I call myself an angry caregiver, but what do I have to be angry about, given the relative ease of my situation? There are so many layers here. Perhaps I just don’t want to give up my spare time—pure selfishness. Or is it more along the lines of not wanting to take on a “parent” role with my parents? The fact of my not having children has placed me, more or less permanently, in the position of child (albeit adult) and maybe on some level I don’t want to leave my comfort zone.
Or it could be the realization that not having children means that as I reach the age of my parents, I won’t be able to rely on anyone other than paid helpers, if I can afford them. I might be feeling some resentment at providing something that I’ll never have the opportunity to enjoy. Of course, kids don’t come with a lifetime guarantee of good behavior, and I’m aware of many older people whose adult children blithely abandon them, or worse, subject them to actual abuse. It’s hard to imagine the pain, the sense of betrayal that must engender.
Alternatively, I’m reminded of the “saints” among us—those of the sandwich generation who have both kids of their own and aging parents to care for simultaneously, and who manage it all with grace…at least outwardly. But there is always a price attached to true sainthood. I guess I fall somewhere mid-range on the saint and spoiled brat scale. I’m helpful enough, but set limits, and occasionally make sharp comments or roll my eyes.
This past week’s visit was a lesson in successful multi-tasking, if not limit-setting. The day began by driving my dad to the barber shop, and leaving him there while racing my stepmother to the bank, the pharmacy, and then (after picking up a patient, neatly-shorn father) finally heading to Safeway for the weekly shopping, all in a record two hours.
No real complications, but while at the bank, the trust manager recommended a “personal appointment” with my stepmother sometime next week. She said she didn’t know when she could make an appointment as it all depended on when transportation would be available. After hearing this, I tried not to show annoyance while pointing out that the short taxi ride to the bank might cost $8 from where they live and maybe, just maybe they could afford that. Her response: “Well, that’s more than the Sunshine Bus from the senior center costs.” Yes, I say, but they don’t drive you door to door at the exact time you want to go somewhere. I don't bother mentioning that they’ve never visited the senior center other than one time, under duress, to pick up the monthly activity calendar (just to see if they might like to go) and have never boarded the Sunshine Bus.
But none of this matters, apparently. Again, I have to put myself in their position, wondering if I’d want to get involved with a senior center even if I were the right age. If there were no other options, maybe, but I can appreciate their reluctance. Luckily for them, my parents have options, and I am the one they’ve chosen.
