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.

By Charles E. KrausUpdated February 23, 2023, 12:00 p.m.

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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/ADOBE

My 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?

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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-day occupation. Can you pull up the blanket, help me stand, sit, put together a snack, a meal, remind me when it’s time to take my meds, remind me to use my walker, keep me from attempting unsafe activities, from trying to carry a cup of coffee in one trembling hand while manipulating the walker with the other? Help me remember how to spell, calculate, recall a procedure? Find my phone, my pills, my glasses, my book?

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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.”

 

Doing your own writing offers a certain pride of ownership that AI cannot match: Charles E. Kraus

Published: Feb. 15, 2023, 5:45 a.m.

By Guest columnist Charles Kraus

SEATTLE -- I love writing. As far as I’m concerned it is the best game, the most engaging puzzle, and one of the more rewarding activities that I get to experience. It is being in the moment for hours at a time. I work on a paragraph, section, chapter, look up and find that afternoons have passed. And at some point, when I’ve shaped my thoughts and am ready to send them into the world, I feel a sense of accomplishment.

Take a deep breath, Charles, and walk off the field knowing you’ve used your skills, engaged your mind, functioned at capacity.

As you may have guessed, I’m not a fan of AI writing software. Artificial intelligence is a short cut that can be valuable if you are in a hurry, but that depersonalizes the finished product and cheats you out of the pride of ownership that comes from being a ‘do it yourself’ writer.

“Oh my.”

That’s me reacting to what I put into words. Me reflecting on the way I organize my thoughts then total them into summation. Suddenly I realize how I feel about the topic at hand.

During my student days, the scribbles I put on paper mirrored the authors I happened to be reading. And like most beginners, my efforts yielded meager results. Turned out, I wasn’t Kerouac, or Salinger. And S.J. Perelman needn’t worry about my taking his place at the New Yorker.

Over time, all the styles and approaches I tried out merged into a version that offered more of me and less of those I’d been emulating.

Early on, I benefited from a certain amount of guidance. To this day, when editing a first draft, I hear my late father’s voice going over the material. Asking me to find a better word, to improve a convoluted sentence. To clarify. To write tight. This process offers two benefits, an improved draft, and the pleasure of yet again working on a project with my dad.

One of my first attempts at an extended piece of writing was a 97 page “novel” that I concocted when I was about fifteen.

My handwriting was atrocious, even then. And my misspellings barely reached the phonetic equivalent of any known language. The entire effort was a juvenile homage to J.D. Salinger. I mentioned the manuscript to my English teacher, a wonderful, supportive man who asked to see it. Then held on to it for several weeks.

When finally returned, I found that he’d gone through my entire text, correcting spelling, suggesting changes, praising a passage or two, and more than anything else, giving me the sense that what I had put on paper was worth my effort and worth the time he’d spent editing.

I got a little older and life took me away from home. It turned out I was quite the correspondent.

This was before computers; before the internet. I’d draft a letter. Type it up for friend No. 1. Retype it with minor changes for friend No. 2, repeating this process -- typing, adjusting, generally improving, each version so that by the time I’d pounded out copy No. 20, the contents had been perfected.

There are many ways to improve your writing. I don’t necessarily recommend this one. Just write until you’ve done your best.

The results will be YOUR best. They’ll speak to a certain pride of ownership.

AI is lawn mowing. Writing it yourself is gardening.

Charles E. Kraus is the author of “You’ll Never Work Again In Teaneck, N.J.” He writes from Seattle.

How will Trump be remembered?

Veteran's Election Day

 I served in the military.  I'm a voter.  These duel roles are emphasized by the fact that Veteran's Day will take place three days after the election.

In a convoluted way, I spent my time in Vietnam and in other duty stations so that we could hold an election on November 8th.  With this in mind I'm half thinking I wasted my tour.

There are many reasons men and women enlist.  Some of mine were altruistic, but I can see that joining the armed forces had to do with defending a way of life.  

