She's warm and irreverent and hilarious and I'm halfway through the book that resonates with me so much because I'm sandwiched in the middle of that part of my life when I am a full-fledged adult and am called on to managed life's complexities and most of the days I'm somewhat successful at it but there are still days when I just want a hug from my mom or a pep talk from my dad and for someone to just be responsible for a while so I don't have to be and I'm within spitting distance of being 50 years old.
I'm convinced my parents feel sandwiched, too. For the past few days, I've been in Pennsylvania to help out as my dad has hip replacement surgery. One minute, I'm of counsel - what kind of anesthesia do I think would be best, what kinds of adjustments do I think we should make to the house before my dad comes home with a cane and a walker, what should we do if his stubborn self doesn't want to take pain medication, how will we manage when his competitive self wants to burn through therapy as fast as possible, as if rehabilitation is some sort of frivolous activity for people who just can't take the heat and that he'll get some sort of imaginary gold medal for getting done first.
The next minute, I'm 16. My parents live in a part of the state where, between major highways, there are centuries-old farm houses tucked into rolling hills like bookmarks and you can imagine a team of Revolutionary War minutemen walking through a field to the tempo of a fife and drum. The roads are windy and hilly and there is no shoulder to speak of, yet my mom insists on drinking coffee from a regular mug while she's driving and my dad refuses to put a lid on a to-go cup when we pick up coffee at the Wawa. When I bring up the idea of perhaps using a travel mug, they look at me with annoyance, as if it's some kind of weakness to drink coffee out of a cup that's a fortress against spills and burns and my suggestion is just another example of my generation lacking fortitude and grit.
We were running late this morning because of traffic and my mom nabbed a spot in the parking garage but noticed the back of her car was over the yellow parking line. "Give me your keys, Mom - I'll straighten it out and meet you inside." She hesitated, looking in a panic at the cars coming into the garage. "There are cars out here," she protested. "You will need to be careful." She danced around, looking in a panic between me and the incoming cars.
I rolled down the window. "Mom, I swear to God ..." She threw her arms up and scuttled toward the entrance, but she kept glancing with worry at the cars that she knew were going to form a pile-up when I inevitably slammed into one of them while absently backing up at 50 miles an hour.
But my mom also found time to make my favorite apricot bars and my dad stocked my favorite wine and I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel good to be staying in their house, with their familiar furniture and artwork and dishes and the ever-present scent of coffee, candles and Lubriderm lotion, secure in the knowledge that, even under these circumstances, I don't need to be in charge for a few days. Not really.
I'm convinced my parents feel sandwiched, too. For the past few days, I've been in Pennsylvania to help out as my dad has hip replacement surgery. One minute, I'm of counsel - what kind of anesthesia do I think would be best, what kinds of adjustments do I think we should make to the house before my dad comes home with a cane and a walker, what should we do if his stubborn self doesn't want to take pain medication, how will we manage when his competitive self wants to burn through therapy as fast as possible, as if rehabilitation is some sort of frivolous activity for people who just can't take the heat and that he'll get some sort of imaginary gold medal for getting done first.
The next minute, I'm 16. My parents live in a part of the state where, between major highways, there are centuries-old farm houses tucked into rolling hills like bookmarks and you can imagine a team of Revolutionary War minutemen walking through a field to the tempo of a fife and drum. The roads are windy and hilly and there is no shoulder to speak of, yet my mom insists on drinking coffee from a regular mug while she's driving and my dad refuses to put a lid on a to-go cup when we pick up coffee at the Wawa. When I bring up the idea of perhaps using a travel mug, they look at me with annoyance, as if it's some kind of weakness to drink coffee out of a cup that's a fortress against spills and burns and my suggestion is just another example of my generation lacking fortitude and grit.
We were running late this morning because of traffic and my mom nabbed a spot in the parking garage but noticed the back of her car was over the yellow parking line. "Give me your keys, Mom - I'll straighten it out and meet you inside." She hesitated, looking in a panic at the cars coming into the garage. "There are cars out here," she protested. "You will need to be careful." She danced around, looking in a panic between me and the incoming cars.
I rolled down the window. "Mom, I swear to God ..." She threw her arms up and scuttled toward the entrance, but she kept glancing with worry at the cars that she knew were going to form a pile-up when I inevitably slammed into one of them while absently backing up at 50 miles an hour.
But my mom also found time to make my favorite apricot bars and my dad stocked my favorite wine and I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel good to be staying in their house, with their familiar furniture and artwork and dishes and the ever-present scent of coffee, candles and Lubriderm lotion, secure in the knowledge that, even under these circumstances, I don't need to be in charge for a few days. Not really.
The last couple of months of found me in a midlife crisis of sorts - the kids are gone, we are enduring the unexpected death of a very close friend and I have been asking myself some important but difficult questions about what I want to do with my career - questions I need to answer if I am to get at it while the getting is good. I have talked to a few people about all of these things, but not my parents. I assumed that anything I told them would be met with worry, concern and probing questions that I just didn't want to put energy into. I was spent enough just trying to figure everything out.
Until they called a few weeks ago and both of them were on the extension (which is high-tech in their household), and after a smattering of updates about the rest of the family my mom finally said, "Honey, what's going on? Or don't you want to talk about it?"
I told them everything. It just tumbled out. As my voice choked with tears, I told them about the acute grief I had been feeling that never seemed to fully go away. That I was lonely and confused and afraid. That I didn't know where to focus now that the kids weren't at home and Pat was occupied with football. That I was uncertain and shaken and lacking confidence in what I wanted to do with my work, but I was too afraid to make tough decisions and take a leap of faith. That I was worried about being judged about all of this. That I was feeling ashamed and like a failure.
Oh, how we sell our parents short. They're so much wiser than we give them credit for.
They generously shared their stories of times when they had felt exactly the same way. They reassured me that everything I was feeling was normal. They told me they believed in me. They said that they were proud of what I had done with my life and looked forward to what I would do next. They supported the direction I was headed with some of the tough decisions I was making. They said goodbye assuring me that I was talented and successful, but more importantly, loved unconditionally.
"Hang in there," was my dad's parting advice. And, like a cool drink of water after mowing the lawn on a hot day, I felt lighter, more lucid, revived.
And yesterday, while I said good-bye to him before they wheeled him into the OR, he kissed me and said, "I know you're doing the right things and making the right decisions, and I'm proud of you."
No matter how old we are, life hands us so many experiences for which we need assurance, support and presence. That's what we're called to do for each other, and though my parents aren't perfect, they have always had the best of intentions of doing that for me. If I can be helpful by supporting my mom as she nurses my dad, who is a terrible patient, back to full strength, I'm there. If I can lend my dad some strength as he deals with my mom throwing down the control gauntlet because she's worried and scared, I can take it.
I'm reminded that we need to savor the love of our parents in sips like a rare wine vintage. They're not always going to be there. And I'm reminded that the "sandwiched" phase of parenting requires grace on both ends. (Don't worry - I'm taking notes, Sean, Mariah and Abby.)
I'm off to referee the patient and the caregiver, but I have a smile on my face. I'm here for them and they're here for me. I'm going to hang onto that for as long as I can.
I'm off to referee the patient and the caregiver, but I have a smile on my face. I'm here for them and they're here for me. I'm going to hang onto that for as long as I can.
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