The Rest of The Story

(Part 2)

Rainer Klauss

LHS '64

Several years ago, Rainer submitted two accounts of his first year as a traveling speed-reading teacher in 1974-75. He draws the story of that episode in his life to a close in the following memoir. 

 On the Road with Readak, Part III; 

or, How Did You Celebrate Your 30th Birthday?

Rainer Klauss

  (Continued from last week.) From the schools where I had taught the previous academic year and the off-campus adventures I had, I amassed a fund of good memories. There were challenges along the way, yet my sojourn had pulled me out of a blocked and stagnant life and into an engaging one. As I turned 30, however, the challenges changed. Teaching became a chore, and although I had no way of knowing this then, I had begun a physical and emotional struggle with a medical problem that would baffle a variety of doctors and plague me for six months. 

While in Huntsville, I received the notification about my next assignment: The Kinkaid School in Houston, Texas for a short month-long stint. Great news for me. Bob Ramsey, my best friend in high school, lived there with his wife, Sandra, and infant son. He had graduated from West Point, spent a year in Vietnam, and now the Army was paying his way as he worked on a master’s degree in history at Rice University.  We had not seen each other since 1969, when we were both at Ft. Benning for a while, but had stayed in touch. When he heard I was coming to Houston, he let me know they had a room for me while I taught at Kinkaid—if I didn’t mind the baby. I assured him that wouldn’t be a problem, and I accepted his generous offer. 

The trip to Houston at the beginning of January took two days, and we had a heartening reunion upon my arrival. Sandra had graduated with us from Lee, so she was a dear friend, too. Their son, Ron, had just turned 18 months old and didn’t fuss much. Bob and I often romped with him in the backyard, and he always cried at the end because he didn’t want the fun to cease when we were called in for supper. Years later, Sandra would jokingly accuse me of having corrupted Ron with some of the language I used in his innocent babyhood. 

With my assignment to Kinkaid came a short briefing about the school. Although it could not claim the famed alumni (William Styron and Lewis Puller, Pulitzer Prize winners) that Christchurch School (where I taught the previous year) touted, I learned that Kinkaid ranked as one of Houston’s elite private schools. Fortunately, I didn’t have to drive far to reach it; it lay only thirty minutes away from Bob and Sandra’s house. 

I have almost no warm memories of the school. I only dealt with the business-like assistant principal who showed me the ropes the first day.  I taught two classes three times a week, the course squeezed into the students’ daily schedules. That made for a blitz of a session. I barely got to know the students. I felt like a contractor, very loosely connected to the school.

 I wasn’t the Lone Ranger in Texas, though. After so much solo traveling and working, it felt especially wonderful to be included in the family life of my friends and to be on the scene to observe and play with Ron. In high school, Bob’s family had been very important to me. I spent a lot of time at their house, watching television, playing sports, and joining them for meals. Their love for each other and their welcoming me into their circle (there were six children) showed me what a happy family life looked like. 

The supposed prostatitis, which had long since become specific in the location and constancy of its pain, continued to shadow my life.  Until that condition became chronic, only a bad case of strep throat, at the age of eleven, had laid me low. Recovering from that, I had been a healthy teenager and young man. Now, at what should have been a vital time in my life, being sick for so long was exacting a psychic toll.

With my working schedule, I could have found it tricky getting appointments with a doctor. Fortunately, Bob and Sandra lived close to the Texas Medical Center, with hundreds of doctors in and around the famous M.D Anderson Hospital. I consulted a general practitioner in that area who checked me over and then prescribed another regimen of antibiotics. The side effects were strong kidney pain, as if I had been in the boxing ring with someone who pounded them again and again.  I tossed the pills.

By then the session at Kinkaid neared its completion. In the middle of it, I had received a letter from Readak giving me a choice: Did I want to go back to Marmion Military Academy in Aurora, Illinois, or did I want to be assigned elsewhere?  Except for the dreary housing I had picked in the city, I had enjoyed myself during my teaching stint there. I chose Marmion. Thus, there would be a recursion within a recursion. I had already come to regret my return to Readak for another year. How would this decision play out? Was I to be doubly-damned? 

A thousand-mile drive delivered me right into the icebox of a Chicagoland winter. The experience of the weather the year before had been a novelty for this Southerner. I was young and hardy, and the stylish woolen coat I had bought in Germany, when I soldiered there, kept me warm. This time around, however, the frigid temperatures and many cloudy days were part of a test of my fortitude. I never even drove in to Chicago that winter to spend time viewing the many masterpieces at the Art Institute.

