|
|
 |
| News | The Sandwich GenerationBy Amy Halloran I was never quite sure if I was a card-carrying member of Generation X. I thought I was too nonconformist to conform to the idea of not conforming to the ideals of the Baby Boomers. But recently I was admitted to the Sandwich Generation, and I don't doubt whether I belong. After spending a week caring for my mom, my status is certain. My mother became the caregiver for my father last fall when he had a stroke. Her recent illness took place the week I chose to potty train my nearly 3-year old son. I spent my time catching my child's accidents, helping my father navigate his day in his wheelchair, and trying to make sure my mother rested and got the medical care she needed. One day my son was up at 5 and my father didn't go to bed till midnight. I felt more stretched than pressed, but I am indeed a piece of cheese living between the old and young breads that sandwich my life. When my first son, who is now 8, was little, I adjusted to the changes of new motherhood by accepting that there were things I could no longer do. I decided that letterpress printing, a hobby that I'd enjoyed, could wait 20 years for my attentions. That sacrifice was more than balanced by the rewards of being a parent, which included focusing my attentions on writing for children. My interests shifted to fit the limits of my time. Since my father had his stroke, I've been experiencing a similar period of adjustment. The novel I was going to finish is going to sit a bit. New motherhood made me change my goals, and this new level of adulthood is asking the same of me. As I am trying to learn to live within my limits, between the pieces of bread of my life, my father struggles to learn to live fully within his limits, too. His battle is much more demanding than mine, but we are both learning what we can do. My dad is a very youthful 71, and we took a 10-mile bike ride together shortly before he landed in the hospital, unable to speak much or use his right side at all. He was in a rehabilitation facility for three months, and now he is at home. He's regained his speech and some use of his affected side, but he is in a wheelchair most of the time. Fortunately, he is a writer, too; he types with his left hand and has resumed sending Op-Ed pieces to the local paper, although not as often as he once did. All of my siblings give quickly to our father because he was always so generous with us, helping us embark on our many adventures, from school projects to summer camps to colleges and beyond, into the walls of our own adult lives; he painted and plastered and built shelves in each of our houses, and in my sister's jewelry store. He is embarrassed that he now needs our help; he was used to giving it. But all of us are learning to articulate ourselves in the new language of living that the stroke demands we speak. My parents are learning how to ask for help. My father has had to learn this earlier because of the limitations of his movements. My mother has become a bit of a superwoman since the stroke but, when she admits she needs help, is comfortable with asking my husband. The other day he took down the storm windows and put up the screens. My two sisters - I am sandwiched between them, so the generational position I am assuming is literally familiar - and I live near our parents, and we try to meet the needs that are spoken and those that are not. (Our younger brother is soon moving back to the East Coast from a long stay in Oregon.) My younger sister has no children, so she often spends one day and night a week with my parents, helping my father with his exercises, helping my mother run the house. My older sister works full time and has two young kids, too. She lives on the same street as my parents, so she is there to check in on them regularly. This sister also has her summers off, so as soon as the school year ends, she will have days to dedicate to my father and mother. Her husband mows the large lawn at my parents' house. My husband takes my father to the gym, employing his dance-career sensibilities to the changes in my father's physicality. The sandwich: My family of origin and the family I've made are in this submarine-style meal with me. It is cozy here and requires a lot of communication. Cell phones and e-mail make that easy, or easier. I can e-mail things to my father that I find hard to say to him. A long time ago I thought that growing up was about independence, but I'm learning that it is more about dependencies. And this is a lesson I like. Amy Halloran is an author and free-lance writer from Troy, NY PLEASE NOTE: PORTIONS OF THIS WEB SITE ARE UNDER CONSTRUCTION! |
Latest News |
 |
||
| Special Features | ||