March Madness

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and the month of March used to make me mad. Now, I am afraid, with the passing of every month of March, my wife is slowly going mad.

Before I took an early retirement to become a full-time caregiver, I got pretty good at being in two places at once. But being in three places at once was always a challenge, and that is what the month of March used to demand of me.

In my former line of work, the month of March was truly maddening. Exciting, but maddening. Of our 20 varsity sports, our two flagship sports, the ones that got us on national TV every year, were both winter sports, basketball and wrestling. And on every March 1, those two sports would be gearing up for their conference championships and national post-season competition.  Exciting stuff. But the problem was, at the same time, our spring sports had already begun competing.

Being a baseball guy, the spring season was always my favorite, and March 1 began the anticipation of spring weather. The reason I got into my field of endeavor in the first place was because when I was a college baseball player the person who had the career I eventually took up worked closely with the baseball team.

But when I worked in the month of March, before I could concentrate on and enjoy the baseball season, I had to deal with the winter sports in the most important part of their seasons.

I was a multi-tasker before anyone ever used that expression.

Now that I am a full-time caregiver for my wife Terry, who is in the middle stage of Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, the multi-tasking I now perform makes what I had to do in my former career seem like a piece of cake. And I really like cake.

There are several phrases that I truly believe I will never say in my lifetime. Phrases like “Yes dear, as a matter of fact that outfit does make you look fat.” “No thanks, I don’t drink.” Or even “Yes, I think Trump is a great, honest and fair man and a great, honest and fair President.”

And so far, so good on those three phrases.

But the one phrase that I was most sure I would never say in my lifetime was “I miss my job.”

Well, if the Philadelphia Eagles can win a Super Bowl with a back-up quarterback, the Houston Astros can win a World Series with one of the lowest payrolls in baseball and the United States can elect a self-proclaimed “very stable genius,” I guess all bets are off.

I used to work 70-hour weeks, nights and weekends, from late August till late May, for 35 years, and now I must admit that I miss it.

I miss having written a game story on deadline and being proud of it the next day when people tell me how much they enjoyed it more than the story in the newspapers. I miss writing a feature story about a student-athlete that not only appeared on our web page or in our alumni magazine but in the athletes’ hometown newspaper and hearing from the parents how happy they were to read it.

I miss traveling to places like Florida State, Georgia Tech or U. of Miami for NCAA baseball tournaments. Traveling to places like Kentucky’s Rupp Arena, Virginia’s John Paul Jones Arena or Allen Field House in Kansas for basketball games. Or traveling to Carver-Hawkeye Arena in Iowa, the Bryce Jordan Center at Penn State or Lehigh’s Grace Hall for wrestling matches.

And even more than traveling to those cathedrals of college sports, I miss traveling to places like New Rochelle, Poughkeepsie or Albany, NY, places that I used to drive to with my co-pilot, my shotgun rider, my best friend, Terry.

The first 20 years or so of my job I traveled mostly with the teams, while Terry was home with the kids. But once the kids were old enough to fend for themselves, Terry was my navigator as we drove to the games.

Before GPS was on everyone’s phone, we traveled with printed out directions and a Rand-McNally atlas road map. If we hit a detour, road construction or heavy traffic, Terry could read the map and tell me where to go.

About five or six years ago, when Terry could no longer figure out where to go when looking at the map, is when I started to worry. That was one of the first signs that her cognitive skills were decreasing at an alarming rate. About three years ago when she no longer knew how to drive the five miles to her job, is when I took the car keys away.

And that is when I began my career as a caregiver. At first it was part-time, before and after work. Then I began coming home at lunchtime. Finally, 17 months ago, it became a full-time job and I had to quit the job I now miss.

The job I had for 38 years, 35+ on the NCAA Division I level, was not easy. It was hard, but it was supposed to be hard. If it wasn’t hard everyone would do it. Or at least try to do it. There are only about 300 of them out there, and I had one. When I applied for that job in 1981 I was one of 88 applicants.

Looking back now I was lucky to have that job. But now I feel luckier to have the job I now have.

Caregiving is not easy. Sometimes when I’m hurt, and I want to give up, I try to remember Terry is worth it. I try to remember the amazing person I fell in love with. I try to remember the words of a very wise Rastafarian.

“If she’s amazing, she won’t be easy. If she’s easy, she won’t be amazing. If she’s worth it, you won’t give up. If you give up, you’re not worthy. Truth is, everybody is going to hurt you; you just gotta find the one worth suffering for.”

Well I certainly found that person, and I certainly am suffering.

