Can I have chips with that?

Apparently I’m part of what they call the sandwich generation, which Wikipedia defines as a group of people (mostly women) who simultaneously care for their aging parents and young children. Turns out Merriam-Webster officially added the term to its dictionary in July 2006, nearly six months after I learned that my dad had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. At the time, I was juggling the stresses of a full-time job, catering to the needs of a first grader and pre-schooler, and managing an occasional hook-up with my husband who was in grad school. Clearly, I didn’t have the time or energy to expand my parenting responsibilities, but as an only child, the as-yet-to-be-fully-defined duty rested squarely on my already slumping shoulders.

My first task was to relocate my parents closer to me, which required moving them out of the house they’d lived in for 50-plus years, the place I still thought of as “home.” We made the move quickly, intensely conscious of the sand seeping out of the hour glass of my dad’s memory; the sooner he changed environments, the less traumatic things would be. Thankfully, the move went smoothly. Mom and Dad settled nicely into their new community and made fast friends with their 55 and over neighbors. Having them nearby meant my kids were able to spend more time with their grandparents and I was feeling like the whole thing was no big deal after all. That’s when reality set in.

My mother and father cannot drive. Dad lost his license with his diagnoses and mom never learned, having come from a generation of women who derived security from their dependence on a man. Which means that, as is the case with my children, routine trips to doctors, dentists, grocery stores, haircuts, etc. require that someone eek out time from their already jam-packed schedule to accommodate. That someone is me. I learned pretty quickly that seniors need to see their doctors and dentists a lot. Because if a bridge can break once, it can break at least three times. A routine cold can turn quickly into bronchitis. When you are over 80 a prescription refill requires an office visit. And those are the needs. The wants like manicures, salon visits and a simple trip to Tar-Jaay all take time I do not have, pushing back deadlines I will not meet.

I am not whining (although I have on occasion). Mostly I am thankful for the slow progression of a disease that plays by no predictable rules. And I am thankful that I have a loving relationship with my parents that makes caring for them more privilege than obligation. But I would be lying if I didn’t say there are days I feel stretched thinner than the cellophane on the leftovers I will heat again for dinner tonight. There are times when I audibly sign when I see my mother’s caller ID on the phone, wondering what need she has that will once again throw the details of my day planner into a tailspin.

People a lot smarter than me figured out a long time ago that you really can’t do it all. But the truth is, I find myself sandwiched between the important and the urgent on almost a daily basis, unable to address one and leave the other undone. I’m no martyr. Many, even some of you reading this have it tougher than me. I’m just a mother and a daughter parenting from a double-duty position best described as a rock and a hard place. It’s where you can supposedly find out what you’re made of. I’m thinking turkey and Swiss on wheat. Gotta keep my strength up.

Comment on this Blog- do you or someone you know parent your elderly parents? What do you find most challenging? Most rewarding?