A Woman in Charge

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and this very well could be the dawning of the Age of Aquarius.

Or Armageddon.

It’s one of those half-full/ optimistic situations. Some feel, and with good reason, it is not only a half-empty/ pessimistic situation but a both halves-empty/pessimistic situation.

Whether you like it or not, whether you want to admit it or not, we are about to have a woman president.  

Or, we are about to witness the end of times.

Maybe both.

It wasn’t that long ago when Miss Ellie wanted to run for town council and the entire population of Mayberry was divided between the men and the womenfolk. They worried it was the end of civilization as they knew it.

It was.

Some 55 years later, the United States is about to catch up with the rest of the world and have a woman in charge.

Germany has Angela Merkel as Chancellor.  Liberia has President Ellen Johnson-Sirleaf.  Frozen had Elsa of Arendelle.

And now, We the People are about to have a woman in charge. Whether it forms a more perfect union or not is yet to be determined.

Who would have thunk it? Or, as one Cooperstown resident Richie “Whitey” Ashburn used to say to his long-time TV/radio booth partner and fellow Baseball Hall of Famer Harry Kalas, “Hard to believe, Harry.”

I mean, we are either going to have a woman president, or we are all in a large hand basket heading to hell.

Maybe both.

Remember, they laughed at Noah when he was running around asking ‘how long is a cubit?’ Before him, they laughed at Job. (rhymes with robe for you non-Bible readers).

If we don’t elect a woman, it will truly be the 11th sign of the Apocalypse, if the orange guy wins. (You know why the orange guy has that weird hairstyle, don’t you?  It covers up the 666 birthmark on his head.)

Some feel electing a woman president would be a sign of the Apocalypse.

I think having a woman in charge might not be the worst thing. Take it from the voice of experience.

My second year out of college the man who hired me for my first job took a leave of absence and a woman took his place. Twenty years through my career a woman was hired and implanted (no pun intended) into a position between me and my boss. I survived both times.

Many cultures and religions believe that the man is in charge, and the woman is supposed to be submissive to him. Not necessarily submissive like Anastasia in 50 Shades of Grey, mind you, but submissive to the point that what the man says goes. In the home (or Grey’s bedroom) and in the village as well.

In the Bible, 1 Timothy says “Let a woman learn quietly with all submissiveness. I do not permit a woman to teach or to exercise authority over a man, rather she is to remain quiet.”

Wow!  Paul wrote that in a letter in the year 62. I’m not sure that philosophy has held up over the years. At least not in most cultures.

No, the thinking of keeping the women barefoot and pregnant while the men go out and run the world has seen its day.

Our country is about to have a woman in charge, and it isn’t even Oprah.

For the first 30 years of our marriage my wife Terry was in charge of the house. Even though she worked, she worked a fraction of the hours I did so she kept the checkbook, she paid the bills and she did the shopping. I would help when I could, which was a fair amount of the time.

For the last 30 months, however, I have had to gradually take on all of the responsibilities around the house and the reason seems anything but fair.

I long for the days when my wife was in charge. In charge of the cooking, in charge of the cleaning, in charge of anything. But now her Early Onset Alzheimer’s disease prevents her from taking charge of anything.

I have to admit that I was never from the school of thought that said the man is naturally the boss and what he says goes. My marriage with Terry was always based on us being partners. When I was home I changed a shit-load of diapers. (okay, pun intended). I cooked many a meal (on the grill). I did the dishes and cleaned the house (if Terry was sick or if I made the mess when she was gone).

Now I sometimes feel sorry for myself because I no longer have a partner. I don’t mean just my helpmate, someone to share the chores. I mean my soulmate, the person I chose to share my life with.  I no longer have my confidant.

She was my moral compass.

Now I have to make ALL of the decisions around the house, and I do mean ALL. What Terry wants to eat, what she should wear today. When she should shower or go to the bathroom.

I would love to have a woman in charge. My woman in charge. In charge of my home again. But that’s not going to happen.

What is going to happen though is that a woman is going to be in charge of the United States.

Or, it will be the end of times. 

Maybe both.

No one knows the time or day when it will happen. But signs are pointing toward it.

Until next time, get used to saying “Yes, Ma’am.” And say your prayers.

Bud

Happy Happy Joy Joy

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and I am afraid that I’m not “such a happy Chewbacca!”