Seeing Terry’s mind deteriorate before my very eyes is a killer. But I know she is worth it. And like my former job, I know I am lucky to have this one.

I’m lucky to be able to be her caregiver. So many Alzheimer’s patients have total strangers as their caregivers. Their spouses are either dead or can’t quit their jobs to do it or just aren’t up to the task.

I’m lucky that I was able to quit the job I loved to care for my best friend, my partner, my Terry.

This March will probably be the toughest one I’ve ever had, tougher than the one when Terry was first diagnosed, and tougher than every March since then.

Until next time, fill out your bracket and enjoy March Madness. It will be tough, but I will try to do the same, without getting mad while my best friend is going mad.

Bud

budfocht@gmail.com

Up Down, Up Down

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and my life as a caregiver these days is a lot like the proper way to serve an English Muffin. Lots of nooks and crannies.

By nooks and crannies, I don’t mean little, out of the way places. I mean the way half of an English Muffin is supposed to look, with peaks and valleys, highs and lows, ups and downs.

Once my wife Terry began the middle stages of Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, there were good days and bad days. Now, on both good days and bad days there are good moments and bad moments, and they come and go as often as another cockamamie tweet from the POTUS.

There is no greater thing in life than hearing my wife Terry laugh. And there is nothing worse than seeing the anger in her eyes, anger and rage caused, I believe, by frustration, due to her diminishing cognitive skills.

Thankfully I still hear Terry say, “I love my life” every once in a while. It keeps me going. But way too often I hear her scream “I don’t like it! It’s all yuk! I’m going home!” in between open-handed swings at my chest.

One of the sad parts is that she says she wants to go home when she is standing in the middle of the home she has lived in for over 30 years.

My amateur psychology theory is I believe her wanting to “go home” means she wants to go back to the way she was. And the way she was, was perfect.

When Terry gets angry these days it reminds me of 12-year old Regan spinning her head around and projectile pea souping. It is the complete opposite of what she really is, or at least was.

Terry was the meekest, cutest coed I ever met. She always seemed to have a smile on her face and would never raise her voice. The woman I married never got mad, at least not until we had kids. If she wasn’t happy, she might have been a little sad, but it seemed like she was never mad.

Now she gets fightin’ mad!

The Zoloft has helped, but there are still periods of the day when she gets upset, for really no reason at all. Usually something she thought of, real or not.

Sometimes I think LaMarcus Thompson had my life in mind when he invented the roller coaster. Up down, up down. The thought of it makes me want to start pea souping.

I’ve tried many different ways to deal with Terry’s anger and violence. I’ve tried to plead with her, apologize to her. I’ve tried to hug her, but that can sometimes be like boning a marlin. I’ve tried yelling back at her when she strikes me, and I’ve tried taking my shirt off to try to make her laugh.

Lately, I’ve been using the old misdirection trick.  I try to distract her.

I tried breaking out the old photo albums, but that play ended with mixed reviews. Terry gave it two thumbs up. For me, it somewhat of a downer. Maybe I picked the wrong photo album.

I was showing Terry the photos of our wedding and she was enjoying it. She loved seeing the pictures of the bride and groom. She told me how much she liked her groom.

Up!

But it eventually dawned on me that she had no idea that the guy sitting next to her, showing her the wedding photos, was the groom in the pictures.

Down!

The best way to distract Terry is with Harry, our grand dog. Harry almost always makes Terry laugh. So when I see Terry getting agitated I get Harry and have Terry give him a treat. Harry licking peanut butter off of Terry’s hand has so far been my go-to play.

Sometimes we throw a milkbone out into the yard and watch Harry run after it. If he is already outside I have to be the one who throws the bone. Terry has such great eye-hand coordination when she threw the hard milkbone she almost hit Harry in the head with it, even though he was a good 50 feet from us. Once after she narrowly missed him I told Terry to throw it away from Harry, toward the fenced in garden. So, what happened? She threw the bone INTO the garden. Harry couldn’t get it because he knows he’s not allowed in there, even during the winter when the garden is more of a compost.

Unfortunately, our son won’t let us have a fat grand dog, so I can only use that trick once or twice a day.

I also use peanut M&Ms, Terry’s favorite, to take her mind off of whatever is bothering her. I put some in each hand and have Terry pick a hand. I always act totally amazed that she always picks the correct hand.  That trick only works before she gets pissed, when I see it coming. Nip it in the bud, before Bud gets nipped.

You know the expression, “Sweets for the sweet?” Well in my case it is “Sweet before getting beat.”

