Take Your Spouse to Work Day

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and lately I have been taking my wife Terry to work with me.

Not every day, and not for all day, just when I have to work weekends and weekday evenings. On long days I go home at lunch time and bring Terry back with me.

Back in 1993 the Ms. Foundation for Women came up with Take Your Daughter to Work Day.  The foundation was acting on research that showed adolescent girls received less attention than boys, so this day was to give girls additional direct attention and an insight into work world opportunities available to them. It was to serve the multiple purpose of increased self-esteem for young girls as well as give them some ideas of the wealth of careers in the world. It also allowed them more one-on-one time with mom or dad.

When I was young my father took me to work with him a few times. He was an electrician who would wire newly built houses.  He worked with my grandfather, his father, so it was a real family affair.

I even got paid, sort of.

My father would pay me five cents an hour, but anytime I would lose my tools, which consisted of a hammer and two screw drivers (regular and Philips head), I would owe him a nickel.  At the end of the day I always owed him more money than I made.

Maybe that’s why I never went into the construction business.

With the end of summer and the beginning of the academic school year, my hours at work double.  There are many evenings that I have to attend a sporting contest and a weekend does not go by that I don’t have to work either Saturday or Sunday, many times both.

The good news is that I only travel to away games during the winter, so in the fall and spring I just cover the home games in person. With modern technology I can cover the away games using the internet and me cell phone.

So now when we have home games that I have to cover, Terry attends them with me.

Like Take Your Daughter to Work Day, bringing Terry to these games serves multiple purposes.

First of all, she enjoys it. She has always been interested in sports. She grew up in New England a big fan of Providence College basketball, Boston Red Sox baseball and New England Patriots football. And in college she played varsity tennis and ran on the track & field team.

Growing up in a large family full of brainiacs, she was the jock.

I used to buy my father a subscription to Sports Illustrated every year, and when the next issue would arrive, he would give me last week’s edition (my mother didn’t raise no fool).  When I got the magazine I would read about one-third to one-half of the stories, just the ones that interested me, but Terry would read that thing from cover to cover.

She really likes sports.

Secondly, it is much easier for Terry to follow athletic contests than it is for her to read a book or watch television or a movie.

Terry’s Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease prevents her from enjoying books and movies as much as she used to. When she reads a book, by the time she finishes a chapter, she cannot remember what happened in the previous chapter. Same with watching movies, it is hard for her to follow the plot.

But in sports, there is always a scoreboard that tells you who is winning, what the score is and how much time is left or what inning it is.  Although there have been a couple of times when, at half time, Terry had to ask me how we were doing.

I’m afraid things like that are happening more and more frequently.

Which brings me to the third reason, similar to Bring Your Daughter to Work Day, more one-on-one time. We don’t have as much of that in our future as we should.

The fourth and most important reason I have been bringing my wife to work with me is for peace of mind.

When I work late I used to rush my job, probably not do as good of a job as I should, because I was thinking of her, worried about her, and not concentrating on my job. Not putting the amount of time in needed to do the job right, or at least to do the job to the best of my abilities.

But with Terry at the game with me, I am in no rush. I am not in any hurry to rush home because she is with me.

So if people think she might be a distraction to me with her being at the game, in reality it is just the opposite. Having her at the game allows me to concentrate MORE on my job.

Terry began making road trips with me a few winters ago, when the kids were grown and on their own, no longer needing a parent to be home with them.

Over the last two years, since Terry’s diagnosis, she has been making almost all of the road trips with me, at least the ones that I could drive to.

This winter she is even flying to Cancun with me for a basketball tournament I have to attend.

Having Terry with me at these games is great for both of us.

I realize there will come a time in the not-to-distant future when, for an assortment of reasons, I will no longer be able to do this. But for now, every week has a few Take Your Spouse to Work Days in it.

Until next time, I will be taking Terry to work with me, and we both will be enjoying it.

Bud

Shotgun Rider

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and my wife Terry is my shotgun rider.

For as long as I can remember, the first person to yell “shotgun” prior to a car ride was awarded the choice seat, the front seat passenger.

When my kids were little and because enquiring minds want to know, I had to explain how that seat got its name, from the old stagecoach days when an armed employee, usually with a shotgun, would sit next to the driver and protect the passengers and their valuables from would-be robbers.

