting, and that the “sands of time” are running out.

Sixteen months ago when Terry was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, the sand began running through her hourglass faster and faster. I can’t seem to slow it down. No one can. So I need more sand.

During the summer Terry and I enjoy going to the Jersey Shore as often as we can. We take long walks, catch some rays, and take a dip in the cool, refreshing ocean. And we put our toes in the sand.

We often see parents at the beach with their kids collecting sea shells.  I think I might start collecting sand. Not to make a castle, but to try to put back into Terry’s hourglass.

This Thanksgiving I again have to travel for work. As in the past the travel is usually to a very nice place. Last year it was San Francisco, the year before it was Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, a common port-of-call in the 1970s and ‘80s for TV’s Love Boat. Trips to these beautiful places are wasted on me, since all I really want to do is be with Terry.

This year the destination is Cancun, to an “all-inclusive” resort. I dreaded going, leaving Terry behind. Terry can no longer manage on her own so my kids would have to take care of her while I am gone. They have to take time off from work and from their busy lives to be with her, and that bothers me.

So this year I bit the bullet and pulled the trigger (a mix of metaphors the NRA would approve of) and I bought Terry a plane ticket to Cancun and a very expensive admission to the resort. Normally I would never spend thousands of dollars for such a vacation (since it isn’t really a vacation, I have to work while there), but I had no choice. I may go in debt for a while but it will be worth it. Taking Terry with me will give me peace of mind, being able to take care of her and knowing she is safe. It will also give Terry a great week, hobnobbing with the rich and famous at this luxurious resort.

And most importantly, it will give us more sand. Maybe not for the hourglass, but at least for our toes.

Until next time, hope the sand runs slow through your hourglass, and your toes.

Bud 

Don’t Blink

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and I can no longer afford to blink.

No, it is not because of the recent increase in the price of contact lens solution.

Blinking is one of those unconscious processes our bodies do that often go unnoticed.  It keeps the eye moist and blinking protects the eye from foreign bodies (as long as they are smaller than a stick or a finger).

A blink takes about a tenth of a second, but when you blink you miss so much. Things happen so fast these days.

I blinked, and July was gone. I blinked, and summer was gone.  I blinked, and so much of my wife Terry was gone.

Since Terry was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, so many things that she not only could do, but could do well, are gone.

The most recent one, which may seem trivial in the larger scope of things, hit me hard. Terry forgot how to play tennis.

When I met Terry in the late 1970s she was this spunky little tennis player in her sophomore year of college. She was the number one singles player on the college varsity team all four of her years, and was a ‘local legend’ at the city park tennis courts, where she won numerous city titles.

In basketball, they are called ‘gym rats.’  The kid who is always dribbling a basketball, hanging around the gym. I’m not sure what they call tennis bums…oh, wait a minute. I guess they call them ‘tennis bums.’

Terry was never a bum (still has a nice one though) but she was a dedicated tennis player, even though she was never professionally trained. I guess you could say she was a self-taught tennis bum.

Thanks to the eternal generosity of my brother-in-law and sister-in-law I was able to take Terry and our youngest daughter and her boyfriend and their dog to the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia for a week in our own private chalet in the Shenandoah Valley.

Terry and I were celebrating our 33^rd anniversary while the kids were celebrating their fourth. Not sure how old the dog is but he seemed to have a good time.  All five of us did.

Part of the package was access to a swimming pool and a tennis court, so we brought our rackets and bathing suits, and used them.

I used to play in a tennis league back when I had knees, but have not played since I became more and more immobile. Terry hit the tennis ball around with our daughter a year or two ago, and it was like riding a bike.

Last week when the four of us were hitting the tennis ball around, Terry’s bike needed training wheels.  Terry forgot how to play tennis. 

When it was her turn to hit the ball that she had in her pocket she purposely hit the ball down on her side of the net, like she was serving in ping pong. Seeing that was probably what it was like for Glen Campbell’s family when he recently forgot how to play the guitar.

As we hit the ball around more and more it all came back to Terry and she began to look more and more like someone who was once a great player. But that little reminder of her cognitive impairment jabbed a sharp dagger of reality into my vacation mode.