Wearing the uniform meant I believed in everyday freedom.  That our country offered enough peace and stability so that we simply went about our lives using reason to guide our actions.  That laws and customs mirrored rational behavior.  True, there were tensions.  Discrimination and antisemitism were (and remain) pressing issues.  But people got along well enough to maintain a calm, generally courteous or at least orderly demeanor in the public square.  

They tamed or channeled their political doubts into the election process, assumed stability and went about their lives, expressing opinions when it felt appropriate to do so.

I was defending some other things, too.  

Accumulated knowledge, for one.  The concept that intelligent individuals and institutions of higher education were taking the time to examine the past and think about the future.  That science and history and philosophy were real.  Genuine.  Worthy of respect.  Necessary.  Helpful.  

That credibility was earned.  Opinions were not facts.  And though people were entitled to believe whatever they wanted, some opinions, those backed by evidence, by a consensus of the learned, the experienced, the seasoned, were generally more valuable and useful than those held by mere mob sloganeering.  By know nothings who spouted the latest peer group mantras.

I was defending the long haul.  A positive arc.  Progress that saw my grandmother and her cohort benefit from Social Security.  Without realizing it, I was helping to sustain the Food and Drug Administration -- uncontaminated food and water.  The Public Health Service - I knew some kids with polio and felt the enthusiasm and relief of the community, of the entire country, when the vaccines were administered.  

As a child our family regularly traveled south from New York into overt segregation.  The separate bathrooms and water fountains in railroad stations that mandated color conscious waiting areas.  The failures and successes of the NAACP, CORE, Southern Christian Leadership Conference, the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee.  The marches, the riots.  The Kennedy assignation and the orderly transfer of power.  All of this was part of contemporary history when I walked into the recruiting center and signed up for military service.

Resistance and progress; the opening up of society.  An array of life styles and cultures.  The energized and more accepting patchwork of neighborhoods and individuals expanding over time.  

I recall that Times Square was more than the heart of Broadway.  I'd regularly passed demonstrations against nuclear weapons testing.  Later saw test bands enacted.  The country looked and felt as if it was becoming a safer place.  Back then.  When I put on the uniform.

The individuals who protested weapons of destruction were part of a group calling itself The Committee for a SANE Nuclear Policy (SANE).  They wanted what we all seemed to want, a safer, saner world.  That was then.  Now feels like an unraveling.  A miscalculation. 

I just sent in my ballot so I guess a glimmer of hope remains deep within.  Feels kind of lonely.

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Charles is the author of Baffled Again and Again.  He was awarded the Bronze Star.

Getting Ready to vote

 

Politically at Sea in a Divided Time

These days there would seem to be a long supply of political outrage chasing a short supply of perspective.

I’m trying to figure out where I fit in.

I consider myself thoughtful. But obviously thinking about options, alternatives, solutions, is meaningless if I don’t get myself into forward gear. At this point, I’m more thoughtful than useful. Like many people, including most of my friends, I’m looking for a little inspiration.

The middle-class liberal/progressive inclination, may I speak for my brethren, is to write a check and get back to inertia. We’ve had too many expectations come to nought. We are leery. Wasn’t Barack Obama’s presidency going to lead to expanded brotherhood? Wasn’t Joe Biden’s supposed to bring practical know-how back to the helm?

If I hear one more cable TV commentator proclaim that the latest investigation could, should, might, may, possibly will, send an offender to jail, I swear I’ll give network news another try. I’m looking for results, not pipe dreams.

I believe the police should be funded.

I believe the police should be accountable.

I believe it is reasonable for voters to provide identification.

I believe voters should have maximum access to casting ballots, and that their selections should count.

I believe responsible, trained, licensed adults should be allowed to own guns that shoot one bullet per pull of a trigger.

I believe entire enclaves of people who know better, locked self control and decency in a back room and have gone stark raving mad.

When I was a child, my parents feared that Saturday morning television-cowboys were introducing the concept of violence into my fragile, maturing mind. Actually, the fighting was so mundane and over so quickly that compared to current levels of entertainment-brutality, those klutzy, two-fisted Western heroes qualified for Nobel peace prizes.

Their guns, by the way, were referred to as “six-shooters.” If applied presently, the term would mean 6 violent, crazy young males taking out inferiority complexes on the world, with their despicable behavior underwritten by QAnon.