But like not wanting a fat grand dog, I can only use the M&M trick on Terry once or twice a day.

One of my great sisters-in-law sent some gifts to help keep Terry calm, and they do. One of the gifts is this vibrating ball made for infants, but it makes Terry laugh when it bounces around the floor or in her hands or lap. Who would have thought one of Terry’s sisters would send me a vibrator for her?

She also sent us a Sensory pillow. It is a throw pillow for the couch that has reversible sequins, so depending on how you rub it the color changes. The best part about it so far is the fact that when the sun comes in our front window in the late afternoon it hits the sequins and reflects onto the living room ceiling. I move the pillow and it is like being in our own little planetarium with the different colored stars moving.

Physical comedy also makes Terry laugh. Nothing too violent like the Stooges slapping each other, but a clumsy Inspector Clouseau or Gilligan or a nervous Barney Fife will sometimes make her laugh too hard, hard enough that we need another shower, and another Depends.

When all else fails I go back to the old reliable. Sports.

Terry grew up playing football and basketball with the neighborhood kids, riding bikes with her siblings, and eventually kicking everyone’s butt in tennis as a Phys. Ed. major. She was a die-hard Providence College basketball fan, as well as a fan of her beloved Red Sox and Patriots. And that was even before the Pats were any good.

So now I have Red Sox and Patriots games recorded and I play them on TV when I am desperate.

Tonight, her Patriots play my Iggles in the biggest football game of the year. I am having homemade Philly cheesesteak sandwiches and Terry is having New England Clam Chowder. For desert I have Tastykakes and Terry has Boston Cream pie.

The game, as well as the commercials, and the food will help me help Terry stay happy. Help her stay up. 

Because there have been way to many downs lately, with more to come.

Tonight the only downs we want are First Downs in the game.

Until next time, I hope you have more ups than downs.

Bud

budfocht@gmail.com

Reality Takes a Holiday

By Bud Focht

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like that stoner I knew in college.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bud

budfocht@gmail.com

Christmas Spirit Takes Precedence Over Christmas Season

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and we had snow over the weekend. With the first snowfall of the season, I’ve had a change of heart when it comes to beginning the Christmas Season.

I used to hate it when we no sooner changed the clocks in the fall and the stores would start playing Christmas music and people in the neighborhood would start putting up Christmas lights.

It was always too soon for me.

It ranked right up there with seeing Back-To-School sales in July newspapers when I was trying to enjoy my boyhood summers.

Even starting the Christmas Season on Black Friday used to bother me, when all I wanted to try to do was digest turkey, stuffing, yams, peas, biscuits, ham, turkey, sweet potatoes, string beans, corn bread, cranberry sauce, turkey, gravy, carrots, mashed potatoes, pumpkin pie and turkey from the day before.

I now know that my own ‘War on (the rush to) Christmas’ was because, with my work schedule, I was never ready to deal with all of the commercialization of the holiday. You know, having to fight the crowds to buy gifts, putting up tacky decorations on the house, drinking way too much eggnog. Instead of putting me in the Christmas Spirit, it was making me act like Ebenezer Grinch.

I have a neighbor who lets everyone on our street know when to celebrate what. October 1 the witches, jack-o-lanterns, fake grave stones and skeletons are in place in the front yard. November 1 the giant turkeys and pilgrims inflate. And on Black Friday, when everyone else in the neighborhood is either in a shopping line or trying to find a parking spot at the mall, he is hanging his Christmas lights.

When I was growing up in a Catholic family in the 60s, taught by grade school nuns, the Christmas season would begin with Advent, usually the first Sunday of December. Four Sundays to prepare for the celebration of the birth of Christ.

We believed Christmas was all about what Linus told Good Ol Charlie Brown. “And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were so afraid. And the angel said unto them, ‘Fear not, for behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.’ And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

I still believe that, but I am afraid I have grown to know that the chronology doesn’t work for December 25.

Santa from the North Pole works well with the pagan winter solstice rituals and made for a good time of year to kill a tree and give presents, but I am afraid Biblical historians will tell you otherwise. All indications point to Jesus of Nazareth, because of, among other reasons, shepherds being in the fields watching their flocks, was actually born during late summer or early fall, probably in September. That also coincides with the Biblical fact of Jesus being born about six months after John the Baptist, who we know was born in the spring, probably March.

Turns out these days December 25 is just a good day for Jews to go out and eat Chinese food before going to the movies.