I try to help Terry write in her memory book each day, to help her think about what happened that day and also for something for her to read periodically to help her remember current events. It has gotten to the point where she cannot write in the book without help. I have to ask her about her day, and when she answers I need to tell her to write that down, almost like I am dictating it to her.

Lately, Terry’s spelling, something that was always a strong suit of hers, is declining rapidly. Today she had trouble spelling the name John and Rhode Island (her home state).

A year ago Terry was still driving. Now, Terry cannot be left alone unless she is home, and even there for less than a day.

Where did that last year go?  Where did my best friend and partner go? I must have blinked.

Of course I’ve known all along that Terry’s condition was going to continue to decline. Knowing it and dealing with it are two different things.

That is one of the reasons I wanted to share our recent vacation with our daughter and her boyfriend. It has been 16 months since the doctors told us it was ‘Bucket List’ time.  I want Terry to be checking off things on that list with as many members of the family as possible, as often as possible. As soon as possible.

Before I blink again.

Until next time, do as Kenny Chesney sings:

“Best start putting first things first. 'Cause when your hourglass runs out of sand you can’t flip it over and start again. Take every breathe God gives you for what it’s worth. Don’t Blink.”

Bud

Hangin With Harry

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and my wife Terry and I are spending a week with our grand-dog, Harry.

Harry is a handful, to say the least. He is an adventure waiting to happen. The 1987 movie Harry and the Hendersons comes to mind, but instead of being a Big Foot our Harry is a Ridgeback.

He is energetic, trouble-prone, mischievous but well-meaning.

I feel like I am good ole Mr. Wilson and Harry is Dennis the Menace with four legs and a tail.

That tail, that long, muscular, heavy tail never stops wagging and is usually banging up against a wall, or your leg. It can clear off a coffee table. When his tail bangs against our bedroom closet door it sounds like someone just got voted off “The Gong Show.”

As if you couldn’t tell by the constant tail-wagging, Harry is a very happy dog. My son rescued him about four years ago. I couldn’t believe the ordeal my son had to go through. Background checks, site visits. Interviews. He was just obtaining a rescue dog, and an expensive one at that. With what he had to go through you’d think he was a defrocked priest/disgraced Boy Scout leader/former assistant football coach named Sandusky trying to adopt a 10-year old boy.

My son, who is none of those, is currently camping in Western Canada this week with Claire, an old college friend, so like we do about 10 times a year, Terry and I are watching Harry.

Harry likes our house and yard and he is very good company for Terry.  Terry’s Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease has now made it difficult for her to read, and she no longer knows how to use the television remote control, so Harry’s company while I am at work is great for her. Harry is entertainment.  Harry makes Terry laugh.

Harry is very affectionate.  For no reason at all he will come up to you and if your face is reachable give you a big kiss. If it is not within striking distance he will lick any part of you that is.

Harry is also a killer, but not in a bad way (says almost no one). Around small children, Harry is as docile as can be. Kids can pet him forever, pull his ears, pull his tail, he doesn’t care. Other dogs, he ignores unless they mess with him. Then, look out! He almost ripped the head off (literally) a big dog that out-weighted Harry by 40 pounds. Another time a Great Dane about a foot taller than Harry snapped at him once and with the quickness of a small collegiate wrestler Harry circled around the big dog, got on its back and put his jaws around the Great Dane’s great neck.

Pin! Or at the very least a technical fall. The Great Dane tapped out.

But those occurrences are rare. Like I say, Harry ignores other dogs for the most part.

Harry’s prey pretty much runs the gamut from house fly to deer, and just about everything not domesticated in between.

Harry is a Rhodesian Ridgeback with a mix of Coon Hound. He’s a beautiful burnt orange color with short hair that looks like he has a natural Mohawk. He has very long, strong legs with giant paws. His back hair, from his shoulders to his tail, has a stretch on his spine that grows backwards. It resembles what dogs and cats look like when they get angry and get their fur up.

Only when Harry gets angry and gets his fur up he looks like a stegosaurus. (for those of you that did not study paleontology, [or in my case, play with toy dinosaurs] the stegosaurus is the dinosaur that has the tail spikes and heavy plates along its spine.)