Certainly not as happy as that Texas woman who recently bought the Chewbacca mask and recorded a video of herself getting quite a big kick out of it.  The video was watched by over 50 million people during the first 24 hours it was on the internet this past weekend.

Me, I am afraid I have not been a very happy Wookiee.

There was a television cartoon on the Nickelodeon channel in the early ‘90s, when our kids were young, called Ren & Stimpy.  Ren was an emotionally unstable Chihuahua and Stimpy was a good-natured but stupid cat. They performed the ‘happy happy joy joy’ song and dance.

Some feel that ‘Happy happy joy joy’ was a tribute to folk, country and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer singer Burl Ives, since some of the lyrics are from some of the songs Ives sang.

Some feel ‘Happy happy joy joy’ is when the world expects you to put on this happy and joyful face when what you really want to do is scream, curse and cry. To make everyone happy even though your world is falling apart, you put on this mask of ‘happy happy joy joy’ while singing a silly song.

I guess I have been guilty of wearing a mask.

Not quite the Chewbacca mask, more like the one Eleanor Rigby kept in a jar by the door.

The British DNA in me has helped ‘keep a stiff upper lip’ the last two years, since my wife Terry was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s disease. I would have to admit, however, that the lower lip has been known to quiver from time to time.

One of Terry’s favorite music videos is Miranda Lambert’s “Mama’s Broken Heart” and in it the country star complains that her mother is telling her “don’t matter how you feel, it only matters how you look. Go fix your make up, it’s just a break up, run and hide your crazy and start actin’ like a lady. ‘cause I raised you better, gotta keep it together, even when you fall apart.”

I’ve been working hard to not fall apart, trying to keep it together. I really haven’t felt too much true happiness the last few years.  But there have been times when I was enjoying the moment, which has been my goal all along, to try to enjoy the moment and try not to think of the big picture.

Fortunately, this time of year is when those moments usually begin to get more and more enjoyable. And more and more frequent.

It is the end of May, my favorite time of year. My work load slows down, the weather turns nice and most importantly; I am home a lot more. Home with my Terry.

My wife Terry needs me more and more each day, needs help with more and more tasks.  When we are apart I worry about her quality of life. I know she gets nervous when she is alone. She calls me and asks me where I’m at? She doesn’t always understand why we are not together.

But when we are together, we laugh. A lot. Seeing Terry laugh is the greatest.

To me, it is so much better than the infectious laugh of the Texas woman wearing the Chewbacca mask. It truly makes me happy and gives me joy.

So as the warmer weather arrives I will be home more with Terry to enjoy it.

The other side of the coin, however, is that as the days grow warmer, with each passing day Terry’s cognitive skills decline more and more. This makes me worry about the future and, in turn, start doing the happy happy joy joy song and dance.

I never let Terry see me sad or upset. I need to be strong for her, to give her a sense of security. The best way for me to make her happy is to be happy myself. Or at least wear the mask of a happy person.

Happy happy joy joy.

Until next time, hope you can be as happy as the latest internet sensation, the woman wearing the Wookiee mask in Texas. She is such a happy Chewbacca!

Bud

Power of Prayer

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and like Tim the Tool Man from the popular 1990s TV show Home Improvement I want ‘more power.’

The power of prayer.

I’m reminded of the aphorism:  “There are no atheists in foxholes.” (If the word aphorism has you stuck, other examples of aphorisms include “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’, “A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush” or my favorite, “Give a man a fish, he eats for a day. Teach a man to fish; he is out on his boat with his buddies drunk every weekend.”)

Back to atheists in foxholes. I assume the term ‘foxhole’ goes back to one of the World Wars when soldiers dug out defensive positions during combat. And speaking of World Wars, if WWI was supposed to be “The war that ends all wars”, how come they gave it a number?

I think the aphorism about foxholes, dealing with times of extreme stress or fear, is true. People in those situations believe, or hope for, some form of higher power. You know, God. Or as my wife Terry calls Him, by His ‘old school’ name, Jehovah.

When the shit hits the fan, all people pray, whether they call it prayer or not. They ask for help. From anyone. From anything. When there is nowhere else to turn, they turn to faith.

And for good reason. It works.

