Updated: March 4, 2021
Originally Published: October 27, 2015
The second night of my partner’s bi-weekly work trip is always the toughest. By then, my initial enthusiasm for single-handedly managing the kids has dwindled, my patience for their endless bedtime antics is depleted, and my resolve to maintain composure has crumbled before the dinner plates are cleared.
My 5-year-old daughter has mercifully drifted off in her brother’s room, leaving me to manage my 3-year-old son as I strive to reach the much-coveted oasis of quiet time before collapsing, spread-eagle, in the center of my bed. I feign sleep, hoping this might encourage him to follow suit. Yet, each time I open my eyes, there he is—wide awake, throwing his Spider-Man action figure against the wall, attempting (and failing) to catch it on the way down. He’s as hyper as a child on a sugar rush, yet still cheerful, laughing every time Spider-Man lands on his face.
“Let’s try to sleep, buddy,” I say with a sigh, placing my hand on his tummy.
“Okay, Mama,” he replies, squeezing his eyes shut with a look of fierce determination. It warms my weary heart to see his desire to please me.
But soon enough, the thumping resumes. I don’t even need to look to know he’s resumed his game of catch with Spider-Man. Another sigh escapes my lips. It’s not his fault—his preschool enforces a rest period, and while he falls asleep there, the result is a child who can’t settle down until much later at night.
I pull out my phone, planning to text my partner something that resembles, “Help! Bedtime is a nightmare. Aaarrrggghhh!!!” If I compiled all the messages I’ve sent him on these dreaded second nights, they would read something like: Help! I’m struggling. You owe me bedtime duty for the next week.
As I’m typing “help” in bold letters, a text notification jolts me. Seeing it’s from my father triggers a wave of anxiety. He rarely texts me without cause, and typically, it’s about something related to the weather—“It’s freezing up there! How do you handle it?” But it’s May, and there’s nothing notable in the climate. My heart races as I read his message: “Call me when you can.”
Panic sets in. Someone must have passed away. I mentally scroll through our elderly relatives’ health statuses, worried about Uncle Jerry or Great-Aunt Marlene.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell my son, whose expression shifts from confusion to concern as I hastily exit.
I dial my parents’ number while racing up the stairs. When my father answers, I’m breathless. “Dad, I got your message. What’s going on?” The urgency in my voice is palpable.
“Everything’s going to be alright. My liver…biopsy…hepatitis…we wanted you to know.”
I ask the critical questions: “How are you feeling? Is there anything you need? How can I assist?” Once Mom joins the conversation, I muster the courage to ask, “Is this related to his past alcoholism?” A question I dread, despite his 38 years of sobriety.
“I think we asked and they said no,” she assures me.
In this moment, we’re united in concern, sharing the same questions and seeking answers. We wonder who is responsible for my father’s liver issues. There are no clear answers, only the reality of modern medicine and a regimen of steroids that he will need for the foreseeable future.
“Dad will be on these for life,” Mom adds solemnly.
The weight of that statement hits me—his life is now altered forever. In my mind, he’s still the youthful man I remember; the thought of him carrying a pillbox feels tragic. What if he forgets it when he travels to see me, or when my brother takes him to Spain this summer?
“Mama! Maaaaamaaaaaaa!” My son’s calls echo up the staircase, and even my mother can hear them.
“Are your kids still awake?” she asks.
“Don’t ask,” I reply.
“Go to him. We’re okay. Call us this weekend.”
I want to cry, but I suppress the urge. It’s 9:45 PM. If I can just get my son to sleep, then I can dive into researching my dad’s condition. Knowledge is power, but that will have to wait until my little one is finally settled.
I lie down next to him, feeling his warmth. “Can I scratch your back?” I ask, knowing that if he’s on his stomach, he won’t be able to throw his toys. I feel his heartbeat through his Spider-Man pajamas as he nods and flips over.
Thoughts of my father’s liver swirl in my mind: the battles it has faced—war, addiction, recovery, and now, the trials of age. As I think about the lifetime of medications ahead of him, a realization dawns: My dad isn’t 40 anymore; he’s 70. The time he has left isn’t nearly as long as I often assume.
Sadness settles over me as my son’s eyelids flutter, signaling he’s close to sleep. I keep my hand on his back for reassurance. With my other hand, I scroll through Google, landing on a reputable source. “Not fatal. Controllable with medication.”
Relief washes over me as my son’s breathing steadies. In this moment, we both find peace.
Conclusion
In summary, the challenges of caregiving for both children and aging parents can weigh heavily on those in the sandwich generation. Balancing family responsibilities while managing emotional crises is no small feat. Resources like this blog post on couples’ fertility journeys and this guide on pregnancy can be invaluable for navigating these complex situations. Additionally, for those interested in home insemination options, exploring this authority on at-home insemination kits could provide helpful insights.
Keyphrase: Sandwich Generation Challenges
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