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, I scan the magazines. I know her two preferences are People (which would never cross the threshold of her home), and U.S. News and World Report. I come as close as I can to filling that order, sometimes holding up Highlights with feigned resignation as if to say, "This is all they have." She laughs, knowing I’m teasing her.
But, last week at an appointment, I came up with nothing, not even Highlights. I held up GolfWorld in desperation. She knew I wasn’t kidding and just looked at me blankly, as if to say, "Make something better appear." At last, we settled on a crossword puzzle at the back of a magazine. Neither of us does crosswords. Normally, at these appointments, we sit elbow to elbow sharing pictures of the pretty gowns the starlets are wearing. But, this day, we struggled and strained, not even familiar with the theme of the crossword, which was a television game show.
The doctor was running late, and after an hour in the waiting room, we were moved to an examining room. Our progress on the puzzle amounted to only about one third the responses completed, and many of those, uncertain. As the nurse took my mother’s vitals, I remained focused on the crossword. But, I perked up when I heard the nurse ask my mother her age and my mother responded, "I’m 85. I’ll be 86 next…" As I’m ever watchful for signs of stroke or dementia, I looked up thinking I might be witnessing a memory jog. The nurse, thinking along the same lines as I, turned to her and said, "Next……week?" My mother began laughing, in fact, laughing so hard she had trouble saying, "Not next anything, just ‘next’. I’m trying to show you I might be old, but I can still count." My mother’s EKG had to be held off till we all regained composure.
Our total wait time this day was about 90 minutes. Once the nurse finished her responsibilities, it became clear I wouldn’t be home to put together any sort of dinner as her parting comment was that the doctor was still running late. Left to entertain ourselves further, we continued with the crossword puzzle. I don’t remember the clue that brought us there, but suddenly I became aware that she and I were singing "do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do" at the top of our lungs, trying to find the "C-E-E" for 28 DOWN, three letters. My mother was sure there was a "CEE" in that ditty, and I think she is correct, as the note ‘C’ is present. Again, uncontrolled laughter ensued as we realized simultaneously where we were, as a nurse poked her head in our room, jealous to be missing out on the fun.
This is my mother and me. So, I don’t complain, ever, for being in the middle of the sandwich. Whenever I arrive to pick her up for one of her appointments, as I walk into her home, the home of my childhood, it brings me a sad joy to witness the passage of time, as I see her (thank God) still holding down the old fort. And, I know, sooner than I could ever be ready, there will be a day, when that image will be just that, a picture in my memory.
Our time on Earth with the people we love is brief and precious. We should delight in it and never take it for granted. I delight in both my children and my mother, having learned when my father died some years ago, that when it’s over, it’s over. And, I appreciate that I have a mother about whom I can say to my children when counseling them, "Remember the stuff you are made of, think of Gram."
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