Not too far from where we live is the National Shrine of Saint Katharine Drexel, the second American-born person to be canonized. Katharine was a wealthy Philadelphia socialite whose family founded Drexel University. She founded the Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament, a religious order serving African American and Native American missions.

Katharine Drexel used her wealth and fame to set up a meeting with the Pope.  When she had her audience with Pope Leo she demanded he give more support to the Native Americans in the Southwest part of the United States. In response to her demands, the pontiff suggested Drexel become a missionary herself, and she said “fine,” and did.

Today the Drexel Shrine draws about 6,000 people a year, who come there to pray. Many of them have documented stories about how after their visits to the shrine they experienced “miracles” in their lives. Their mother’s cancer went into remission.  Their child’s ineffective immune system began working.  The Phillies won the World Series.

My in-laws raised 10 kids in the 1950s and ‘60s in a three-bedroom tenement, living on the first floor of a three-story house they owned that they rented the second and third floors out.  All 10 kids are now successful professionals with happy family and social lives. (Make that nine of the 10. The sixth child, Therese, married badly and developed a terminal illness) That family of 12 said the rosary, every night, together, and my Mother-in-law swears (she never really swears) that it worked.

She has told me and others that prayer definitely works, and she has proof.

Many people have proof that prayer works. And I am not talking about the people who see the face of Jesus in their grilled cheese sandwich or on a potato chip. (and speaking of that, how can those people think it is the image of Christ? If anything, it is the image of an artist rendering of Christ. I don’t think the Son of God ever had a formal sitting for his portrait, and he died about 1800 years before the first camera. Those images of Christ are really images of what sixth century artists agreed upon.)

There are many people out there who agree upon the fact that their prayers were answered. And believe it or not I might be one of them.

I truly believe that prayer works. The rub is, it doesn’t always work the way you expect. The way you want. When you ask for Devine Intervention you don’t always get the result you ask for. But that doesn’t mean your prayers weren’t answered. They just weren’t answered the way you wanted, or expected.

A lot of people I know think I drew the short straw. They think my wife Terry got the shitty end of the stick, when she was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease two years ago. And I would have to agree. My first reaction was “What’s up with that, God? I pay taxes. Terry never did a thing in her life that would make her deserve something like this. WTF?” I was just shy of sounding like the Olympic ice skater Nancy Kerrigan, after she was attacked back in the 1990s by rival Tanya Harding’s friend and performed that famous whine “Whhyyyy?”

But I also feel that despite what happened to Terry and me, we are blessed. Our prayers have been answered. Well, obviously not all of them, but some of them, anyway.

Sure, Terry having cognitive impairment is no blessing. For me, seeing my best friend, my soul mate, my helpmate, decline mentally on almost a daily basis is no picnic. It sucks!

A wise man once said “you can’t always get what you want but if you try sometime you find you get what you need.”

If there is one thing I have learned over the last two years, it is that God doesn’t give you more than you can handle. He sometimes gives you a shitload more than you would like to handle, but when push comes to shove you can handle it if you really have to. If you really try.

And Terry and I have really, really been trying. And so far we have been able to handle it. So far.

But despite Terry’s Alzheimer’s we feel blessed because we have three great kids, we have great friends and family, and we have each other.

This disease has brought Terry and me so close. And it was Divine Intervention almost 40 years ago that brought Terry and me together in the first place.

Looking back, if I had been told 40 years ago that I would get to spend all this time with someone like Terry but at the end it was going to get messy, I would have signed on. No questions asked.  Well, maybe a couple of questions, like for instance, Whhyyyy??

But, that really is not my style.  Most of my praying involves saying thank you for what I have and saying please can I have help with this or that.

I have always prayed throughout my life. Looking back, I am sure some of my prayers were answered.  And I am pretty sure some of them were not.  Or at least answered the way I had hoped or expected.

I will continue to pray, pray that I can keep Terry happy and safe in the years to come. Keep her with me as long as I can.

Until next time, hope your prayers are answered.

Bud

May Day

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and yesterday, Sunday, was May 1, and in many parts of the world was celebrated as May Day.

I celebrated May Day yesterday because, due to rain, I had the day off.

May Day is an ancient spring festival, involving dancing around the maypole, singing and eating cake.

I’m thinking it must be a big deal if it involves cake.