Unlike the stegosaurus, which used to eat plants, Harry is a hunter. Ridgebacks were originally bred to hunt lions. They are site dogs and rely on their keen eye site to hunt. But the Coon Hound in him is a scent dog, and that is what gives Harry the edge. If he doesn’t see them, he still won’t lose their trail because he smells them. That’s how he can catch deer. He gets so excited when he sees or smells deer, because he knows he can catch them.

Obviously deer are much faster than Harry, but deer get tired quickly. Ridgebacks can run up to 20 miles without stopping. That is why my son got Harry, as a running partner when he is training for his Iron Man triathlons.  Harry can run forever and won’t lose the scent of the deer so when the deer practically runs itself to death and can no longer go on and collapses in exhaustion, Harry arrives on the scene and puts his powerful jaws around the deer’s throat and just lies there with him. Wagging that big tail waiting for his owner to finally arrive so Harry can show off. He thinks he is like one of his ancestors catching a lion.

Harry has caught many rabbits (they lay in high grass hoping Harry does not see them, but he smells them), ground hogs, opossum, a few birds, but his prize trophy was a squirrel. Squirrels are very hard to catch, because there is usually a tree nearby to run up. This particular time, that squirrel got a little too far away from the tree. But give Harry credit, when he lowered his body into pounce mode and took off like Usain Bolt (for those of you who do not read the sports pages Bolt is an Olympic Champion and the world’s fastest human) he didn’t run straight toward the squirrel, Harry ran toward the tree and cut the squirrel off. (he then cut off more than that but let’s not get too graphic).

Let’s just say, as far as that squirrel goes, ‘Bye Felicia.’

Harry is very entertaining. My son has taught him many tricks. The most popular one is when he puts a treat on Harry’s long snout and says “wait.” Harry will sit there for minutes with that treat two inches from his eyeball, waiting until he is told “okay.” He could probably go longer but it begins to get gross ‘cause Harry is salivating like a leaky faucet while “waiting.”

Harry is very athletic. In addition to his distance running, Harry is a jumper. When my son first got Harry we had a six foot frontier fence in our backyard and Harry could jump it. We had to keep him on a wire despite having a fenced in yard.    Now Harry’s hips are not as good as they used to be so we no longer tie him up. He loves roaming around our back yard. Rolling in the grass. Lying in the sun. Chasing the birds and squirrels who dare to venture into our yard.

If we have to leave Harry in our house alone, however, even for the shortest amount of time, we put him in a four foot by three foot by four foot high cage with a water bowl.

The very first time we watched him we didn’t know any better and we didn’t have a cage.  Now we know.

That first time we left him alone in our house Harry totally destroyed it. EVERY blind in EVERY window of our house was destroyed. Either pulled down or ripped apart or eaten or all of the above. I guess he wanted to escape, or at least look out the window. EVERY window.

One blind was pulled up before we left and Harry couldn’t get at it, so he bit the draw-string off of it.

That first time he was left alone in our house Harry jumped up on our kitchen counter and everything that was on the counter when I went to work was on the floor when I got home, including a busted blender and an expensive coffee maker in about five pieces each.

A week’s worth of Harry’s treats were stored on top of our kitchen cabinets, about three inches from the ceiling, and Harry got up to them and eat them all. They were in a plastic, sealed bag, but he knew where they were and got to them. How, we are not sure. The best theory is that he jumped up onto the counter, walked onto the stove, got up on his hind legs, and then jumped up to get the treats. Either that or he can fly. More on him flying later.

Harry is also entertaining for Terry when the two of them sit out back. Harry gets excited and runs under the tree when he sees a squirrel in it, I guess hoping the squirrel will fall. Once Harry was lying out back and a Mockingbird flew out of the tree and buzzed Harry, the way they often do to cats. Harry didn’t seem too upset about it but about 15 minutes later when the bird did it again Harry jumped up and caught the bird in mid-air, about 6 feet off the ground, and ate it. If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it.

Speaking of unbelievable, we are not sure but there is a possibility that Harry can fly.  

