The truth about growing old with the one you love
Sometimes, just as you were hoping for a little less to do, you realize that reality is not scripted by Hallmark.
Professional caregivers come for 16 hours a week. For the other 152 hours, ensuring the safety and wellbeing of my ailing wife is my job.NITO/ADOBEMy wife and I have been married for over 50 years. She is not all that well.
She’s been through four, count ’em, four hip replacements, two back surgeries, a new knee — 10 major operations in the past 20 years. She is dealing with arthritis, sleeping issues, and a certain amount of trouble remembering. Side note: Mechanically speaking, both of our hearts are past warranty.
My merely sufficient caregiving skills lose their credibility as the day drags on. I tire. Get frustrated. Upset with circumstances. Some problems do not appear to have solutions. I relegate my own needs and interests, their urgency lessened, tempered by the part of me that cannot commit to them because I’m “on alert.” Might be beckoned. Should be checking. You OK? You take your meds? Where is your walker?
My wife falls. Often. I’m in the other room, or standing right next to her. One minute she’s vertical, the next she’s sprawled on the kitchen floor. We are going to look at wheelchairs as soon as we receive the prescription from her doctor. But for now, the physical therapist has “taught” her how to right herself. To crawl to a chair or the edge of the bed and work her way up.
I assist, coach, am ready to call someone. Did you hit your head? Do you need to see a doctor?
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You ever visit the ER in the middle of the night? Get your wife into the car, sit in the waiting room along with throngs of others who are competing for medical attention. You listen for her name, eventually called, only to be told things are OK, or OK enough, and that she should contact her physician in the morning. What was more dangerous: the fall or venturing out in the night?
Amazingly — perhaps due to a dozen or so medications, physical therapy, counseling, caring doctors, kind and loving input from our children, intermittent visits from home health caregivers — most of the time my wife functions well, comes across as her smart, personable, responsible, “normal” self. Unfortunately, the on/off switch operates by its own illogic, thrusting her from self-contained to in-need-of-assistance with random regularity.
Professional caregivers step in when there are things that need doing. Light housekeeping is part of the job description. Meal prep. Helping with showers, drives to medical appointments, and various assorted tasks of living. The agency sends associates twice a week for eight hours at a clip. We could ask for more. We may. But selfishly, we enjoy our privacy.
How would you feel having caregivers — nice people, but basically strangers — inhabiting your home, waiting for something to do while you try to go about your quasi-independent life? I believe the assignment requires someone else to cover the other 150+ hours of each week. I’m that person.
Caregiving is often a standby activity, a from-time-to-time and throughout-the-course-of-the-
We use tools. The walker. The cellphone whenever we are apart. The pendant — a necklace with a panic button that, if pressed, triggers a Wi-Fi network to alert emergency personnel somewhere in the Midwest who respond via a dedicated intercom. “Hello, are you OK? Should we call 911?” Having the system is reassuring, but I wonder what would happen if my wife took a serious spill and was unable to press the button. Still, I make sure she is wearing her necklace when I am out of the house.
Living a long life requires adjusting over time. Downsizing expectations. And sometimes, just as you were hoping for a little less to do, for a graceful meander into fewer obligations, you realize that reality is not scripted by Hallmark.
Charles E. Kraus is the author of “You’ll Never Work Again In Teaneck, N.J.”
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