In olden times towns and villages would celebrate the coming of spring on May 1. Most farmers had already planted their crops by May 1 so it was a day the laborers could have off from work to celebrate the end of a long, cold winter, and the promise of more pleasant days to follow.

May has always been my favorite month. My work load begins to ease in May and my hours worked per week begin to decline.  Most importantly, May brings with it the anticipation of the arrival of summer.

I have always been a boy of summer.

That is reason enough to celebrate May 1. May Day.

There is also another Mayday. One that, unfortunately, I am becoming more and more aware of.

Mayday is an emergency procedure word used internationally as a distress signal. It is used primarily by sailors and pilots, and always said three times for emphasis (Mayday, Mayday, Mayday). It comes from the French word m’aidez which means “help me.”

There have been plenty of times in the last two years, since my wife Terry was diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, that I wanted to call out Mayday-Mayday-Mayday. In the last 25 months there has been plenty of distress. Plenty of times when I didn’t think I was going to make it. Plenty of times when I asked the Good Lord to “help me.”

May Day has also become the International Workers’ Day, a day to celebrate not only the hard work performed all year long but the eight hour work day. The balance of eight hours of working, eight hours of sleeping and eight hours of leisure. It commemorates the Haymarket Affair, which occurred in Chicago about 130 years ago, a peaceful rally in support of workers striking for an eight hour day that unfortunately turned violent.

My wife Terry worked for over 30 years in a variety of jobs. When we first got married she taught a 6am aerobics class at the local YMCA. For the life of me I could not figure out why people would pay to take a fitness class at that ungodly hour. I was happy that Terry got paid to lead that class, however.

That aerobics class grew into a full time job at the “Y” working with youngsters, teaching gymnastics to toddlers. “Gym-Jam” it was called.

That was the greatest job for us. The “Y” was right down the street and with the free day care they had, our kids practically grew up at the “Y”. It was a great atmosphere for them and the day care room was literally right across the hall from the gym that Terry called her office.

During the summer Terry ran the YMCA Sports Day Camp. Basically she got paid to play with kids outside all summer. Again, it was great for her and our kids.

But, as I have learned with too many things over the last two years, all good things have to come to an end sooner or later. Too many sooner. Terry was so well liked at the “Y” and did such a good job that they promoted her, to a different “Y” and to a different job, one that involved more money but also more responsibilities. It was also a job that she did not enjoy. It was more administrative and management duties and less hands on with the kids.

After the “Y” Terry, at different times, taught physical education and a computers course at a grade school, she was a postal carrier (what we used to call a Mailman before the age of political correctness), a grade school athletics director and a track & field coach, and later worked at the shopping mall at a Sears. (She never could find out for me what the people at Sears ever did with Roebuck)

For the past several years she worked in a doctor’s office where they help people lose weight and keep the weight off. The running joke in the office was that Terry was the “after” picture in the “before and after”, since she weighs in at a whopping 102 pounds.

But I am afraid Terry’s working days came to an end last year. She could no longer perform the duties she once was hired to do. Her cognitive impairment continues to worsen.

The worst part about Terry not working is not the lack of income, but the lack of input. Getting out of the house and interacting with others was so good for her. The brain is a muscle and it needs to be exercised. Working was very good for Terry.

This May Day, yesterday, was very good for Terry.

On this May Day, while others were honoring the working class and celebrating the arrival of spring, we were honored with guests and celebrated their company.

I had the day off due to bad weather and Terry and I were enjoying the company of one of her brothers and his wife, who were visiting, along with our son and his dog.

It sure beat working!  What a Great May Day it was!

May 1 is also the feast day of St. Joseph the Worker, a carpenter, and the Catholic patron saint of all workers.

Terry’s brother is somewhat of a carpenter. He is a university chemistry professor by trade, but is very handy with his large assortment of tools. He has done numerous construction jobs on our house and on this May 1 visit brought us a “project” he had been working on.

A kitchen pantry that he made for us is now the most expensive thing we have in our house. A solid oak kitchen cabinet that will truly become a family heirloom.

Many people were complaining about the rain on May 1 this year, but that is something we never do around our house. When our kids were little they always liked it when it rained in the spring because they knew that meant the games would be rained out and I wouldn’t have to work. I would be home.

This May Day I was home, enjoying guests. It was truly a great day to celebrate.