Country singer Tim McGraw had a song this year called Shotgun Rider and his summer tour was named the Shotgun Rider Tour.  That was Terry’s favorite song this past year. Anytime it is on the radio it always makes her dance around, even if she is in the car actually sitting in the shotgun seat. She really likes the beat (sounds like she is rating a song on the old American Bandstand show) where as I like the words.

I don’t ever want to wake up,

Lookin’ into someone else’s eyes

Another voice calling me baby

On the other end of the phone

A new girl puttin’ on her makeup

Before dinner on Friday night

No I don’t ever wanna know

No other shotgun rider, beside me, singin’ to the radio

Terry never wears makeup, before dinner on Friday or any other time, nor does she need to. She never calls me ‘baby’ either, on the phone or any other time, just ‘Buddy.’

Other than that, I can truly relate to these lyrics. I spend a lot of time in the car and it is always so much better when Terry is beside me, listening to the radio.

Ever since our kids have grown up (or ‘growed’ up as they say in country songs) Terry has made a lot of road trips with me.  She has made even more trips with me over the last year, since she began her rapid decline due to Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease.  Any time I just run to the store to pick up milk or bread, Terry goes with me.

During those car rides we listen to music, something that is good for Terry. Something she can really enjoy. It is usually country music, since that is what she prefers, and Tim McGraw is one of her favorites.

Tim McGaw’s father was one of my favorites.

Tim’s father was Tug McGraw, a professional baseball pitcher with the Mets and the Phillies, who had a happy-go-lucky personality and an off center way of looking at things. He was one of the first persons to put things in perspective by saying “Ten million years from now when the sun burns out and the Earth is a frozen ice ball, nobody is going to care if I got this guy out.”

He had a very unique outlook on life, a life that was cut short at age 60 due to a brain tumor.

In my 35 years on the job, one of the best days I ever had was when I got to sit alone with Tug McGraw for over an hour, just “shootin’ the shit” as they say in country music.

It was 1990 and Tug was retired from baseball and working for a Philadelphia TV station. He would do “fluff” pieces or interview local amateur athletes that would be spotlighted on Action News.  We had a wrestler from South Jersey, a suburb of Philly, who was ranked #2 in the nation and was going to compete in a national all-star match in Philadelphia.

After a month’s worth of me pushing the story (begging) Channel 6 sent Tug out to interview the wrestler. The problem was Tug came from home that day and the camera crew came from the station and they were waiting for each other at different spots on campus. Remember, this was 1990, cell phones only excited in Rolls Royce’s. They were the size of a brick and they were called “Mobiles” and since neither Tug or the camera crew were driving a Rolls that day, they couldn’t contact each other.

But the unsuccessful rendezvous between Tug and the camera crew made for the perfect day for me. I met Tug when he arrived on campus and while we waited for the camera crew to show up I got to spend a good portion of the morning talking with the guy who helped the Phillies win the World Series 10 years earlier.

We talked about the 1980 National League Championship series with Houston, which is said by many to be one of the greatest series of all time. Almost every game went extra innings and Tug pitched in all five games.

I asked Tug about a perennial all-star pitcher who only spent one year with the Phillies in the middle of his career.  “He always had a cold, sniff, sniff, if you know what I mean,” I remember Tug saying, telling me the guy had a drug problem.

Tug told me that he was a marine, something I never knew, a marine that was not in favor of the Viet Nam war.  And how he invented the green baseball jersey he first wore in spring training on St. Patrick’s Day.  He told me he’d do anything, but was a little embarrassed after reading “Casey at the Bat” with the Philadelphia Philharmonic Orchestra.

He even showed me how he threw his famous screwball.

That truly was a great day at work.

Now, my best days working are when I am traveling for work and Terry is with me, my shotgun rider.  Sitting next to me listening to the radio.

In Tim McGraw’s song, he states how he doesn’t want any other shotgun rider, sitting next to him, singing to the radio.  I know how he feels.

Until next time, Terry will be with me on my road trips, listening to the radio, as my shotgun rider.

Bud

Can’t Stress Enough My Joy of Caregiving

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and contrary to popular belief, I do not need a break from caregiving. I don’t want a break from caregiving. I love caregiving.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like the fact that I NEED to be a caregiver, in fact I hate it, but I accept it as my calling.

I have now been a caregiver for 16 months, since my 53-year old wife Terry was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease.

