This past week, I was thinking about sandwiches. Not the kind you eat, although come to think of it, sandwiches are one of my favorite foods. Grilled cheese + a glass of chocolate milk is my ultimate comfort food (though I've yet to perfect making a great one at home). And a greasy pastrami + a cold beer? Heaven.
No, this week, I was thinking about being part of the sandwich generation: that group of people caring for their own children, and for their aging parents, too. My sister and I have become card-carrying members of that generation, as lately we've been talking about and helping my mom with some recent health issues.
Thankfully, its not even a health crisis that she's having, but since my mom has a severe phobia of anything remotely medical, the mere fact that she's had to visit a few different doctors over the last month has suddenly brought the issue of her age and her need for support to the forefront.
I spent two nights at her house last week, so that I could drive and help her through an out-patient procedure. A very, very common procedure for people of a certain age. In fact, her ophthalmologist says that everyone will require this procedure at a certain point. That should clue you in. To come out and say the words would make my mom deeply offended.
Yeah. So that's the kind of fun I've been up to: navigating the touchy areas of aging, denial, anger, vanity, pride. It's a big, heavy stew. I'm not that fond of stew.
I like sandwiches.
Perhaps the best sandwich I ever ate was a muffeletta, a famous New Orleans concoction. I ate it at the counter at City Grocery, the famous home of muffalettas in the French Quarter, on my one and only trip to wonderful New Orleans. You need to like salty, briny olives to like this sandwich, as olive salad is the major ingredient, along with lovely layers of salami, meats and cheeses. Mmmmm.
So there you have it. Sandwiches. (It took me forever to compose this, since I ran smack into the issue of Pinterest's new image embedding format. What a pain, and a rather ugly result, to boot.)
All I know is that I'm hungry now, and cranky too! Better go get some lunch.
Linking up with Lisa Leonard for Hello, Mondays.
When my maternal grandmother began having health problems in 1998, my mom flew out to Ohio to help her navigate Medicaid and finding a doctor, as she didn't have one. At the appointment, the new doctor asked her when the last time she had been to a doctor was, and my grandmother answered "1950". For real.
ReplyDeleteIts not easy--I wish you patience in dealing with it. :-)
Her answer would be a few decades later, but this is *exactly* the same scenario for my mom. Thanks for the good wishes -- I need 'em!
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