Last summer we had a family reunion in Montreal. My son brought Harry along, and he was a big hit with all of the nieces and nephews. There was a sit down anniversary dinner that Harry could not attend, so my son found some professional ‘dog-sitters’ in town to watch him. (I should point out that except for when Harry visits us he has Separation Anxiety when it comes to being apart from his owner.) Harry was dropped off at a third floor apartment. My son said goodbye, went down stairs and across the street to his car. Before he could open his car door he felt a familiar lick on the back of his leg. It was Harry, who jumped from the third floor balcony and crossed a busy street to be with his owner.

No one saw it so we don’t know if he first landed on the second floor, then the first, or if he just flew all the way down. But he didn’t have a scratch on him, didn’t limp or anything. When my son took him back upstairs the “professional” dog-watchers could not believe it. They apologized profusely and said that they had put him on the balcony. No more balcony time for my son’s best friend Harry.  

When our kids were little we had a dog, Brownie, a Border Collie/Beagle mix. She was Terry’s running partner. It was sad when we had to put her down, an old dog not able to do what she once could.

There are so many more things now that my best friend Terry can no longer do, due to her Alzheimer’s. Lately I’ve had to help her dress herself in the morning. Understanding instructions is a thing of the past for her. Simple tasks are no longer simple, some not even doable. She’s only 56 years old!  I want more time with my best friend.

I know my son wants more time with his best friend, Harry.

Ridgebacks that live a dozen years are like a canine version of Jeanne Calment. (for those of you who are not actuaries, Calment died in France in 1997. She was born in France in 1875. She lived 122 and a half years, more than anybody since Noah I think.)

I am no actuary, but according to all of the research I have done (too much), my son and I have about the same amount of time left with our best friends.

I’m glad the two of them (and I) are enjoying each other’s company this week.

Until next time, if you have a best friend who is a dog I hope he is as ‘grand’ as ours. If you have a best friend who is human I hope they break Jeanne Calment’s record.

Bud

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

Happy Global Beatles’ Day

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and like many people who are close to the age of 60, I grew up part of Beatlemania.

There were many summer days in the 1960s when I would carry my guitar over to my neighbor’s house and we would listen to Beatle songs and pretend we were playing and singing along.

On June 25, 1967, during the “Summer of Love” the Beatles performed their song All You Need is Love on a BBC produced show “Our World” that was linked globally in 26 countries via satellite and watched by 400 million people.

That is why today, June 25, was selected as Global Beatles’ Day, a day honoring and celebrating the phenomenon and ideals of the Beatles, for their gifts to the world, their promotion of peace and love, and of course, their music.

As I got older and listened to the Sgt. Pepper album on headphones I grew a whole new appreciation for the Fab Four, an appreciation that stayed with me through the 1970s. 

When the Beatles broke up I continued to buy the post-Beatle albums like Red Rose Speedway (McCartney), Imagine (Lennon), Band on the Run (McCartney), Dark Horse (George), Mind Games (Lennon), Concert for Bangla Desh (George), Double Fantasy (Lennon). I even bought (and liked) Ringo’s Goodnight Vienna.

I still have many Beatle songs on my iPod, but these days I listen to a lot of country music.  I listen to country music mainly because that is what my wife Terry likes.

She likes the fact that the lyrics of the country songs are easily understood, and usually carry more weight than the music. The message is more important than the sound.  She likes the stories that country songs tell.

I have found that the stories most country songs usually tell deal with girls, beer, God, summertime, whiskey, life below the Mason-Dixon line, tequila, cowboys, the good ole red, white and blue, and beer.

Listening to music has always been a big part of my life, and it is now an important part of Terry’s life, especially since she was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease. 

Terry needs constant input to help slow down the shrinkage of her brain. It is like exercising a muscle. Music helps stimulate Terry’s mind.

The brain processes music in multiple areas. So when Terry’s screwed up hippocampus can’t find the information she needs to know where her keys are, she can find in her brain the words and melodies to songs and who is singing them.  The songs also bring back memories of her past when the old songs she hears were new.

So we watch music videos when we are inside and we listen to a lot of music Any Time at All, but especially when we are outside.

