Squeezed

The Squeeze Begins

I entered the Sandwich Generation with a gentle squeeze in the spring of 2016. My seventy-nine-year-old mother began to make poor decisions about how to take care of things for herself and her health began to decline. I talked to her about moving to an independent living facility and took her to tour a couple of them. She insisted she didn’t need to move because she was fine. If she determined that she couldn’t live on her own, she would move in with my brother “Bubba” or he’d move in with her. Unfortunately, he wasn’t in the best health, and I didn’t believe it was a good plan for either of them. But I didn’t push hard enough.

The Squeeze Tightens

I felt the squeeze tighten in the fall of 2019. Through a series of events that no one wanted to foresee, Mother’s life and her plans for living out her days turned upside down and wrong side out.

October 1st, Mother fell and injured her elbow badly enough to need surgery. Four days later, Bubba called to tell me about the fall, the injury, and the impending surgery. Four days after that, Mother had a successful surgery to reattach the tendon to the bone. She believed she would recover in as little as two weeks. (My research showed that even a young person having the same surgery would take at least six months to a year to recover, and they might not regain full use of the arm.)

October 14th, Bubba realized he couldn’t provide the care Mother needed to recover and took her to a private home to be cared for by someone with no medical training. A week later, Bubba called to tell me that Mother wasn’t doing well, and he (nineteen years older than me) didn’t know what to do. I told him to take her to her primary care physician, and he scheduled an appointment the same day. When the physician sent Mother directly to the Emergency Room, Bubba called to tell me he didn’t know what was going on.

Despite my fear of traveling alone, I flew to be with them, rented a car, and promptly invoked our Power of Attorney for Mother. I met with her physician and found out she was suffering from serious dehydration and disorientation and was in need of immediate hospitalization. I drove to the ER, found my family, and realized how dire things had become. Ashen-faced, Mother wouldn’t respond to anyone and lay mostly motionless. Bubba stood beside her looking lost. We waited for a room to open up… and waited… and waited. He finally drove home around 9pm; a couple of hours later, I checked into a nearby hotel, by myself for the first time in my life.

I awakened early the next morning and drove back to the hospital. Eighteen hours after her arrival in the ER, the staff placed Mother in a room. Her color had returned, and she could carry on a conversation. She knew where she was but not why she was there. I questioned her about the care she received during her recovery; she said she felt “treated less than human” and “brainwashed”. They confined her to a wheelchair for the duration of her recovery because she was a fall risk.

I stayed another night in a hotel… by myself. I spent some time with Mother the following day, then drove to the airport. The weather canceled my flight home that evening. I went back to the hotel… to stay another night… by myself. The next day, I flew home the long way, flying further from my home and changing planes twice, before I could get a flight to Dallas.

Because Mother’s arm wasn’t immobilized after the first surgery, she had to have a second surgery at the end of October to replace the hardware that came loose. When the hospital released her two days later, I left my family, again, and flew to help Mother transfer to a rehabilitation facility to begin her recovery.

The Squeeze Reaches A Threshold

During her stay in rehab, Mother exhibited symptoms of decreased cognition. On November 22nd, a mental assessment led to a diagnosis of “unspecified dementia without behavioral disturbance,” which indicated that she would never be able to safely live alone again. Although I suspected this outcome, it was difficult to hear; frustrated and sad, I completed the search for her new home. Much to her chagrin, the next day Mother transferred to a nursing home and began the process of adapting to her new life.

[Sidenote: I mention my travel and overnights because they are a part of this story. Up to this point, I had rarely traveled completely alone, and I had NEVER stayed in a hotel by myself. I faced my fears of doing these things for Mother. I prayed my way through each flight and each night, knowing Father God would keep me safe. Through these experiences, I grew, and I knew that I could adapt to new circumstances as they arose. “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” (Philippians 4:13 NIV) During that time, I boarded seven planes and slept in hotels by myself three nights, things I wouldn’t have voluntarily done except out of complete necessity. When duty calls, I answer, but I know I don’t travel alone.]

It’s been just over a year since this chapter of my journey began, caring for my mother — long distance — while still raising (and homeschooling) our two daughters. Sometimes, I am overcome by guilt. Had I pushed harder, I believe Mother could have continued to live many more years in an independent living facility and progressed to assisted living gradually. She never wanted to live in a nursing home; however, due to the decisions she made, that is where she will live out her days.

Yep, being squeezed from two directions… that about sums it up.

Pseudo-names used to protect privacy.

Read my introduction to the Sandwich Generation here.