Until next time, hope you had a great May Day, with or without rain, and hopefully will have no reason to cry out mayday, mayday, mayday.

Bud

P.S. parts of this blog were taken from a blog I wrote last May, in case some of you with good memories thought you were experiencing déjà vu all over again.

Work Ethic

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and I just spent eight hours on a Saturday working. That is like saying water is wet. The sky is blue.

The problem is my son was visiting my wife Terry and me today, a week before he moves away for his job promotion. I was too busy to visit with him as much as I wanted because I was working, but at least he got to spend some quality time with his mother.

My oldest came home today as well. She also came home to spend time with her mother, as she always does on weekends. She took her mother shopping for clothes while I worked.

My wife Terry had a great day today with her two oldest children. I know because she has told me about a dozen times in the last two hours.

She tends to repeat herself these days, two years after being diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease.

Back to my work day today. I have always prided myself on my strong work ethic. It is a trait I learned from my father and grandfather and I am happy to say I see a lot of in my three kids.

Today I was able to work while the kids were with my Terry. Today I was able to concentrate on my job.

But lately I am afraid I have not been able to concentrate on my job as much as I should. Lately I have not had the best of work ethics.

For the last 38 years, since I graduated from college, during the months from September to June I have worked six or seven days a week.  

A lot of my friends are big college football fans. I never got into it as much as they did because I worked every Saturday when the majority of the college games were being played.

Over the last 35 years I have worked an average of  70 hours a week during those nine plus non-summer months.

And I wore that as a badge. Something to be proud of. Something to hang your hat on.

The coaches and athletes seem to admire it when they see you coming out of the gym late at night on coming in early on the weekends. They put in a lot of hours and they feel a bond when they see you doing the same thing.

I enjoyed my career and didn’t mind working the extra hours needed to do my job.

That is, until the kids started growing up. Missing softball and Little League games, soccer games, school plays and track meets, that was tough. But I had a work ethic. It was important to provide for my family the best way I knew how. 

It just so happened that my chosen profession required a lot of nights and weekends during the academic school year. And working games that I could not get out of, not even to attend out of town weddings and even some funerals. (The only home basketball game I ever missed in all my years was to attend my father-in-law’s funeral. I worked a home baseball game the day after my own father passed away.)

So many family functions I had to miss because of my job. My career. But that stops now.

Now I find myself taking long lunches when my schedule allows. Leaving work early when my schedule allows. Working from home instead of the office when the schedule allows.

But this lack of work ethic is not about ‘me’ time.

It is not to go play golf. It is not to go to the bar. It is not to try to enjoy my life a little more. My reasoning is somewhat eternal.

I believe that when we die we will be judged on what we did and did not do with our lives. And that judgment will determine where we spend eternity.

I don’t think I am alone in this belief.

Personally, I think I will be judged more for how I did as a caregiver for my wife, than I will on how well I did my job, or how many hours I put in at the office.

I think what I do for my wife will out-weigh what I do in my career.

Obviously, I still have to work. A priority is certainly to keep a roof over my wife’s head and food on her plate. So I can’t just retire.

Although, I’m getting to the age now where many of my friends are getting close to or are actually retiring. I am so jealous.

But with me, there is still a mortgage to pay off. There is insurance we need and a prescription plan I need through work.  (I only pay $20 a month at the drug store for two prescriptions. One of the drugs does not have a generic brand, so if I did not have insurance I would be paying over $400 a month for it).

Although that argument about the prescriptions doesn’t hold as much weight as it used to. I am afraid the meds Terry takes just aren’t cutting it anymore. I will keep giving them to her but I can tell the “additional two years” the doctors said they would give us are about up.

My wife Terry’s Alzheimer’s is in the middle stages now and she can no longer do so many things. One of them is entertain herself.

Left alone while I am at work is tough on Terry. She can only watch so many music videos. The chores she can no longer do far out-weight the ones she can still do.

That is the reason for my work ethic decline. I need to be home more. I need to be with her more.

But Thank God for nice weather again.

Terry has been outside the last several days while I am at work and she is beginning to enjoy herself again. She is fascinated by seeing airplanes and helicopters in the sky. It amuses her. The fresh air is great for her, and our backyard is full of birds, squirrels and rabbits for her to watch.