We spend a lot of time outside this time of year, walking or just sitting in the backyard, talking (me talking, Terry laughing. Ain’t She Sweet?) looking at the sky or the neighborhood animals (squirrels, rabbits, birds, Rocky Raccoon, butterflies).

Do You Want to Know a Secret? It sounds boring but it isn’t.

On a nice night you can almost look Across the Universe. Sitting with my best friend I Feel Fine. I Want to Hold Her Hand.  In My Life it doesn’t get much better than that.

It has been a Long and Winding Road since Terry was diagnosed 14 months ago.  Usually in down times you can keep positive by thinking that All Things Must Pass, but not with Alzheimer’s. I will never be able to say that things are Getting Better.  She will never Get Back to where she was.  It Won’t Be Long before our lives are even more Helter Skelter.

But The Two of Us are making the most of our summer so far. I’ve Got a Feeling it is going to be a great summer. We have already gone to the beach a couple of times (I’ll Follow the Sun) and Terry even went underwater, on purpose, after a great walk on the boardwalk.

Looking back on how much Terry has declined since last summer, the Two of Us will be trying to make the very most of our summer this year. I don’t know how many more we will have to enjoy a Good Day Sunshine.

Yesterday, or at least 15 months ago, life was such an easy game to play. All of my troubles seemed so far away, now it looks as though they are here to stay.

Until next time, enjoy the Beatles’ music on this Global Beatles’ Day. Enjoy country music. Enjoy your partner in life, while you can.

All You Need is Love,

Bud

I’m a Riser

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and apparently I am a Riser.

About a year ago, not long after my wife Terry was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, I met a young man (20 years younger than me is a ‘young’ man in my book) named Dierks.

He was the first person I ever met named Dierks. I had a student-worker about 15 years ago named My-Heaven Aaron. A great kid and a very good worker. When he introduced himself to me I told him, “Ya know, you are the second My-Heaven I met today.”

He was only a college freshman so he didn’t realize how funny that was. My humor is wasted on ‘utes.’

Believe it or not, My-Heaven was not the most uncommon name I have run across in my 37 years of dealing with college students.  Key & Peele sent met quite a few interesting ones.

There was that kid who I thought worked at the airport-Logjammer Debaggageclaim, the kid with the over-bearing father, J.R. Junior Juniors, Jr., and my favorite, the kid who was always testing everyone’s boundaries, Takittothu Limit.

Anyway, back to Dierks, a pilot from Arizona who moved to Nashville to be a singer. Dierks and I happened to spark up a conversation in a bar at a time when I was just starting to feel the effects of finding out that my best friend, my partner, my soulmate, had an incurable disease that was only going to get worse with time.

He didn’t exactly catch me at my best.

Dierks is an artist and that night he was a very good listener. I had only known him a short time but he and I talked like we were old friends.

A few months later I received an e-mail from him. To be honest, I drank a little more than I should have that night I met him and didn’t really remember much about him or that night until I got the e-mail. In the e-mail he said that our talk about what Terry and I were going through had inspired him. One thing I do remember about our talk that night was that he was having trouble ‘getting inspired’ so I was happy to hear that I might have helped. The more I tried to remember about that night the more good memories came back.

In the e-mail Dierks wrote about his wife Cassidy and how he hoped he and her would someday have what Terry and I had.

He then enclosed the following, thanking me for the ‘inspiration’ and saying that, after having that conversation with him last spring, this is what I should say to Terry.

Lay your pretty head down on my shoulder
You don't have to worry anymore
This old world is cold and getting colder
And I know how to lock and bolt the door

I'm strong enough to hold you through the winter
Mean enough to stare your demons down
The hard times put the shine into the diamond
I won't let that keep us in the ground

I'm a riser
I'm a get up off the ground, don't run and hider
Pushing comes a-shovin'
Hey I'm a fighter
When darkness comes to town, I'm a lighter
A get out aliver, out of the fire
Survivor

I'm a trier
I'm a get down low so I can lift you higher
An army couldn't keep down my desire

I'm a riser

Until next time, thanks Mr. Bentley.

