It’s the second night of my partner’s bi-weekly work trip. By now, the thrill of solo parenting has worn off, and my patience for my little ones’ bedtime antics has evaporated. My promise to keep calm crumbles long before dinner plates are cleared away.
Fortunately, my 5-year-old son has fallen asleep in his sister’s room, leaving me to endure the bedtime battle with my 3-year-old daughter. I envision collapsing into my bed for a few precious moments of peace. I feign sleep, hoping that by setting a good example, she’ll follow suit. But each time I peek, she’s wide awake, flinging her favorite toy against the wall and trying to catch it mid-air. She’s as hyper as a pup after a long walk, giggling every time her toy lands on her head.
With a sigh, I place my hand on her tummy. “Let’s try to sleep, sweetheart.”
“Okay, Mama,” she replies, squeezing her eyes shut with all her might. My heart swells, knowing she wants to make me happy.
But soon enough, the thumping resumes. I don’t even need to open my eyes to know she’s back to playing catch. It’s a common plight for many parents: a child who no longer requires a nap but still struggles to sleep until late into the night.
I pull out my phone, ready to text my partner something like, “SOS! Still wrangling bedtime. Aarrrrggghhh!!!!!” The texts I send him on these long nights usually follow a predictable pattern: Help! I’m at my wits’ end. You owe me one!
Just as I’m about to hit send, a notification buzzes in. I jump, and when I see it’s from my brother, my heart races. He only texts me when something is amiss. My breath quickens as I read his message: “Call me when you can.”
Panic sets in. Someone must have passed away. I mentally sift through our elderly relatives, recalling the health of my Aunt Linda, my brother’s old friend Mark, and my grandparents.
“Mommy will be right back,” I say to my daughter, who looks perplexed—I’ve never suddenly left her like this.
I hurry upstairs and dial my brother. By the time he picks up, I’m breathless, a mix of panic and cardio exertion. “Hey, I got your message. What’s wrong?”
“Everything’s okay. It’s about Dad. Liver…biopsy… hepatitis… we just wanted you to know.”
I ask the usual questions: “How is he? What do they need? How can I help?” When our mother comes on the line, I muster the courage to ask, “Is this from his drinking?” I know he’s been sober for a long time, but the association is hard to shake.
“Dad asked too, and they said no. Right, Paul?”
“Correct, it’s not from that or from my service in Vietnam.”
We’re united in our concern for Dad, wondering what’s caused this health issue. No clear answers emerge, only the knowledge that he’ll be on medication for the foreseeable future.
“Mom, is this serious?” I mutter, anxiety creeping in.
“He’ll manage with medication,” she reassures me. My heart sinks. The thought of him having to juggle daily pills feels heavy. It’s tragic, as I still picture him in his prime, and now he’ll have to carry this burden through life’s adventures. What if he forgets them when he travels?
“Mama! Maaaaamaaaaaaa!” My daughter’s voice echoes up the stairs loud enough for my mother to hear.
“Are your kids still awake?” she asks.
“Don’t even ask,” I reply.
“Go to her. We’ll be fine. Call us later.”
I want to cry, but I know I need to stay strong for my daughter. It’s nearly 10 p.m., and if I can just get her to sleep, I can dive deeper into researching Dad’s condition. Knowledge is power, but first, I have to settle her.
I lie down beside her, feeling her warm little body. “Can I scratch your back?” I offer, knowing this will keep her calm. I can feel her heartbeat quickening beneath her pajamas.
As I do this, I can’t help but think about my dad’s liver and its long journey—through Vietnam, his past struggles, and years of sobriety. Suddenly, a realization hits me: My dad isn’t 40 anymore; he’s actually 70. The “rest of his life” isn’t as lengthy as I always assumed it would be.
As my daughter settles down, I keep my hand on her back while with the other, I scroll through my search results. I click on the Mayo Clinic link, my breath steadying as I read, “Not fatal. Controllable with medication.”
With a sigh of relief, I feel my daughter’s breathing slow down as we both drift into sleep.
Resources for the Sandwich Generation
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Summary
In the midst of managing the challenges of solo parenting, the author navigates a family health crisis, reflecting on the realities of aging and the responsibilities of the sandwich generation. As she cares for her young child, she grapples with the news of her father’s health, emphasizing the need for knowledge and support during difficult times.
Keyphrase: Sweet Dreams for the Sandwich Generation
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