House Broken tells the story of Geneva, a veterinarian, who reluctantly allows her alcoholic mother to recuperate in her home and uses the opportunity to delve into family secrets. It's told from three points-of-view: Geneva's, her mother's and Geneva's 16-year-old daughter.
I began to think of dementia as a Grinch -- descending upon our family, dimming the lights, stealing our baked goods, and taking away my mother's ability to give, which is really all she ever wanted to do.
Boomers are the 'sandwich generation,' often caught between being caregivers to both our parents as well as to our children. We are in a perilous situation with no clear relief in sight.
I belong to what I am officially dubbing the Technology Sandwich Generation, which started when the first parents called upon their teenagers to help them program their new-fangled VCRs, and which will rear its head every time those teenagers grow up to have families of their own.
For the U.S. to remain competitive as a global economic leader, American business leaders need to recognize and respond to the caregiving needs of all our working families - not just the ones with young children.
The point of my visit is to give him a sense of family, to help him connect and feel less alone, yet from the moment I walk in, I'm guarded. Pleasant, but not warm. Interested, but not caring.
You have them right in front of you. Savor them. When you know someone you love has cancer, you are on notice. Fight hard to take advantage of each moment spent together.
Who cares for the sandwich generation? In many cases, no one cares for this group of caregivers, who usually has the added burden of working a full-time job. Additionally, this group often has to juggle an unexpected hospitalization of their loved one with their career obligations.
They call it sandwich generation stress for a reason - people in their 40s and 50s caught between raising their kids and caring for their aging parent...
I open the door to step back into the room, and he is already asleep again. Sitting in the chair by his bed. The effort to get dressed and move to the chair was too much. He is spent. His lungs are filled with fluid, and he no longer has the physical strength to cough it up. They are giving him medicine designed to help, and he tries, but he just can't get it out anymore.
If you haven't already, now's the time to help your child start to learn how to budget and manage their money. It doesn't matter how much or how little you have; teaching them how to live within their means is an invaluable skill.
My bliss is different from my mom's. I don't have a bucket list and I don't have a manic need to rush out and make grand plans. What does feel compelling and urgent is that I embrace what is, that I don't worry so much, that I stay present and grateful.
I arrive to find my mother in a state of high anxiety. My parents' home sold within weeks of listing it on the market and they are completely unprepared. My mother is intent on getting rid of everything she owns; if I'd shown up any later, my parents might be sleeping on Tatami mats.
There may very well be 31 years worth of flavors in ice cream land -- Jamaican Me Crazy, anyone? -- but, to ward off diabetes, lactose intolerance, and clichéd husband jokes, here's just a taste.
There's this hopeful part of me that imagines her embracing her new exercise routine, doing more and more laps each day, getting so strong that she's even able to cast her walker aside in favor of a cane.
As I drove along the highway, I noticed it was what my mom likes to call, 'A blue, white and green day.' That epitomizes Florida to her. Vibrant blue sky. White puffy clouds. Luscious green foliage. My dad had spent nearly 12 years here living out his retirement dream. Until the hell that is dementia entered our lives.