After sheltering in the Aurora Holiday Inn for the first few nights after my arrival and orientation at Marmion, I moved to the Galena Hotel, the same welfare hotel I had stayed at the previous year. The living conditions were no better than before, and my decision to return there might been foolish, but I didn’t have the time, patience, or desire (or an expandable slot in my budget) to search elsewhere. I knew the area, I knew how to get to work and what donut shops, diners, and hamburger joints were along the way, and I knew that the one place I could find succor lay nearby: the Aurora Public Library.

Things had changed at Marmion. The Benedictines were still in charge, but several top administrators had been replaced. The English teacher who had befriended me had moved on, too. I saw several familiar faces in the teacher’s lounge, but nobody stepped forward to welcome me back. I might not have been giving off a friendly vibe myself.

My classes were smaller, and that seemed to indicate less student or parental enthusiasm for the course. I thought I had done a good job the year before. I had not received any negative comments from the company. If there had been, would I have been asked to return? Maybe the Readak sales director had encountered a harder time pitching the course’s benefits. Maybe the school administrators were losing interest and faith in the approach. (Once I left the business, I never found out how long the trend of teaching speed-reading in private schools lasted). Whatever the cause, interest seemed to be waning.  The romance was ending. I found it harder yet to find the keenness for teaching the classes well.  I played out the string.

My low spirits were, of course, exacerbated by the continuing misery of my ailment.  I needed the care of a physician again. Since I had no confidante about such matters in Aurora, I resorted to the yellow pages and found someone within walking distance of my room. Maybe this doctor would have the magic bullet. 

At my appointment, I related the chronicle of my long travail and listed the antibiotics that had failed to end the infection. The doctor thought for a few moments and then said: “Well, there is something else. Sometimes prostatitis yields to another type of an approach. We can try prostatic massage. Were you ever in the Army?”

“Yes.”

“Remember when the doctor had you bend over and he poked you in the butt.”

“Yes, very well.”

“I bet. He was checking your prostate for its consistency—a healthy prostate should feel a little spongy like the tip of your nose and not have any nodules. The probe is uncomfortable and embarrassing, but it’s quick and the only way to do it under those circumstances. Prostatic massage is related to that. It lasts longer and has a different purpose. Instead of a quick investigation, it’s therapeutic. You’ll lie on your side for a few minutes while I massage the gland via the rectum with my finger. The idea is to reduce the inflammation and infection through expelling a prostatic secretion. That’ll be sort of like an ejaculation, but without most of the fun.  I know this sounds very odd. Think it over.”

I didn’t know anything about the doctor. He appeared to be in his mid-forties, seemed genuine, and didn’t have a seedy office.  But had I stumbled on some weirdo in a doctor’s coat? This marked a new twist in the saga.  The procedure would expose me to indignity and possibly more pain. What should I do? I felt wariness and trepidation, but I desperately wanted relief. I wanted a fuller life again. I assented.

“Good. We’ll schedule you for two sessions per week for three weeks. Since you’ve told me you’re working, the appointments will be late in the afternoon. The receptionist will set you up. See you next week.”

There were two dark threads to my existence then: the lusterless teaching and the worry over my health, but there was a bright one, one that kept joy in my life. A few days after I moved into the Galena Hotel, I walked two blocks south to the Aurora Public Library, where I had found sustenance the year before. I wanted a “clean well-lighted place, a brief escape from my dismal room. Tranquility and a quietly stimulating environment.

I looked around to renew my acquaintance with the place, to see where the magazines were and how the collection was arranged. Where were the comfortable places to sit? And then I noticed an attractive young woman at the front desk, helping patrons check out books. Suddenly I needed to find out whether I could get a temporary library card. I knew I didn’t have a very respectable address; any resident of Aurora would know about the drab Galena Hotel. Maybe my “employment” at Marmion would count in my favor. When she was free, I stepped up to the desk and told her about my situation. I can’t remember if I qualified for a card or not, but my main intent, of course, was to introduce myself to Sue Kramer. 

I wish I could remember the early stages of how we got to know each other better. At the beginning, I didn’t go to the library every time I had a chance. I didn’t want to put her off or cause her to be worried about my intentions. I didn’t want to be seen as a character straight out of a dirty joke about a traveling salesman. No sleazy drummer here. Even so, I must have seemed an odd bird to her at first. A guy named Rainer? Rainer? How is that spelled? From Alabama? Teaches speed-reading at Marmion? What’s he up to?

It took delicate “courting,” but I finally gained Sue’s trust, at least enough of it so that she consented to have lunch with me one day near the library. I remember how happy her company made me. We had our first extended conversation. And it proceeded well enough for her to see that I was an honorable (and maybe an interesting, not puzzling) man.

