It was a Wednesday morning. The older kids and I had been at music class and had just picked up Baby A from the neighbor. I had only a few minutes to feed him before I needed to get L to kindergarten and myself and the boys to faculty meeting. Scrolling through my phone, I noticed a missed call and message from my sister:
"Just calling to try to figure out what to say to Mom to convince her Dad is not going to kill her before Christmas. She was crying to me this morning. You won't believe her and now I don't believe her? What are we going to do to help her feel safe?"
The message itself sounds awful. It is awful. Mom has dementia and has started creating stories. My dad killing her has been her most violent tale so far. She was convinced it was going to happen and no amount of logic seemed to help. My mom has always been incredibly logical, which is why it is so ironic that logic seems to make the situation worse. She wanted validation and we were dismissing her concerns. My parents have been married for nearly 53 years and my dad has never been violent towards my mom. Regardless, she had convinced herself of the validity of the story, citing financial reasons as the primary motive.
Okay, back to my Wednesday morning and feeling helpless. I sat there, feeding the baby and wondering how we could help my mother feel safe. We had heard from many sources that it is best to live in their world. I thought I was okay with that advice, until her world included my dad being a murderer. I didn't feel particularly comfortable joining her world for that adventure. I started searching online for support groups in the area. Surely someone would be able to give us advice on what to do. I found the Alzheimer's Association and their 24/7 support and education line. I immediately called.
I changed the baby's diaper while they took down some initial information from me. Then I started packing up diaper bags, lunch boxes and backpacks. I herded the kids to the car while trying to explain to the operator the reason for my call. I was transferred to an educator, who answered just as I got all three kids strapped in their car seats. I stood in the garage, with all of the car doors shut, explaining the situation, trying to avoid my kids overhearing. The kids have little ears, but big mouths. I was afraid of what they might repeat. As soon as I felt the conversation was safe enough to be overheard, I got in the car and headed to drop L off. The kids had been entertaining each other while waiting to go and were playing some very loud (and very obnoxious) game. As the educator talked, and I tried to hear her, I gave glaring looks to the backseat to quiet the trio. I felt the need to apologize to the educator.
Me: I'm sorry the kids are so loud.
Educator: Oh, that's okay. How old are they?
Me: 5, 4, and 8 months.
Educator: Oh wow, you really are in the sandwich generation.
There is was. THE SANDWICH GENERATION. I've heard the term before, but never really comprehended what it meant. At that very moment, it described exactly how I have been feeling -- SQUISHED. The pressure and needs of my aging parents on one side and the constant demands of a young family on the other. And here I am, sandwiched in the middle.
Welcome to my journey. I can't promise that it will be interesting or profound. Sometimes you either laugh or cry . . . I've done a lot of both.
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