The Sandwich Generation

Caught in the middle.

Your children on one hand, your ageing parents/grandparents on the other.

In the US they're called the Sandwich Generation. In Jamaica we may not have a term for them but the pressure and realities are the same -- people (mainly women) strained by the demands of their young family and the responsibility of caring for elderly parents or grandparents.

Below, one woman talks about her fears and feelings of guilt. We also have suggestions on how to cope in this situation.

Waiting to die

As told to Flair

MY GRANDFATHER is waiting to die. My grandmother too. At 93 and 96, their sight failing, hearing fading and their limbs swollen with age, they can't go fast or far. There's not much left for them to do. So they wait, wondering why death hasn't come yet and how long it's going to be.

My grandmother willingly concedes that she's ready to let go her grasp of this world. On a recent Sunday afternoon visit to their ancient little house in one of Kingston's poorer neighbourhoods, I found her lying in bed. "Pray for me," she begged, the pain in her bird-like body was so intense. She was always tiny, 4 ft. 10 in. at the most, but that afternoon, she was almost lost in the folds of the sheets. "Sister Alice (she has taken to referring to herself in the third person) ready to go -- ready to go to the other side."

My grandfather stood slightly in the background. He's afraid, though he'd never admit it. She's his anchor to life. While her mind is already gone -- she no longer recognises or remembers her sons, grandchildren or friends -- his is still fairly sharp. It's really his body that's caving in on him.

Though he was never a big man, I remember when he was sturdy and strong, his voice could send chills down our spines. One of my cousins who lived with them for a while used to be so afraid of him that she would literally throw away her food to run to his bidding whenever he called her name. We were all afraid of him.

Now he looks like an exclamation mark. His head bowed and back bent by age.

I know he wants to talk to me about "business" ­ his house, their furnishings, preparations for their death. I know because one day he hinted at it but I got out of there fast.

HER LIFE WAS FILLED WITH INTENSE PAIN

Truth be known, I really don't want to take on their deaths ­ or their lives at this stage, for that matter. I've buried one grandmother already ­ the one I grew up with. The latter part of her life was filled with intense pain as each year her heart great grew weaker, her sight dimmer, and her amputated leg refused to heal for the whole 15 months before her death.

Eventually I had to take charge of her life - it was either me or my brother, but he was so afraid he avoided her for weeks at a time. So I was the one who got the midnight calls filled with great sobs because of the excruciating pain below her knee (before and after the amputation); made the frantic dashes to the hospital each time she was rushed to emergency; scooped out a nursing home; took over her finances; and made the arrangements for her funeral weeks before she died. I went and touched her when they called to say her heart had finally given out. My brother never took a look, but I understood.

Emotionally it was torture watching my late Gran slip away. In some other ways it was easier though than dealing with this set of grandparents. I had no children then, as a professional I had a well paying job, but most of all we lived in another country which provided medical and other help for the aged.

I was never as close to this set of grandparents, still it pains me when my grandmother looks at me with curious eyes and asks: "A who yuh ma'am?" or "a who dawta you is again?" When I tell her she always says with a sigh: "Can't remember a thing. Sista Alice can't memba nutten." I try to reassure her that I haven't forgotten the days when me and my cousin Charmaine used to wear her size four shoes until we outgrew them when we were 11. She always smiles ­ though it never rings a bell.

Until last year they had been coping with the help of one of their church sisters who lived in their house. Shortly after she left to live with her own children, I offered to have someone wash their clothes. My grandfather's immediate comeback was: "Thank goodness ma'am, we're not yet that way embarrassed."

I BARELY HAVE TIME TO HELP MY SON
WITH HIS HOMEWORK

Now they've deteriorated to the point where he is ready to accept more help. I sometimes feel guilty that there isn't a whole lot I can do for them. As a single mother with a school-aged child, I feel that I must make that part of my life a priority. When I pay my son's school fee or take him to the movies, or send him away for the summer, I roll over in my mind whether I should use the money to support them instead. With the pressures of a demanding job ­ that is definitely not 9 to 5 ­ sometimes I barely have time to help my son with his homework. Weeks and even months will pass between my visits, though they're always on my mind.

Working class folks who eked out a living as they went along, they have no pension plans. They've had an assortment of grandchildren who've stopped in their house for a year or two, usually on their way to their parents in England. None will help them now, however ­ their revenge for the cruelty my grandfather once wreaked in their young lives.

Thank goodness for one of their sons who has been a constant source of financial support over the decades. Some of their church members have also pitched in, taking them to church, doctors visits and so on.

I buy them groceries, give them money sometimes and visit. I've thought about having them live with me, but I feel that I'd crumble under the financial and other strains ­ plus my grandfather doesn't really want to give up the house he spent almost 50 years paying for. It's the one thing of significance he feels that he can leave to us. My grandfather is also cognisant of the pressure this would bring to bear on me, he's always mutters that Jamaica is too expensive and he doesn't want to burden me.

There's at least another reason why I've been so reluctant to get involved - it forces me to look at my own mortality. Though death can come at any time, with my grandparents gone, or going, there's only one layer now between me and my maker -- my parents.

It's cowardly, I know, but dying of old age doesn't have a pretty face. It renders you powerless. It takes away your pride and dignity. It hurts.

To protect the privacy of those involved, the author has asked that her name be withheld.

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