Sorry. That last paragraph or so sounded a little Bah Humbugish. Like the Scrooge that Stole Christmas.

But I’ve had a change of heart. And not a heart two sizes too small, like Scrooge. Or was that the Grinch? I seem to be mixing my midwinter metaphors.

Now that I am a caregiver 24 hours a day for my wife Terry, who is in the middle stages of Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, I no longer have time for all of the commercialization bullshit of the holiday. I can no longer afford to buy gifts. I don’t decorate. I don’t even have time to get out to the store to pick up too much eggnog.

And because I no longer do all of the running around, because I no longer deal with all of the commercialized holiday bull, I now believe more in the miracle of the Christmas Spirit, and look for it to arrive as soon as possible.

Because the miracle of the Christmas Spirit is something we need to believe in, as Bill Murray so eloquently said at the end of the movie Scrooged: “If you believe in this spirit thing, the miracle will happen and then you'll want it to happen again tomorrow. You won't be one of these bastards who says 'Christmas is once a year and it's a fraud', it's NOT! It can happen every day, you've just got to want that feeling. And if you like it and you want it, you'll get greedy for it! You'll want it every day of your life and it can happen to you. I believe in it now! I believe it's going to happen to me now! I'm ready for it! And it's great! It's a good feeling, it's really better than I've felt in a long time. I'm ready. Have a Merry Christmas, everybody.”

Like I used to say to the coeds when I was in college, especially the hippie chicks, “There isn’t enough love in this world, so maybe we should make a little.”

Love and Peace and Joy, that is what the Christmas Spirit is all about.

Everybody acts a little nicer when they have the Christmas Spirit. Like the way my wife Terry used to act ALL the time.

Terry was the meekest, most polite and good-hearted person I have ever met. There is not a person alive or dead who ever met Terry and did not love her, did not feel the peace and joy in her heart.

About 20 years ago Terry found a group of people who were very similar to her. She joined their Bible Study group and was very happy. About three years ago her diminished cognitive skills prevented her from following what was going on, so I began taking her to their weekly meetings and one of their annual regional conventions.

And at that convention I Witnessed something extraordinary. At a convention attended by close to 9,000 people, I saw a young mother go up to a perfect stranger and say “Could you hold my baby while I use the restroom?” And when she returned from the restroom there were three or four additional people, men and women, all helping to entertain the baby until the young mother returned.

Now how many of us would ever have the testicles to do something like that, and feel in full confidence that everything would be all right?

Is there a group you know of that if you went to their convention, you could do that? The Democratic or Republican Conventions? Maybe the Teamsters?

If I went to a ball game with 9,000 people I wouldn’t trust a stranger to hold my beer, let alone my baby.

As I said a few minutes ago I grew up Catholic.  But I don’t think I could even ask someone I didn’t know to hold my baby in church while I used the little alter boy’s room.

In over 50 years of Church-going I witnessed too many times people smiling and shaking hands with the sign of peace during Mass and 20 minutes later cutting each other off trying to get out of the parking lot in order to get home to watch the game or get a good seat at IHOP.

But these people I Witnessed at that convention always seem to have the spirit that some of us are only lucky enough to experience around the Christmas Season. 

So now I believe the longer we can experience “the miracle” of the Christmas Season, Christmas Spirit, that Bill Murray spoke about, the better.

Let’s start the Christmas Season, start spreading the Christmas Spirit, as soon as possible.

How about Christmas in July?

Until next time, spread the Christmas Spirit, and don’t stop spreading it when you take down the tacky Christmas decorations.

Bud

Can I Be Peace if You Be Quiet?

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and my quiet wife Terry has become quite a talker. And it not only bothers me, it scares me.

When I first met Terry, she was so quiet, it was like pulling teeth to get her to open up and talk, especially about herself.  Now, she talks TO herself. All night. Now, when she opens up in the middle of the night it is like trying to fall asleep when you have a toothache.

I’ve told people for years that when Terry and I first met, with her poor hearing along with her thick Rhode Island accent, our conversations consisted mainly of us saying to each other; “What?”, “Excuse me?”, or as proper New Englanders often say when they don’t hear or understand what you say, “Please?”.

A few months ago, well into the middle stage of Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, Terry began talking to herself.  At first it was as if she was ‘thinking out loud.’ The voice was a whisper, like no one else was supposed to hear. When I first began hearing it I would ask her what she said, and she acted like ‘What are you taking about? I didn’t say anything.’ and she really wasn’t aware that she had whispered something out loud.