Bud

Disney and Disability

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and I’m going to Disney World!

That is what the Super Bowl MVP is paid a million dollars to say right after the big game ends, so the quote can be used in a television commercial.

No, hard as it may be to believe, I did not win the Super Bowl Most Valuable Player award. The only MVP I ever got was a note from the school nurse telling my parents “More Vitamins, Please.”

This week I HAVE to spend three days and two nights in Orlando for meetings with work. The hotel (I think you may have to call it a resort when a six pack costs $18) and conference rooms are walking distance from Disney World, but it is wasted on me.

Ever since graduating from a South Florida college in the late ‘70s I have longed to get back to the Sunshine State.

But being away from my wife Terry for three days is difficult. Difficult for her and for me.

Luckily my kids have stepped up and will be with her in shifts in the morning to give Terry her meds, during the day to cook her a meal and in the evening to eat and hang out with her.

I am afraid Terry isn’t the most independent person these days.

I had to make a list of things for my son, who instead of making a two-mile commute to his office each morning will be making a 45-minute commute from my house while I am gone, a list reminding him of what his mother can and can no longer do, what she needs help in.

Living with Terry is one thing but when I have to talk to people about her limitations, or if I have to write them down, it gets to me.

Since she was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, Terry has worked less and less hours a week due to her declining cognitive skills.

She currently works one day a week, five hours a day, about three or four times a month.

It is great for her to get out of the house and do something she is still comfortable doing. Most of her responsibilities at work are no longer do-able, so the few things she can still do only take about 20 hours a month to do.

For thirty years Terry has worked a variety of jobs, from YMCA gym instructor to summer camp director, mail career, elementary school teacher/coach/athletics director, to department store clerk and an office worker.  And when the kids were little it was a good thing too. If we didn’t have her additional income it would have been impossible to pay school tuitions.

But now Terry is limited to one half of a work day a week.

A friend of mine suggested that we apply for disability. After all, Terry would still be working 30 hours a week if she hadn’t developed Alzheimer’s.

So I inquired about it through Social Security and they gave me some forms to fill out.

Filling out those forms was extremely hard to do for me. Listing all of the things Terry used to do that she can no longer do was quiet painful.

So many of the questions dealt with physical activities. And physically she is fine. She looks great, tanner than she’s been since she worked the summer sports camps for the Y when the kids were young. Tanner than she’s been since she was a varsity tennis player in college.

Physically she is in much better shape than I am. A running joke in our family is that Terry’s Super Power is that she can walk FOREVER. And for-EV-er is pronounced the way Ham Porter, the round, freckle-faced catcher who coined the phrase “You’re killin’ me Smalls,” said it in the movie The Sandlot. “for EV-er”

Terry looks great. Anytime we see people the next day or so they tell me, “Boy, Terry looked great. You would never know.” She still smiles all the time. Physically she is still healthy and fit.  But things are becoming more and more difficult for her to do on her own.

The Social Security representative who interviewed us said that if Terry does collect disability she can still work on Friday mornings, which would be great. Terry looks forward to it, almost as much as walking.

I wish I could take her walking around Disney World. I seriously thought about buying a second plane ticket and taking Terry with me for the weekend, but logistically it would not work.

The one day I am in meetings all day. Terry could not go to the meetings with me, so she would be stuck in the hotel room all day. There is no way she could find her way from the room to the pool or back, and doing Disney by herself is totally out of the question.

Making those lists of tasks that Terry can no longer perform really brought to light how far she had declined in the last year. It’s sad. It’s scary.

Which brings me back to what I was preaching this time last year. We have to live each day to the fullest. Make the most of each day. We can’t think about the future, just try to enjoy the present.

For me and Terry, that doesn’t mean going to Disney World. It just means being together. The only wasted days we have are days we are not together. The two of us just sitting on the backyard swing listening to music is just as good as walking around EPCOT. (except for the walking part. Terry LOVES to walk)

This weekend when I see EPCOT from my hotel window, I won’t be thinking “I wish I was there.”  I’ll be thinking “I wish I was anywhere, anywhere with Terry.”

For-EV-er

Until next time, spend time with the ones you love.

Bud