I’m a believer in the two types of freedom. Negative -- the freedom from unwarranted restraints. That would include restraints on forms of personal behavior that cause no harm to others.

And positive freedom -- reasonable limitations that keep instigators from interfering with the ordinary, everyday functions of life. You know, going about our days without worrying our kids, neighbors or ourselves will get shot.

I believe in privacy. No one needs or is entitled to know what I think, feel, dream, or do within my home, or elsewhere for that matter, as long as I obey the laws and practice courtesy and common sense.

I’ve heard the Thomas Supreme Court’s argument that if the founding fathers didn’t make it an unenumerated right, then it is not foundational.

Well, know what’s not in the U.S. Constitution? The right to outlaw abortion.

Still, I do wish there were fewer unwanted pregnancies.

I’m hoping for a quirky turn in the bumpy road that will reveal a smoother path. And that the route will meander through town picking up great ideas from the various communities it encounters.

So, what am I?

A moderate?

A liberal?

An old-school conservative?

If, God forbid, William F. Buckley and Elizabeth Warren had a baby (sorry Elizabeth), they would call me “son.”

Charles E. Kraus is a writer and children’s entertainer who lives in Seattle. A Vietnam veteran who earned a Bronze Star, he is the author of “Baffled Again .. and Again”.

I'm thinking about buying a gun

I'm thinking about purchasing a gun.  That's how bad things have gotten. The last trigger I pulled was in Vietnam, and even during the war, my particular M16 was mainly used for target practice.  Basically, I profile as an anti-gun, pro-vaccine old school liberal.  But I'm also a realist. Times have changed.  Buffalo is the latest example.

I've always stood on the side that supports social justice, licensed weapons, and 'educating up' those who have not signed on to common sense.  Perhaps I've been naive.  Look around.  Our approach to advancing equality and civilized behavior hasn't proved particularly effective.  Racism and antisemitism are on the rise. So is gun violence.  Buffalo is the latest example.

Hot heads have acquired more and more weapons while us non-violent types stand around attempting to pass watered down, compromised legislation to shape and restrict militarization of the Commons.  More than 81 million American adults own 393 million firearms.  Of all the civilian firearms, in all the world, American civilians own about one-third.  I'm betting very few of them belong to anyone from my side of the political divide.  None of my friends own anything more powerful than a cellphone. Yes to gun restrictions.  But do you really expect citizen militia to pay attention to them?  How about crazy eighteen-year-olds packing assault weapons and wearing body armor?  Buffalo is the latest example.

Politicians, government employees, poll watchers, teachers who dare to provide facts about our country's checkered past, citizens standing up for better angels, and just plan us, people going about our lives.  We represent families, careers, homes, futures, that have been put on the line, today, right now, by bellicose, gun totting, intimidating cultists, by copycat lone wolfs with access to a nation-wide candy store of weaponry, acting in solidarity with other mass murderers to spread hate.  Buffalo is the latest example.

According to reports, the Buffalo killer wrote that he got his white nationalist ideology “mostly from the internet.” The governor of New York lambasted social media for malevolently influencing hate crime perpetrators such as this kid who drove to the supermarket with a list, a to-do list, of carnage and mayhem.  Social media can become accomplices, she told the press.  "Not legally, but morally."  Feel reassured?  Feel like the government has a handle on violence?  Is capable of keeping you and your family safe?

I'm fully aware that weaponizing the left is an awful idea.  I can visualize shootouts in the streets.  Sporadic battles unraveling society, demoralizing responsible citizens, causing even more uncertainty in what passes for the status quo.  

But, I'm wondering, does the time come when ineffective laws, hypocritical politicians, cumulative violence, racist rampages, bring us to our senses?  And if not, does this carnival of bedlam provoke a more instinctual response? 

Let’s be organized, ethical, responsible, and savvy.  We all understand why.  Buffalo is only the latest example.

We will not be replaced -- by infantile wannabes.

Charles E. Kraus in the author of Baffled Again .. and Again, a collection of essays.