Fifty Years Old and Sandwiched Between Two Generations

by Susanne Wright

Let’s get real about the lives of women over 50. It ain’t easy — so much so that we’ve earned a special title: the Sandwich Generation, and we’re not talking corned beef on rye. Women in their fifth decade often find themselves wedged, viselike, between two generations.

We face our children, who are on the verge of adulthood, yet not fully independent — either financially or emotionally. They clutch their freshly printed college diplomas and knock on doors of opportunity, or are the new hire in the trades or services. Either way, they are entering an economic system that is rigged against them. Young adults, through no fault of their own, are still mortally attached to their deeply grooved parents.

To our backs are our parents, long into their elder years and suffering from failing minds and bodies and needing our attention and care as much or more as our children. It has long been my observation that women of a certain age shoulder these divergent family needs quietly and alone, without acknowledgement or expectation of a prize. Having always been the nurturing soft underbellies of our families, women naturally long to sweep our beloveds beneath our protective wings.

But my wings are too small.

Or perhaps it’s more that my bank account is lacking. That expensive college degree I urged upon our son, the one I promised would open doors to a successful career? Well, the bill’s come due and the kid can’t pay. The kid would like nothing more than to shoulder his own financial responsibilities but can’t swing both a college loan payment and rent on freelance pay. Meanwhile the second child, the practical one who aspires to a life in the public sector, is racking up college loans faster than I can make payments on the first one. I fret. I sigh. I juggle the checkbook. I cut the TV cable. I forgo dinners out. I accept that my aging station wagon will have to do a while longer. I pass by the shelves of good wine with their seductive labels and lug a box of cheap red into my cart.

And I need that econo-sized box of cheap wine because my father is losing his mind. Literally. Dementia has reduced my once dynamic, independent father to a kindly and easily confused old man. When the day came when he could longer take care of himself, I stepped forward, without question, to become his accountant, bill payer, doctor appointment maker and his ride. I am his closest living relative. My father relies on me for support, love, hugs, and holiday cheer. Despite the constant pressure, I could not love my family more and with my last dying breath I will support them all.

Except for that Mexican trap door I dive through each winter — that little lime green thatched-roof escape hatch with an ocean view. It’s the one my husband and I bought not long ago, a Baja sugar shack hiding inside an immense cardon cactus forest, framed with rugged mountains to the west and the brilliant blue Sea of Cortez to the east. Our tiny two-room casita where from its rooftop we gaze across candy-colored houses and rustling palm trees that sweep all the way down to the sandy shore. On that rooftop we sigh and sip limey, salt rimmed margaritas from plastic cups and watch the brilliant yellow-orange sun seize the evening sky before dipping below a rocky mountain top. We sigh again.

Could we have forgone our little Mexican relief valve and instead dutifully donated its price tag toward our children’s student loans? Yes. And no.

It turns out I am not cut out for martyrdom. You can serve me up a Sandwich Generation label if you want, but you can’t make me eat it. For the sake of my sanity I take the high road and cling to the notion that selling our family home of 20 years and downsizing, giving away most of our belongings is freeing. Holding my father’s hand as he lay in his hospital bed, bleeding and torn from yet another fall is important. Taking heart-stopping 2 a.m. phone calls from an anxious child facing a mid-term, needing moms soothing encouragement and “by the way, I need more money,” is teaching me invaluable coping skills.

I’m also tired, menopausal, and weepy. By day my knees quake under the freight of familial responsibility and by night I lay sleepless and scared, wondering how long before I’m squeezed dry. I wonder how past generations of women in my family coped; marvel at their apparent strength and fortitude. I’m curious as to how it all turned out for them; if they survived their family duties or if they slowly shrank into empty husks. To my surprise, after a quick search through the family tree, I learned they escaped this particular modern family dynamic. The women in my family, poor as they were, as difficult a set of circumstances they may have faced, upon their children’s eighteenth birthday, they helped the little dears pack a suitcase and waved a tearful goodbye as their now fully adult children left home. For good. Only to return for holiday dinners and birthday parties.

It seems I am the first to experience the handgrip of caring for both my children and parents. I have no woman to turn to for guidance. Our mothers and grandmothers are the mapmakers we follow. Without their lead, what course do we take? I quickly realized my pioneering actions would be setting precedence for my daughter. Given the scope of what is expected of a woman, I did not want to screw this up. Not for me. Not for her.

If I were to survive a constant tug and pull, perhaps for years to come, I knew I needed my own private shelter. Somewhere physically and mentally distanced from my family. A rustic shelter where I pad around in bare feet, eat grilled shrimp fresh from the sea, chug cold, cheap beer, paddle atop fish of vibrant hues. I allow the stresses of my life to seep into the sand, leach out into the salty ocean, and wisp away on a sea breeze. I ride a bike to nowhere, windsurf badly, drink too much, and perform languid body stretches on my rooftop. I read books from cover to cover, visit with new friends and hold my husband’s hand. I am no one’s mother or daughter. I am me. Two months later I return from my sojourn tanned, with sun bleached hair, smelling of the sea and hungry for my family. I welcome their hugs and the warmth of their solid bodies. I slip back into the family fold with renewed energy. I eagerly soak up the important events of their lives that I missed and look forward to again being ballast for as long as they all may need me.

Susanne Wright is a freelance writer and reading tutor from Hood River, Oregon. She is the author of Rescue Flight!, a children’s adventure novel. She is a avid bike rider, skier, and a really bad windsurfer.

Photo: Larry Hoffman

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