I have read where like me, caregivers devote a significant amount of time and energy to the person with Alzheimer’s disease. Too often, caregivers do not recognize their own needs, fail to do anything about them or do not know where to turn for help.

Not me.

I also read that caregivers are more likely to experience high levels of emotional stress, depression, anxiety, impaired immune system response, health impairments, lost wages and depleted finances than non-caregivers.

Okay, maybe me on some of those.

I read that some warning signs of caregiver stress include:

-denial about the disease and the effect on the person who is diagnosed.

Nope.

-anger about lack of treatment options for Alzheimer’s.

Some.

-social withdrawal from friends or activities that once brought pleasure.

Definitely!

I used to go to a lot major league baseball games with my friends, about 20 a year. I saw a no-hitter in a playoff game, I saw a World Series victory. Last year I think I went to just four games. This year, zero.

I used to frequent the local taverns with my friends a couple of times a week. Now, maybe two or three times a month, and only on nights when Terry is out with her Bible Study group.

My friends recently made their annual trip to New York, to walk around the city that never sleeps and to take in a Yankee game. For the second year in a row, I had to decline. I could not justify spending a great day with my friends instead of spending the day with my wife Terry.  Terry needs me. She always tells me how much she likes being with me, and she thanks me for keeping her safe.

She used to just say that (thanks for keeping me safe) after a day at the beach, when I hold her hands when we go into the rough surf. But she is saying it more often now. She realizes she cannot survive on her own anymore.

My friends and family members tell me I need some time away from my caregiving duties for my own sanity, for my own well-being. They tell me I need a break. They have even volunteered to stay with Terry so I can go out or have their wives stay with Terry so I can go out with them.

I appreciate that very much, I really do, but I always decline. For now. I realize in the future I may have to take them up on their offers, but not now. Not yet.

There are too many times when I HAVE to be away from Terry due to work. I can’t be away from her just to have a good time. She needs me. Terry can no longer function on her own.

The truth is, if I am not with Terry, I am worrying about her, if she is okay, if she is happy. It is more stressful for me to be away from her than it ever is for me taking care of her.

Now, when I go to work, I make the 30 minute drive home at lunch time to be with her, to make sure she is okay, content.  Simply calling her on the phone to make sure she is okay doesn’t quite cut it.  I am like ‘Doubting Thomas.’ I need to see it.

I read that some warning signs of caregiver stress include anxiety, depression, exhaustion, sleeplessness, irritability, lack of concentration and health problems.

It is true, I am anxious. I am full of mental distress, uneasiness, because of fear of what the future holds. I am depressed. Wouldn’t you be if you were told your best friend, your partner, your soul mate, the mother of your kids, has a disease that has no cure and is only going to get worse, now on almost a daily basis? I am exhausted. I have been taking care of myself for a long time now, but taking care of two people is exhausting. At least when I was taking care of the kids I had my partner to help.

I have been a light sleeper ever since the kids were born. They could sneeze or fart in the middle of the night and I would hear it. These days I wake up five to 10 times a night, and not just because my prostate is the size of a softball. I just want to look at Terry, see her pretty face, relaxed and carefree, as she sleeps.

I don’t think I am irritable, and if you say that I am I’ll punch you in the face.

I don’t think I suffer from a lack of concentration. My concentration level is about the same as it always has been.

Now, where was I? I seem to have lost by train of thought. Oh yea, Health problems. So far, so good. Healthy as a horse. A fat horse, anyway.

No, I don’t think I need a break from caregiving. Not yet, anyway.

I can’t get enough of being with my best friend, my wife. I realize our time together is short. It won’t be long before her awareness gets to the point where she no longer…

Well, let’s just say there will be a day in the not-to-distant future where we might not recognize each other.  When that day arrives, I will let others help take care of her.

But until then, I am spending as much time with my wife as I can.

I miss the ballgames and the tailgating; I miss the nights out with the guys. I miss spending time with my lifelong friend, my ‘brother from a different mother’.  But that can’t compare to how much I am going to miss my wife Terry.

So if I have to be a caregiver to spend time with my wife, so be it. I can handle it. It is a little stressful, yes. But that is a small price to pay to be with the greatest person I have ever known.

So thanks for everyone who wants to help in my caregiving efforts. I really do appreciate it. But I am not ready to share those responsibilities. Not yet.

Until next time, I will not be taking a break from caregiving. It’s what I do. It is my calling.

Bud

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