The whispering is happening more and more often, and a few times lately she has whispered to herself “She won’t shut up! She keeps talking.” like it was someone else in her head that she was talking to. Or talking about. Or both. I’m not sure.

What I AM sure of is that it scared me.

Not quite as scared as I am of the violent behavior, though. The anger, the rage. Terry has gone from a ‘flight’ type of person to a ‘fight’ type. Now I am becoming the flighter. (Is that a word? flightee?)

The worst is when Terry wakes up from a dream and there is no convincing her that it was not real. If that dream happens to make her angry, look out. She sometimes wakes up fightin’ mad.

I used to keep a sawed-off wood baseball bat in my bedroom. It was my low-tech security system, a former 34 inch, 33 ounce thick-handle Louisville Slugger, cut off between the label and the sweet spot. About 25 inches of white ash whoop ass.

On the advice of Terry’s neurologist (and my sister) I hid the bat.

So far, the only thing Terry has hit me with is her open hands. Let’s keep it that way. I can handle that. To paraphrase Paul Newman’s Butch Cassidy and his reason for you not hitting your mother with a shovel, that baseball bat could “leave a dull impression on my mind.”

I didn’t want to do it but on more advice from Terry’s neurologist, as well as family members and friends, we put Terry on Zoloft, to go along with the Alzheimer’s meds (Donepezil and Nemenda) that she has been taking for years.

I was hesitant to give Terry the Zoloft, an antidepressant, because I didn’t want to numb her down. The last year or so she would laugh harder but also get more pissed off more often. Her emotions began to extreme out.  I did want to stop the anger. I needed to stop the anger, but I didn’t want to stop the laughter. I needed Terry’s laughter. Terry laughing is the greatest sound in the world. Better than the sound of crunching leaves or crunching snow under foot. Better than the sound of crashing waves on the beach. Better than the sound of bubble wrap popping.

It has been a week on the Zoloft and so far, so good with the anger. The violence and anger have decreased greatly, and I am still able to make her laugh every day. The problem is Terry takes more cat-naps during the day, falling asleep for two to 20 minutes at a time on the couch while watching television.

Don’t get me wrong. I LOVE it when Terry takes a cat-nap. It gives this big cat a chance to do things, like visit the big cat litter box in peace.

But because of the cat-naps during the day she sleeps less at night. And when Terry is awake at night, I am awake at night.

Lying awake in bed she will whisper to herself the entire time, sometimes saying the same five or six-word sentence 10-15 times in a row. Good thing I hid that bat, I might have hit myself in the head.

Sometimes I think I need a Zoloft!  At first, I probably did. I tried to stop the talking. It was so monotonous and when I am sleep deprived I am not the most patient person. (probably not when I have had my eight hours either).

But trying to stop the whispering just made Terry angry, and we don’t want that! What is that expression? ‘Happy wife, happy life?’ Well I have another expression. ‘Pissed off wife, hide the knife!’

So, I have learned to just let her go on talking. Like when the baby has to learn to cry itself back to sleep instead of getting picked up and rocked. Just let her talk herself back to sleep. The only time I interject now is when the voice begins to get angry. Then I try to nip it in the bud before Bud gets nipped.

A couple of times Terry has woken up in the middle of the night upset at me because I put her in the dark, so I had to put the light on. As the late-great John Lennon said, Whatever Gets You Through the Night.  So now I sometimes have to sleep with a bright light above our bed.

Another down side to the Zoloft is the decrease in Terry’s ability to take direction. Not that she was very good at it before we started this new med, but I have definitely seen an immediate decline the last week since she began taking it.

And I’m not talking about tough directions, like where to find Atlantis or how to make an atomic bomb. I’m talking about directions like “brush, spit, rinse, spit. Brush, spit, rinse, spit” or “take your shoes off” or “stop hitting me.”

But that is just another thing I have to work on. This caregiving thing is a fluid situation, always changing. It is like being a Marine; adapting, improvising, overcoming.

Except instead of someone shooting at me, my wife is slapping me or worse yet, talking to me when I am trying to sleep, with a bright light over me.

Okay, maybe I’m not like a Marine. But maybe some kind of soldier. Maybe like one of my favorite singers Sade (pronounced ‘SHAH day’ for those of you who don’t Jazz and R&B) used to sing.  Maybe I’m a Soldier of Love.

A few minutes and a few paragraphs ago I wrote that the worst part was Terry waking up fightin’ mad.

Upon further review, I know that’s not true. The worst part is that one day way too soon I won’t hear that monotonous talking in the middle of the night anymore. And I don’t think that silence will give me peace.

