Hissy Fit - September 2016
I just experienced a very bad week. I know it could have been worse but I want a minute to lament; this is my version of a temper tantrum, and if you will indulge me for about 600 words, I believe I can work my way through it and possibly maintain a shred of dignity in the process.
After being away for seven days, I walked into my office and demanded a do over. It was supposed to be vacation. You know, relaxing, fun, relaxing, exciting, relaxing. It was nothing of the sort. It was taxing, revealing, heavy, exhausting. The bottom line: I desperately needed my lazy beach daze and carefree nights, and what I got was jammed in the middle of a sandwich. I wanted to “go ham” on my vacation, not be ham.
The sandwich generation: Have you heard of it? It’s the plague of middle age. Nearly half (47%) of adults in their 40s and 50s have a parent age 65 or older (in my case my mom is 85) and are either raising a young child(ren) or financially supporting a grown child age 18 or older (in my case two of them).
So what exactly am I bellyaching about? After complaining about her leg since two hours into the seven-hour trip that took us nine, my mother asked my son, who had switched off driving with me, to pull over so she could throw up. We were literally 10 minutes from arriving at our long-awaited, ocean front resort on Singer Island, Fla. There’s nothing like standing on the side of the road helping your elderly mother up-chuck, while the kids watch you from inside the car with the radio blaring. Once we finally arrived, mom continued to be sick.
After getting a bellman, all the stuff to the room, and the kids settled, I immediately took Mom to the emergency room. That was at 10:30 p.m. At 5:00 a.m. the ER doc said they were admitting her. What? I thought they would give her a little Phenergan and we’d be on our way! This is a stomach issue, right? By Monday, doctors were telling me my mom needed surgery to install a pacemaker. WHAT?? WE’RE ON VACATION!! Then reality set in when they said she would not make it back to SC without it. OK. I’m all in.
Thus far, vacation consisted of back and forth rounds to the hospital, followed by quick, pick-up food stops, the Olympics and naps to make up for the all-nighter I had pulled on Saturday. But I rose to the occasion to take care of Mom all while trying my best to ensure the kids were having a good time, although they were very concerned for their grandmother and basically hung at the hospital with me. We attempted to have slivers of vacation, but the mood was dampened with worry and obligation.
Mom ended up having the pacemaker surgery on Tuesday and was discharged from the hospital on Wednesday afternoon. By Wednesday night, I secretly wished she was still there. She didn’t feel good. She was grumpy and demanding (God, I hope she doesn’t read this). I understood and tried to help, but nothing I did was enough. By now, I’m watching my son down five margaritas and I can’t say I could blame him. It was the only hope for a glimmer of tropical happiness. I had a few, hoping they were laced with patience and perseverance.
The next morning—day six of vacation— I took Mom to the cardiologist in Palm Beach (at least his office was waterfront. I actually saw the water!) There, she was given a clean bill of health, told to relax and enjoy the rest of the vacation. She must not have heard him and I wish he had written a prescription for it. She was so grumpy, when I pointed out how cute a gentleman’s seeing eye dog was, she claimed the man must not be blind because he was looking around. I explained that most blind people’s necks work fine; it is their eyes that are broken.
That night we went for pizza at one of our favorite spots. It was a disaster before we walked in the door. In the 50-feet it took to walk from the car to our table, you would have thought we had all spent a little personal time in the coal-fired oven because every one of us were hot—not temperature hot, temper hot. When the waitress came to take our order, I realized I had not ordered a pizza the way I wanted in 20 years. This was no exception. That’s when I knew I was nothing more than ham—limp, cold ham, sandwiched in the middle of “what about me” and “is everyone alright.”
I am thankful for my children and my mom. They are blessings and bring me joy. All of my grandparents died before I was born, so I am grateful my children had the opportunity to get to know three of the four of theirs. Even in gratefulness, my dilemma is what about me. Ben Franklin said, “When the well is dry, we know the worth of water.” The key is not letting the well go dry. Just as a flight attendant tells us in case of emergency, put on our own oxygen masks before attending to others, us women of the sandwich generation should take this advice daily.
Issues are going to arise. It’s not a matter of if, but when. We need to be sure to feed ourselves daily so when they do arise, we have the stamina—emotionally and physically—to stand strong. For me that looks like beach walks, spending time with people I get energy and support from, laughing, enjoying my work and enjoying the good times. Never take the good times for granted! Basically, go on a low-carb diet occasionally—where bread is consumed in small amounts and ham is the star! I ham what I ham.