Waiting For The Storm 1

It's been awhile, I know.  And I also know I need to write this, but I what I don't know is if I can...or how long it will take...or if it will be in the least coherent. So there's that.

My last post was a fluff piece about taking my parents to the eye doctor. Since then,  life as a poster-child for the sandwich generation has been full. Full of amusing moments, charming anecdotes, difficult days, demanding parents, and gut-wrenching heart ache.

In the months following Mom's return home from the skilled nursing facility, we  eventually found our rhythm. What in days past had been our casual Sunday morning family breakfasts has become "get the parents set for the week" event. Between us, we pick up prescription refills, gather mail to pay bills, fill pill cases, restock Mom's room with dialysate, review supply levels for reordering, and talk about meal planning and groceries. Sometimes these mornings are contentious, sometimes they aren't. Mom's propensity for food hoarding is stymied by my weekly review of freezer, fridge and pantry contents. When I began to thwart her wish for two more pounds of butter (because somehow, five in the freezer and two in the fridge were not enough for a week, in her mind) one too many times, she found a work-around...asking my aunt to pick her up 4-pound packs at the wholesale club.  There is an unholy fascination with gravy.

But we found our rhythm. It was hard to go there and give up the whimsical conversations about which critters were seen by whom, and under what circumstances, and to lose the innocent gossip of what this family member was doing (or not doing) now. We are now task oriented. We each have our logical division of tasks, with appropriate back ups in place for the eventual vacation or - mandated between my brother and I - weekend off from the stress.

So week turned to month and month turned to year. We begin to recognize that some of the demands Mom makes of us are her way of railing against her limitations. She is captive in her own house, dependent on the Dial-A-Ride bus for trips to the doctor and unable to go out and do things for others as she is accustomed. She strives to find those things in her world she can control - from requesting that trees be cut down, or items moved around the house, rugs taken up.  We accommodate as we can. We are task oriented. Did we forget anything that needed to be done? What else can we do? What do you need?

Meanwhile, in the shadow cast by Mom, there is Dad. Going along, getting along, doing his best to take care of her without acknowledging that he's not able to, not alone. We are grateful for their caregiver, who herself seems to become a part of the family. Mom rails against her as well - "I do the laundry, I make the dinner!" - not knowing we're okay with it. We want Mom to keep doing whatever she can still do, and not just sit in her wheelchair marinating. We live the reality that is parenting your parents.

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