I’m a full-fledged member of the sandwich generation.  While my concern for my children taxes every fiber of my being (and they are good kids…so I guess, ‘it’s me’), my mother needs my attention as well.  At 85, she is amazingly self sufficient.  And, fortunately, she has children enough to spread the responsibilities of food shopping, yard care, household cleaning, finances, pharmacy errands, etc.  But, she no longer drives. So, as age takes its toll on her health, and she has more frequent appointments with her doctors, what has fallen to me, is taking her to the appointments. 

There are times I wish I could make a documentary of our adventures to her health care providers.  You know that whole thing about ‘the greatest generation’?  Well, she epitomizes it.  When I arrive to pick her up, she never keeps me waiting.  Although I am my mother’s daughter, I am Yin to her Yang.  I am running late most of the time.  As I hurry through her front door, stressed to the nines, she is dressed to the nines, has everything we need neatly lined up, and she is the model of composure.  Her traveling oxygen tank, her spare oxygen tank, her purse, her handicapped car sign, her notes for the doctor, and she, are ready to go. 

She walks gingerly to the car, wheeling one tank, and watching her footing, as her freshly ironed, crisp white linen blouse dares you to think of her as old.  I ramble along with the other tank and then help her into the car.  Once we are on our way, I start to calm down, captivated by her matter of fact delivery of bits of family news, or updates about my hometown, or her unceasing and remarkable interest in world politics.  And, I am slightly distracted as I catch her out of the corner of my eye and I wonder how is it that I am sitting taller than the statuesque mother of my youth.

I sometimes feel as if, when we arrive in public, I am her personal attendant.  She steps back in a gesture of presumption that I will open a door for her, or press an elevator button.  I think this is just my mother, still being a lady.  Were I a gentleman, or as I am, a person younger than she, it is socially correct, she is subtly pointing out to me, to take care of these things for her.  And, I do, with pleasure.

It is once in the waiting room that the fun begins.  As she settles in her seat,

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