People my age (44, thanks for asking) commonly look for ways to have their parents do something that they are simply not wired to do.  Move out of their home of 30+ years.  Hand over the keys to the checkbook.  Give up driving.  Eat less salt.  Luckily, the Sandwiched Man has been through many of these and has the magic antidote to get your elderly parent to do all of the above, and then thank you for the privilege.

The answer is: it’s not possible.

Here’s what I mean.  My father lived in his split-level in Lawrenceville for more than 2 years after my mother died.  He drove to the supermarket, to CVS, to the library, occasionally to the train station to pick me up, and even up to Boston.  He was determined to mow his own lawn, manage his own medication, pay his own bills and deal with the house’s aches and pains on his own.  At first, he let me assume my mother’s prior role managing the checkbook.  This lasted until my brother and I decided that keeping the house clean was a priority worth spending money on occasionally.  Then he suddenly decided to change his checking account online password, and move all of his assets out of Fidelity (where I had parked them) and instead invest them with a broker at Wells Fargo.  He also decided that not speaking to me for 2 months would be a good idea.

Now, of course, I manage almost all of this and he moved to be near me.  How did this happen?

Gradually.

First, the money.  He noticed that his investment account didn’t pay enough interest.  He’d had experience with my approach and results (index funds, boring stuff) and realized perhaps that he’d made a mistake.  I suggested that if he wanted to move things back, I’d be happy to help, but no pressure.  So about 6 months later, he reversed course and let me back in.  He even told me his banking online password.

Next, moving.  It is amazing to me that he lasted as long in that house as he did, because the margin for error was zero.  Once he got sick, he absolutely could not manage being there anymore.  But I started the conversation way before then, and not by asking for a date by which he was going to move.  Instead, I asked him that when he moved, where would he like to go?  Massachusetts (me) or California (my brother)?  We needed to make plans, I told him.  Then he told me that he was not moving.  “I know,” I said.  “But someday you probably will.  Those are just the odds.  Think about where you’d rather be.”  Using that line of conversation is some of the best advice I ever got.

Six months later, on a drive back from Legal Seafoods during one of his aforementioned visits to Boston, he again mentioned that he did not want to move right away, and that things were fine.  “Sure,” I replied.  “Until you get sick with something that puts you in the hospital.  Then we have a whole world of problems because there’s no one near you, and neither Rob nor I can move down there.”  The next day at the kitchen table he told me that after thinking about it, he’d want to come to Boston, and probably within a year.  I paused.  “OK.  No rush.”

Then he got sick.  And immediately, he declared that it was time to sell the house and move.  It was definitely not ideal, but realistically, it was the best we could have done.  He simply was not going to budge earlier.

Preserving his dignity is paramount for my brother and me, and not just because some day we hope our children remember our example and do the same for us.  If he’s not bought in, it is simply not going to work, whatever it is.  If he doesn’t have the will to make it work, it’s not going to work.

(Parenthetically, we didn’t just how little margin for error he had until he lived in the house for 2 weeks between my breaking him out of rehab and my brother moving him up to Boston.  The roof was falling apart.  The air conditioning had been broken all summer and, it turns out, the summer before.  He could no longer open childproof pill bottles or punch his lifesaving antibiotics through the plastic.  Every time he scaled the stairs, we risked disaster.  Then once we moved all of the furniture, the extent of the carpet’s mildew infestation became evident.  It was a horror show.)

My point is that in the end he moved “suddenly”, but the buildup took time.  I had to lay a foundation.  That takes time, patience, persistence, a sense of humor, and a respect for the dignity of the proud human being you are dealing with and whose pride is going to come in handy for you someday.  Trust me on this.

Think of it this way:  most meteors cross half the universe before they shoot across the sky for a few seconds.  Your job as a caregiver (and a parent, really) is to keep it moving across the universe so that you are ready for when it hits the atmosphere.

I organized a great support group for some fellow members of my Temple also taking care of elderly parents.  But… then I couldn’t attend because I actually was in the hospital with my father.

He has some severe hip pain, and the good news is that nothing is broken.  Probably a pulled muscle.  We were trying to figure out where he was going to end up tonight (the hospital, it turned out) and going forward (hopefully back in his same community, which part is TBD).

And in true sandwich generation fashion, my kids’ swim team annual postseason ‘banquet’ was also tonight.

So, now I am really glad I enjoyed the smooth days when I did.  And to my fellow support group members who were there tonight… I was thinking about you.  Ironic, right?

If you are a caregiver, you have a person like this in your life too.  She means well and is a good person.  Probably loves her kids and has many redeeming qualities.  Connected to you by blood and the memory of many family events, some of which you even recall as not completely awkward and uncomfortable.  Someone who has come through for you in the past.

But not always – because this person can be counted on occasionally to give your loved one spectacularly bad advice.

In my case, this advice was related to taking medication.  Because apparently doctors are all trying to make money by prescribing antibiotics like Dificid, which is the pill that currently separates my father from the runaway symptoms of the stomach bacterial infection C Diff.  Also, once the symptoms are gone, you don’t need to take more pills.  After all, if I have a headache, and I take aspirin, and the headache goes away, I don’t take more aspirin, right?  I mean, clearly doctors are just trying to make money.  Everyone knows that.

My father relayed this advice that he’d heard to me and I went ballistic.  Sometimes I do this.  Generally my style of persuasion is finesse, not brute force.  As a sandwich generation person, I try not to go to the yelling mode with either my father or my kids, but sometimes there is no choice.  Plus, I was angry.  My father has a penchant for making his own medical decisions, most of which consist of trying to second-guess which prescriptions he should take that week.  I have worked really, really hard to talk him out of this habit and put the medication process on auto-pilot.  It has worked.  This is better for everyone.  And then now this

So I somewhat (but only somewhat) more gently pointed out that this infection had come back many times, that he should stick with the plan, and this relative should stick with what she really knows a lot about, whatever that is.  Etc.  Then he said, “Peterkem (Hungarian for ‘my Peter’, sort of a term of endearment), of course I am listening to you.”  Almost as if to say, “I know that this advice makes no sense.  I am not a dummy.”

Problem solved.  Until the next spectacularly bad advice floats over the transom.