The Sandwich Generation

Two parts bread. One part filling.

My parents are one of the breads. My husband and children are the other.

I am the filling.

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Who is the sandwich generation? We are the ones old enough to have aging parents and young enough to have small children at home.

Members of the sandwich generation are often torn and stressed. We deal with all kinds of conflicted emotions and we feel stretched between loyalties. In my case, one of my loyalties is a 6-hour drive away, while my other loyalties keep me very active and busy day to day right here at home.

I've gone through this for years. Things got especially difficult as my father's Parkinson's Disease progressed rapidly right as we moved into our new house and started our business. He fell on Thanksgiving Day, advancing him firmly into stage 5 Parkinson's. Within a little over a month, he would be dead.

I remember wrestling with what to do and how to do it. How could I be both there and here at the same time? Emotionally, I needed to be in MA with him. Financially, I needed to be in PA with our new business. And I couldn't care less about money. Money doesn't mean more than people, but yet, we were completely strapped at that point. Cash poor. Even our pathetic and meager retirement savings was depleted in order to start our business. So we were poor and incredibly behind on saving for retirement (as all physicians are, truth be told).

I remember feeling like I could use a clone of myself. To be there. To be here.

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I cried on the phone yesterday all the way to skating lessons. My mom told me not to cry in front of the children. Too late. All it took was my mom asking me, over the phone, how I was doing (I'd already asked her) and I broke down and sobbed, "I'm torn!" I had spent the past several days trying to figure out how to do it all -- work, school, lessons, home stuff, obligations . . . and also be with my mother.

My mom is having a heart procedure done today. It's benign enough, I know. Well, as benign as anything to do with the heart can be, I suppose. But I would like to be up there with her. I would like her to have her daughter with her. It smarts even more now that my Dad is gone and she is alone. I don't want her to be alone today.

And I also want to be here with my children as they attend their lessons and their wrap-up party celebrating their past year at the YMCA. And here with my husband as he works tomorrow. I want to be here caring for our children as he takes call this weekend. I have 5 sessions today. And I am channeling all the strength I can muster to stay present and focused and helpful. To do my job well.

We have looked at every possible combination to get up there: train, automobile, one day, two days, all of us, some of us, hotel, my mom's condo. What's the best thing to do? So, I sleep restlessly, wake up exhausted, and stand frozen in inaction.

My mom tells me not to worry. I don't want to upset her with my own worries. I feel badly for breaking down on the phone yesterday. I didn't mean to. She doesn't need to do anything but focus on the task at hand. I just wish I were there with her while she did so.

I know it's nothing and can hardly wait for the doctor's call this afternoon telling us she's fine, better even. I know she'll feel better after the procedure. I can hardly wait to see her feeling so good.

But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared. I've already lost one parent. And I'm absolutely clinging to the one I have left.

I'm way too young for this. But just old enough, I guess, to be a frightened, stressed out filling between two beautiful pieces of bread.