I recently saw a reference to the “sandwich generation” the other day and was reminded of a comment that someone made to me at the funeral home during my mother’s wake service. My Dad had died ten years before my Mom and this woman and I were discussing losing my mother. Her mother had died during the previous year and she was sympathizing and then she said to me, somewhat emphatically, “You’re an orphan now.” I dumbly nodded, but inwardly gasped, “Oh no!,” conjuring up all the sad, sad, orphans I had read about or seen in movies. I needed to change the subject posthaste, it was such an overwhelmingly sad thought. [I was reminded of this as the fourth season of Downton Abbey recently began and Anna corrected Lady Mary pointing out that baby George “is not an orphan, he has his mother.”]
In thinking about the fact that my parents were both gone, I also realized that I was not part of the sandwich generation — caring for both children (however grown and flown they are) and older parents.
I was unsandwiched.
Being sandwiched, while incredibly exhausting at times, is a nice thing. Being needed is fulfilling. For isn’t it the stuffing that’s the best — the white sweet creme in the middle of the Oreo, the guts of the big fat sandwich? With twenty-something year old children (yes, I could have said offspring, but they’ll always be my “children”) the rest of the classic sandwich is almost gone.
And now, 16 months after my mother’s passing and over 10 years since my Dad’s, the unsandwiching has settled in. Yet, I never think of myself as an orphan, so alive in my thoughts and memories are they both.
I’ve also concluded that being sandwiched, and the outward focus it brings, does not always have to center on being the middle generation. There are plenty of others — an elderly aunt, friends, and even the occasional stranger — to wrap around my offer of help, companionship, and care.
everywoman (almost) 