Plus ça change...

Change has overtaken us.  I’ve chosen these words carefully, to reflect the somewhat involuntary, if not exactly passive nature of the swirl of activity that has engulfed our family lately.  Within the course of a one week period, we have supported a loved one through a painfully emotional legal proceeding, visited an aging relative who had been rushed to the hospital amidst initial reports that she was “unresponsive,” and spoken several times with another aging relative who lives a significant distance away and has increasing physical and emotional needs that we find ourselves unable to adequately meet. 

We’ve purchased a seriously expensive machine for landscaping the yard, continued our efforts involving minor house renovations, and attended two lengthy events at our local high school, the latter being our daughter’s graduation ceremony (congratulations, Sarah!)  My truck has been in the shop – twice (the second time to replace a faulty part that had been installed the first time.) 

We are actively discussing how and when to “put down” our beloved but elderly dog, who has become incontinent.  She seems hardly ready to throw in the towel quite yet.  Yes, all this within the span of seven days.  Oh, and we still have our day jobs.  I could write several paragraphs on that topic, describing the breakneck pace of organizational changes and resulting fallout pertinent to my job alone.  But I won’t.

I do not want all this, but it’s unavoidable.  We are the poster children for the Sandwich Generation, juggling the (mostly emotional) demands of aging parents and the (mostly financial) demands of newly-minted adult children.  The treadmill just spins faster, both literally (referring to the one in our basement) and figuratively.  There are days – lots of them – when all I really want to do is jump off, do nothing, relax.  But seldom does that happen.  There just isn’t time.  The hammock beckons, but my butt is elsewhere, hustling, doing, checking off tasks on the to-do list.

Seth Godin semi-famously declared that “Fifty is the New Thirty.”  I don’t buy it.  I’d give my left nut to be thirty again.  Well, maybe not, but I’d think about it. 

In reality, I don’t envy the thirty year-olds of today.  They are victims of their position on the demographic continuum.  The leading edge of the Boomers (read: those much older than me!) who are of traditional retirement age are delaying retirement, essentially hogging jobs that should be freeing up to accommodate today’s up-and-comers.  A gazillion articles have been written, outlining the reasons for this (the real estate bubble, the market crash of ’08, sloppy handling of debt all around; Boomers treating their homes like piggy banks, tapping equity in the false belief that real estate values would only ever go up, and on, and on.) 

I would add only that there’s a certain chicken-and-egg aspect to this as well:  our own prospects for downsizing are hampered by the very real likelihood that our college-age offspring will turn out to be ‘Boomerangs” – themselves victims of the lousy {but improving!} economy, returning to the nest that is our home in the SUVs that we still own and insure.  Dad, my gas tank is empty again.  Ka-Ching.   

And so, we soldier on.  I’m painfully aware that much more change is coming our way, and soon.  The end of days is approaching for our parents who are in their 80s and 90s, and for our dog who can barely walk.  The world awaits the college grads that we hope, one day soon, to turn loose. 

We blinked, and somehow, now we’re here.  I wish I had paid more attention.  I wish I’d been more patient.  I wish I had said the things for which, even now, I can’t seem to find the words.  And I’m grateful for the few pillars in my life that have not changed.  They are my guideposts, without whom I’d be lost.