The great outdoors have been entertaining her. Winter ended just in time.

When I am home we are outside more now, taking walks, having a catch out back and going to the park to shoot hoops.  Terry loves this and is enjoying her life again.

And that makes me happy. A wise old man once said (or was it on a coffee mug, I’m not sure) “A happy wife, a happy life.”

No truer words were ever spoken (or written on a coffee mug). When Terry is happy, I am very happy. My life is happy.

So I am afraid my work ethic reputation might take a hit, but I don’t mind.  I will still do my job to the best of my ability. I just won’t spend as many hours away from home.  I can’t.

Being a caregiver is the most important job I ever had.

I have worked at my present job for 35 years, and my career pays the bills, but being a caregiver to my Terry I believe will be my legacy.

It is also what I will be judged on. Having a strong work ethic is important, and I am glad our children all have one. It is essential to survive in this world.

But now I have to help my wife survive. And that may be essential to my afterlife.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not trying to get into Heaven by being a good caregiver.

I am trying to give Terry a heaven on earth as long as I can, until her Alzheimer’s makes it a hell on earth for both of us.

Until next time, hope you can enjoy doing what you will be judged on.

Bud

Sports, Stupid

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and my shoulder is sore from throwing and my legs are sore from chasing down rebounds.

And I feel great about that.

Since my wife Terry has moved into the middle or moderate stage of her Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, her reasoning has become unusual, to say the least, and she’s had changes in mood and behavior that she has never had before.  

I don’t feel too great about that.

But almost as bad as that is the fact that her communication skills continue to diminish.

It is almost impossible for anyone to have a conversation with Terry on the phone without me being there, and lately it is becoming harder for her to communicate with even me on the phone. 

When Terry was first diagnosed two years ago the team of doctors and graduate students at the clinic all gathered in a room with us to give us the news. When we walked in and I saw a box of tissues next to our seats I knew that was never a good sign. 

While explaining everything to us, the Doctor said that when communication skills break down, it is important that I find leisurely physical activities that Terry can still enjoy.  Playing a musical instrument, painting, gardening, dancing. Physical things that we have enjoyed in the past.

To try to lighten the mood in this somber meeting room, I turned to Terry but said loud enough for everyone to hear “He said we have to have more sex!”

When emotions are running high it is easy to get a laugh.

And now that it is happening I remember that talk we had about the physical activities. Unlike many of her siblings, Terry never played a musical instrument. Terry and I were never much of a dancing couple. She was never a knitter. One of Terry’s sisters bought her these colored pencils and adult coloring books (when I heard ‘adult’ I mistakenly thought they would be risqué pictures) but Terry wasn’t into it, risqué or not.

I had to find things that Terry and I can enjoy doing. We still take long walks when my schedule and the weather allow. But that wasn’t enough. I had to get her off the couch and away from the TV.  I try to give her chores to do, folding laundry and washing dishes, but she really can’t do much more than that anymore on her own.

And then one day it hit me.  Sports, stupid!

Now that the weather is turning nicer, I brought out the old basketball and took Terry to the park to shoot hoops.

She was smiling from ear to ear.

Terry grew up in a house with a backboard and rim nailed up to the garage and she loved to shoot hoops when she was a school kid. Being five foot nothing, weighting a hundred and nothing, she never played organized basketball but with the neighborhood kids and the many siblings, she has many fond memories of playing basketball growing up.

Besides, she can really shoot. She can make more foul shots than I can. Sports are always more fun when you are good at them.

We also have this softball sized ball that is much softer than a softball, and we have been having a catch with that in our back yard.

More ear to ear smiling.

And I have to admit I was smiling pretty wide myself. Seeing Terry smile is something I no longer take for granted. With the advancement of the disease she is not as happy-go-lucky as she used to be. She worries. She gets nervous.  She gets scared. Most of the time over things that are not real. Sometimes it is having to watch me go to work.

But having a catch with Terry was great. It got her out of the house, moving around. And for me, it was like old times. I threw a ball every day for years in my teens and 20s, playing high school, American Legion and college baseball. Especially in college, when the South Florida weather allowed us to play all year. The month of December was the only time we did not play.

And now that spring weather has arrived Terry and I are going to play. We’ll have a catch in the back yard. We’ll shoot hoops at the park or nearby school yard. And we’ll continue to take our long walks.   It won’t be long before we will be taking our walks at the Jersey Shore.