Sue was in her early twenties and lived with her mother. In addition to my more-frequent visits to the library and another lunch or two, we went out a few times. One day she invited me to supper at her house and to meet her mother (who might have been wondering about this odd bird, too). Sue and I had an unspoken understanding that our relationship would only be a short one, but I think she was never sure about what I saw in her. She perceived me as worldly because I was older, more educated, and had left home. I sincerely liked her just as she was, and I hope she knew that. It’s possible that she kept me company out of the goodness of her heart and a bit of natural curiosity. I’ll never know more (and may be guessing about a lot of this) because things didn’t go far enough for us to ever discuss such matters intimately and deeply.

Meanwhile, back at the doctor’s office: I was treated with respect and never felt embarrassment about the unusual procedure. Unfortunately, it brought me no relief; the pain and discomfort remained. 

“We tried, Mr. Klauss, but there’s nothing more I can do. I’m going to refer you to a urologist. Maybe he’ll have the solution.”  

I got an appointment the following week. I told the doctor my complete story and answered his questions. Then he said: “I’m going to need to take a pick.” That alarmed me for a moment. Then I remembered that he came from Turkey, and that’s how he pronounced the word “peek.” Whew! He told me that he proposed doing a cystoscopy. While I was under anesthesia, he would inspect my urethra, prostate, and bladder to try to locate the problem. I would be in the hospital for two days. (Simple, investigatory cystoscopies are now routinely done in the urologist’s office—with only a numbing agent squirted up the urethra to bring some comfort to the procedure. Even the squirt isn’t fun.)

I hadn’t been in the hospital since I was three years old for a hernia repair in El Paso, but undergoing this procedure seemed the sensible next step to take. I signed the papers. The operation was scheduled about two weeks hence. That would be a few days after the Readak session ended. I didn’t know what lay ahead, of course, but I had already decided that I didn’t want to continue teaching the course. Marmion was the end of the road, so to speak. I notified the office in New Orleans of the upcoming operation, told them of the uncertain recovery time afterward, and announced my intent to resign the day I arrived in New Orleans to drop off my materials. America’s Bicentennial was being celebrated that year, and I felt that I was declaring my independence, too. 

Sue knew that I had a minor medical problem, but I never revealed the details. One evening when the upcoming events were clear, I told her that I was going to be in the Aurora Hospital for a few days after the Readak session ended and would then be going home. Later that evening she wished me well, told me she had enjoyed our friendship, and then after a while we said goodbye.

When I was fully conscious after the cystoscopy, the doctor came in to tell me what had happened. “Mr. Klauss, you had a congenital growth poking into your urethra close to the junction of your bladder and prostate. I’m pretty certain that caused your troubles. It kept getting re-infected and inflamed. The antibiotics just kept it at bay. You never had prostatitis as such. I fulgurated the growth [burned it out using diathermy]. You’ll be okay after this.” 

And that was the best news I had heard in a mighty long time. I stayed in the hospital overnight. Two days later I headed for warmer climes in my yellow VW station wagon. In June I moved to Atlanta and then landed a job at the Asa Griggs Candler Library at Emory University.

Another song for Rainer's Story

Here's a personal "Thank You" going out to Rainer for once again sharing part of his life with the rest of his classmates. This newsletter is designed to not only share memories of our past days at Lee, but also the interesting things that have occurred in our lives since we graduated. I have shared more than most of you ever wanted to know about my life, but I do so because often there is nothing else anyone has sent me to share with you.

In the past, we have had many contributors and I cannot start to name them all for fear I will omit someone. There is still time to share your own story should you desire. I know, many think they have not done anything interesting, but that is not so. We would like to hear your stories.

The other day when I was on the set for the TV show "Young Rock" I found myself in a group of mostly young people. I am still surprised at the language used in mixed company with people who do not even know who they are talking to these days. It made me think back about the years we were growing up and how cautious we were when we were in mixed company. Sure the "locker room" talks were livid with foul language, but when there were members of the opposite sex around, even the roughest of guys watched their language.

It made me wonder! How many of you ever got in trouble at school for saying something considered a curse word? Please use the form below to let us know. You do not have to put your own name and can log it as anonymous if you do not wish, but please share some examples if you ever did get called down for using a "bad" word at school.

Last Week's Questions, Answers, Comments

Joel Weinbaum, LHS ‘64, "After reading of Rainer's six months of a public health issue relating to a prostate infection, and your Covid/respiratory/pink eye problems, I have regrets of having left your newsletter open so long. You should have had a disclaimer at the start saying this newsletter could be infectious! I need a bath!"

Brenda Bell , LHS ‘66, "Thank you Tommy and all of our other classmates that served to help keep us free. Thank you  Tommy for keeping us in touch with each other through this post you give us each month, great job. Would you please add my brother Buford Cagle to your list of servicemen? He served in the U S Army from 1965 through 1969. He was in the Class of 1965. Thanks again."

Phyllis (Miller) Rodgers, LHS ‘65, "Thank you Tommy for the wonderful update to the Veterans Tribute."