Musings of a Club Sandwich

While being compared to an upscale excuse for eating too much lunch is rather disconcerting, Carol Abaya’s term “sandwich generation” aptly describes those who are caring for aging parents as well as for their own children. Her term was adopted by the Merriam-Webster Dictionary in 2006, and is now part of our culture’s lexicon. On her website, she parses the term further, defining the “Club Sandwich” as those in their 50s or 60s sandwiched between aging parents, adult children and grandchildren, or those in their 30s and 40s, with young children, aging parents and grandparents.

My father turned 83 this year. I was not with him for his birthday in July, but I went for a walk him in August. The Pennsylvania air was steamy and still, smelling of wilting plants and the fresh manure used by the Amish farmer down the road, Dad wore heavy blue jeans as well as a sweatshirt that he refused to remove. His feet dragged from one step to the next, his cane serving as more of a hindrance than a help since he could not balance himself properly with it. Every few shuffles, he stopped to wheeze and totter, leaning backwards more and more until he looked like a limbo dancer headed toward a pole. After laboring up the driveway of my sister’s home and around the cul-de-sac, we creaked back to our starting point where he finally lost his balance, falling into my arms.

My mother accompanied us. In contrast to my father’s fragility, her gait was slow, but sure. She stood less than five-feet tall, and her left arm hung useless at her side (the result of degenerative arthritis), but the steel in her stance was a reminder of her once formidable character. Her concern was that we would not get back in time for her to “go home.” She was sure that her Mom and Dad were expecting her—she would be late.

“They will be worried, you know. And I need to get packed before we leave.”

I tried to reassure, but her parents continued to worry her.

My brother and I try to support my sister, their primary caretaker, as much as we can by traveling to her home to stay with Mom and Dad. Our efforts are, in the grand scheme, only gestures since we are not there enough to deal with the chronic concerns of the disease, but our visits encourage our sister and assuage our guilt, at least for a few weeks.

My husband and I are in the habit of walking after dinner which is usually rather late since we wait for soccer and cross-country practices, after school activities, and work responsibilities. Last night’s walk was cool and dark. We strode through quiet streets that glowed pink under the streetlights while sleepy houses with windows half-closed watched our progress. The conversation was comfortable both in the words and the silence between. It blended gently with the rumble of the neighborhood, and our steps provided a cadence for our speech. We talked about our children, two of whom will graduate this spring, one from college and the other from high school. We talked of money and of the mundane. Who would pick up whom? When? How would we get the grocery shopping done before the weekend? We smiled about our son’s hysterical comment at dinnertime, and worried about our daughter’s Lyme disease diagnosis. We passed an elderly Asian woman, watering her garden in the almost-dark, and our conversation veered back to that small Pennsylvania apartment containing an elderly couple who is gradually evaporating.

Our President spoke to young people yesterday, about staying in school and doing one’s best. His speech was a pep rally for education, and on the front page of the paper this morning were the faces of eager kids listening intently. I want someone to call an assemblage for club sandwiches—to encourage us as we are squeezed softly, yet inexorably, by those sweet faces on either side of us. Perhaps as we begin morphing from filling to bread, we can teach our children how to better deal with being in the middle.

Dad and Mom