But I try not to look to far forward. I love the summer but with Terry’s new symptoms I hate to see what she will and will not be able to do in the months to come.

My friends tell me I have to look forward, to figure out a plan on how I am going to continue to care for Terry and continue to work. I won’t be retiring any time soon, so decisions are going to have to be made.

But for now, I have decided that we need to play more sports.

Next I have to come up with a physical activity that Terry can do without me. We had a basketball hoop in our back yard when the kids were small but that is long gone.  I never thought I’d put another one up but I might have to look into that.  Or maybe she can work on her ball handling, her dribbling.

We’ll come up with something. All I know is that it will have something to do with sports.

Until next time, hope you have a sporting time.

Bud

The Next Stage

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and I am not quite sure if I am ready to take my caregiver career to the next level, but it appears I have no choice.  I got the call. I’m going to The Show, as they say in minor league baseball. I’m going to be on the Big Stage, as they say in acting.

The Big Stage because I am afraid my wife Terry’s condition has progressed to the next stage.

‘Progressed’ is a curious word to use there. Progress usually means something good, something positive.  This is anything but.

I am sorry to say that Terry has advanced from the mild to the moderate stage of her Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease.  I always knew this day would come, although I prayed that it wouldn’t.  It was inevitable. The meds she has been taking could only slow it down for so long.

In everything I have read, Alzheimer’s Disease is classified into stages. Some break it down to seven stages, some to three stages. They all have one thing in common. Each stage gets a hell of a lot worse. And each stage requires a hell of a lot more from the caregiver.

According to the medical journals that classify in seven stages, Terry has moved from stage three to stage four.

Other materials I have seen keep it to a basic three stages; mild/early is stage one, moderate/middle is stage two and severe/late is stage three.

If we are going by the three stage approach, Terry has moved from stage one to stage two.

This is the longest of the three stages. This is when Terry’s happy-go-lucky personality begins to change. She begins to get scared, frustrated.  Or angry.

The other day I came home from work at lunch time, as I always do for the last year or so, and Terry was crying and she started yelling at me that she hates me because I leave her alone all the time.

All the time?

I leave for work around 8 or 8:30 in the morning and am back home at 12 noon to spend lunch with her. I stay as long as I can, usually until 1 or 1:30 and I am home from work at the end of the day by 5pm. I often work at night and on weekends but fortunately this time of year I can do a lot of that from home.

When I am not home I have lists of things for her to do, to keep her busy, entertained. Do the dishes, wash up, brush your teeth, dress for the day, watch TV, listen to the radio, read the paper, call Bud.

Later that day and the next day Terry was very apologetic about what she said and told me over and over the way she really feels about me. She just really does not like being alone. More specifically, she does not like being without me. She trusts me, and needs me, to make more and more of her decisions.

I realized that it was not Terry yelling at me but the disease. I think the last time Terry yelled at me was in the 1980s. I think the last time she told me she hated me was when she was in her 32^nd hour of labor with our first child’s natural childbirth. (She didn’t really say it but I could see it in her tired eyes).

Thirty-some years later, she has begun acting in unusual ways, textbook behavior according to the journals. I realize this is due to damage to the nerve cells in her brain and it makes it difficult for her to express her thoughts, to perform routine tasks.

Some tasks about as routine as they get.

Thirty-some years ago I lived in New England for a while and there was a local plumbing business that had a controversial slogan. On the side of their trucks and on a billboard in town it said “Need Help in the Bathroom?”  Being in my early 20s I thought it was funny but after countless letters to the editor and talk radio show complaints, the company changed the slogan. Basically, they just erased the “in the Bathroom” part.

That is the part that I wish I could erase. The fact that Terry now does need help in the bathroom.

Not all the time, mainly first thing in the morning, but enough times to make me worry about our road trips. Fortunately the road trips are done for this year, and who knows what next winter will bring. I don’t even want to think about that.

For now we will try to make the most of the spring and look forward to summer when I am home even more.

The next stage. The ultimate for caregivers like me. Of the three stages this is the longest and probably the last one that I can handle on my own. I am afraid the final stage is out of my league.

Until next time, hope you can enjoy the next stage of your life.

Bud