Sometimes there is no peace in quiet.

.

Until next time, appreciate things your loved ones do that might bother or scare you.

Bud

budfocht@gmail.com

Paper Clocks

By Bud Focht

Hi, my name is Bud and 29 years ago this week my youngest child was born. Our third. After that, when people asked how many kids we had I would always say “Three, one of each.”

Back in 1988, when our foursome became a fivesome, I had a favorite song, Handle With Care. by a band that people in the biz called a “super group”, the Traveling Wilburys.

The band was mostly made up of a bunch of unknowns, like Bob Dylan, George Harrison, Roy Orbison and Tom Petty. Yesterday Tom Petty went Into the Great Wide Open and it made me get a bit nostalgic.

I am having a first anniversary this week. I was told by some that the first anniversary is paper, but others have told me that it’s a clock. Do they sell paper clocks?

We men are infamously known for forgetting anniversaries, even the first ones. I remembered this one, though, even if I am not sure if I want to.

There are many anniversaries that we all remember.

On the negative side, there is June 28, 1914, when Austria’s Ferdinand was assassinated, starting WWI and eventually causing WWII. Twenty-seven years later there was December 7, a date that will live in infamy. And of course, 16 years ago there was September 11.

On the positive side, there is Memorial Day, the unofficial start of summer, when people honor those who died while serving in the U.S. military by going to the beach. The Fourth of July, when people have cookouts, parades and blow off parts of their hands with fireworks to celebrate the birth of our nation.  And of course, there is December 25, when people celebrate the birth of Jesus by killing a tree to put inside the house, trample over each other in stores to get the last Electronic Helmet, whether it be Marvel Legends or Star Wars, and give Fruit Cake to relatives that they don’t really like.

I am having an anniversary this week and I’m not sure if it is positive or not. Not sure whether to celebrate or not. Not sure whether to go to the beach, buy an electric helmet to light fireworks or just eat one of the many fruit cakes I have from relatives.

There are other anniversaries this week, and I’m not sure if they are being celebrated or not either.

Forty-six years ago this week Disney World opened, teaching millions of Florida vacationers how to stand in line.

Forty-two years ago this week Ali beat Frazier in the rubber match of what has to be the best three-match series in the history of sport. That is if you call two men giving each other CTE (chronic traumatic encephalopathy) a sport.

One hundred and twenty-seven years ago this week one of my childhood idols, Groucho Marx, was born.  What do you mean not all the kids in the 60s wore greasepaint mustaches and eyebrows?

And then there is the anniversary I am having this week. One year ago today I quit my job, my career that spanned over 35 years, to take on a much more rewarding but also much more challenging job as a caregiver. I spent 42 years on three college campuses, now I spend 24 hours a day on my own campus.

During most of my career I would day dream about what I would do, how I would spend my days, if I no longer had to work. Winning the lottery, retiring, whatever, when I was no longer going to work every day I had it all planned out, exactly how I was going to spend my free time.

It sounded great.

What do they say about making plans? Ones that don’t often go awry often make God laugh.

As it turns out, I had more time to myself when I was working 70 hours a week than I do now.

Being a caregiver for my wife Terry, who is now in the middle stage of Early Onset Alzheimer’s Disease, is figuratively and literally a 24-hour-a-day job.

On the positive side, I get to hang out with Terry all the time. I can give her the care and attention she needs. I get to enjoy a life of leisure, without worrying about the problems associated with work.

For that I feel truly blessed.

But on the negative side, blah blah blah. I was about to start venting. I was about to start typing as fast as my fat little fingers could go about how tough I have it. (actually, I have long, slender fingers and could even have been a creepy hand model in my retirement).

The negative side is that one year ago Terry was so much better off. Twelve months ago she still knew how to call me on her cell phone. Now she would have trouble picking out a cell phone from a group of five objects on a table that included paper and clocks.

One year ago, Terry could still write her name. Now she has trouble making her X in the right spot. A year ago, she could still help washing the dishes or folding the laundry. Now, she has a 50-50 chance of putting her shirt or pants on backwards or putting her shoes on the right foot.

What a difference a year makes.

No, I am afraid I will not be celebrating this one-year anniversary. I AM celebrating the fact that I have been able to be with Terry every minute during the last year, but I can’t celebrate where we are right now, or where we are heading.

Until next time, as Tom Petty sang, “I know what’s right, I got just one life. In a world that keeps on pushin’ me around. But I’ll stand my ground and I won’t back down.”

Bud

budfocht@gmail.com