My Dad started out this week in a hospital in Ontario – he has since returned home. He has leukemia, non-alcoholic liver disease and kidney disease. I have been keeping my phone with me at all times with the ringer on, waiting for the call, ready to fly home at a moment’s notice. My heart is so heavy and burdened because my father is sick, and I can’t be with him. I feel horrible that I’m not able to do my part. I feel helpless that he is suffering and I’m across the country not able to do anything but pray. I can’t help him. I can’t help my stepmother or my sisters.

Dave and I have been the ones in the trenches looking after elderly and ailing parents.

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I wrote this blog post on Monday, May 25, the day before the report about the private, long-term care homes in Ontario came out. At first, I thought I would shelve this post for a few months. But then I decided to post it anyway, because this is still our story. As you read, please remember that I’m just telling you our story, and I am not advocating nursing homes, and I’m not speaking against them either. Every family must do what is right for them and do what they are capable of, emotionally, mentally, financially, and physically. And I’m sure you know that not all nursing homes are cut from the same cloth. There are some great ones out there, as Dave and I can attest.

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When we moved to Alberta from Ontario in 2006, we asked Dave’s parents to move with us, and they did. We knew they would soon need support. The first year, they lived in a condo very close to us, and life was great. But soon, we started noticing Dad’s forgetfulness. Long story short, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Mom and Dad begged us not to put them into nursing homes. Truthfully, we didn’t want to. When Dave and I got married, we lived with Mom and Dad for three years and we didn’t pay a dime of room and board. So when they needed our help, we decided to do what we thought good kids and good Christians would do – we bought a 4500 sq. ft house, we renovated the basement to make it accessible for Mom’s physical disability (she’d had a stroke in 2003 that left her right side paralyzed), and we all moved in. Once again, life was peachy. But things quickly got worse.

Out of respect for Mom and Dad, I will withhold the entire story of the year they lived with us. Let’s just say, it was not paradise in our dream house. It was hard. Mentally, Dad went downhill quickly, and Mom’s condition got worse physically.

Max was two and Kira was five – young kids at very demanding ages. Dave worked a very busy and stressful job. He worked long hours and some nights, it was just me until very late. There were times that the kids needed me, and Mom and Dad needed me. I remember standing in the middle of the hallway with the kids calling me, needing to be put to bed and Mom and Dad calling up from their apartment because dad couldn’t open a pill bottle, and I’d just broke down and cried. It was just too much.

Then there was my job. I loved the company I worked for, but I had a horrible boss who refused to understand the pressures I had at home. She was unmarried and didn’t have kids and she made my life hell every day.

And what about my relationship with God and my husband? Both of with were important to me but both took the back seat. How could I nurture these two important relationships when there was nothing left of myself at the end of the day?

I talked to my family doctor, and she diagnosed me with care-giver burnout (it’s a real thing!) and depression, and she started me on a course of treatment that included medication and therapy. I also took a leave of absence from work.

Still, despite all of this, Dave and I refused to investigate nursing homes for Mom and Dad. We kept trying to do what we felt was “the right thing.”

Without going into too many details, though those of you close to Mom and Dad know the story, Mom’s health took a sudden turn for the worse while both Dave and I were away and during the emergency hospital visit, the government stepped in and decided Mom and Dad couldn’t live together any more for safety reasons. They were both placed into separate nursing homes within one week of each other. The decision that we couldn’t make was made for us. Dave and I spent 6 months on the phone and finally got them into the same nursing home, though Dad had to be in the dementia ward.

I know some cultures look down upon placing elderly parents in nursing homes or care facilities. Thinking of my Sri Lankan family members, I know that all our elderly achchiammas and seeyas lived at home with their kids instead of living in nursing homes. And I have been told by many friends that they’d NEVER put their parents in homes – it’s either just not done in their cultures or they wouldn’t do that to their parents just on their personal principles alone. We were in that same boat. We had the same well-meaning intentions. But we could not make it work. We tried but we couldn’t do it. Dad’s Alzheimer’s was too severe. Mom’s physical disabilities were too severe.

I remember one family member telling me I should quit my job and take the money we would have spent on nursing homes and keep it as my income and just stay home and take care of Mom and Dad. I just about screamed. I could barely even care for my children who were smaller than me. How could I care for two elderly people, one who was physically bigger and stronger than me, and who had a disease that robbed him of his senses at times? Dad was a strong man who played professional soccer in Germany in his youth. When he was in the throes of a violent outburst, he didn’t know who I was and was twice his former physical strength. How could I care for him? Mom weighed more than I did. How could I attend to her hygiene needs? I’m a little woman. I may have an attitude and temper, but I wasn’t physically strong back then.

They call us the Sandwich Generation because we have young demanding kids on one side and older, aging parents on the other. I have always believed that to be a misnomer. The sandwich analogy is taking away from the magnitude of the pressure we feel. Instead, I propose that we rename us the Burrito Generation, because I think the pressure comes from all sides and not just two – kids on one side, parents on the other. Jobs on another side, marriages and friendships on yet another. And let’s not forget about our own needs – or does that not matter anymore?! (remember my self-care blog post from a previous week). And of course, for believers, our relationship with God, which somehow takes a backseat when things get busy, when it really should come first. We are completely wrapped up tight in the pressure and the stress of life – like a burrito.

Our story is still on-going. Even though Dad has passed away and mom is in a nursing home, Dave is still solely responsible for her needs the home doesn’t provide, and still often finds himself in the middle of the demands of his mom, his kids, his job and his wife.

Pass the hot sauce.

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Dad passed away in 2012. Between them, Mom and Dad lived in at least a dozen nursing homes. We have been very fortunate and all of the care homes they’ve stayed in have been amazing. The nurses and workers in them have been awesome. They’ve been gentle and kind in situations that would have tried my patience. We’ve been very blessed and I thank God every day for every doctor, nurse, worker, volunteer, cook, janitor, and esthetician who has ever had anything to do with Mom and Dad.

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