I am the volunteer treasurer in my Temple, an amazing community where, as in many such cases, much is asked of the lay leaders.   This particular time for our institution has been one of transition and rapid growth, which are two things not often written about synagogues in a country that is less than 3% Jewish. It’s challenging, fulfilling in a way that no job could be, and an opportunity to collaborate with some brilliant and very inspiring people.

It also has been at times like a part-time job, which since I have a full-time job and the Sandwich Generation dad responsibilities, is one part-time job too many. During the school year, there is a 50/50 chance I’ll be at the Temple on a Tuesday night.

Recently I was sitting my Temple president over breakfast.  We have become close and candid with each other over 2+ years of working together closely.  This scones session was no exception. I had recently told her that I was thinking of moving on from my volunteer role after 3 years instead of the maximum 4. She found this puzzling. So specifically, she wanted to know why I wasn’t planning to stay in my role for the maximum timeframe if I found the work fulfilling.

I had to stop and think about that one.  It’s an great question.  Here’s what I came up with: it’s the juggling.

I signed up for this wonderful and demanding role in the spring of 2013, which is before my father came into my life as he is now. My job was different – I traveled more, but the hours were less intense and my commute nearly non-existent. And my kids were 9, meaning that they had many years to go before slipping into adolescence and needing a different level of emotional energy. So yes, I am busier now.

But it isn’t being busy that is the issue.

On any given day, I have the Sandwich Generation father problem of switching contexts dozens of times or holding both in my head simultaneously. I am at work in the morning heading into a meeting when the associate director in change of my father’s community head calls me and asks me to call her back quickly.   I am sitting in the evening with my daughter who is freaking about her homework and someone from the Temple calls and emails me in rapid succession about a meeting held earlier in the day that I didn’t attend because of course, it was scheduled during my workday. I am with my father on the weekend checking my watch, always checking my watch, because pretty soon I have to leave to pick up my kids’ carpool. I am in the car on the way to get them, and my company’s attorney calls to discuss an engagement letter. I am with my wife in bed late at night watching TV trying to stop my mind racing so that maybe I can sleep through the night.

I thought hard recently on when I’ve been happiest in my life, which is a great falling asleep trick that’s come in handy recently. I decided that it was not when I was laziest, although that’s wonderful too. It’s when I’ve had fewer things to handle, not more, and felt like I could invest more and focus on each.

Maybe one of my most fulfilling weeks was when I moved my father into rehab from Princeton Medical Center after he beat C-Diff the first time, and I dropped everything else except for talking to my family. Or when I went to Israel for work this past February after a juggling-filled and snowy week and had mornings to myself to swim, run, read, write, or have a cup of coffee. Or when I used to be a lifeguard in my sophomore year in college and I’d lose myself in the task of getting the floor of the pool cleaned on sunny warm April mornings. It’s the losing myself that does it.

The next few years have a unique urgency to them because my kids are almost gone and my father isn’t going to get stronger. I have found a work niche that is strangely and uniquely suited to me, and because of the Israel connection, has an emotional hook as well. I am learning more and more from watching friends that staying happily married requires investment. These things are the constants in my life, so anything else is juggling. Sandwich Generation or not, juggling is hard.

And by some small miracle, these are also the things I would want to lose myself in.

Sometimes as a Sandwich Generation father, you find yourself in the hospital not with your parent – and right now, my father is as healthy as he’s ever been – but with your daughter. Such was my situation a few Thursdays ago. It turns out that when performing a gymnastics trick called a round-off back handspring, there is a penalty for not landing it correctly: a right hand that is swollen, black and blue, and probably broken. With that, you also win the right to visit the Newton-Wellesley Hospital radiology waiting room with your parent on a Thursday morning.   Or so Sophie found out.

After so many trips with my father, it was particularly strange to be in a hospital with my daughter. The last 2 times I’d been bathed in that very particular neon light with the corresponding low air conditioning hum, I’d been with my father at Mass General for his treatment for C-Diff and in Framingham when he had hip pain so powerful that he couldn’t stand or walk. But that more than a year ago, an eternity when your father is pushing 91.  It is a small miracle that this isn’t a more familiar experience for me. I suppose in time it might be.

Most radiology waiting rooms are filled not with parents who brought their daughters, but more often daughters who brought one of their elderly parents.  That’s just the target market. When you sign in, you fill out the “Did you just have a fall?” card that warns you of the possible problems a spill might cause. They don’t have one for round-off back handsprings. (By the way, the possible side effects are not the hospital’s fault – they want to make sure you know that).

And 11 year-olds in hospital waiting rooms behave differently than their 90 year-old grandfathers. They ask a lot of questions because to them, hospitals are new. Why do we have to register first? How long do you think we’ll have to wait in this waiting room? They bemoan events they are missing, especially on a school day. They exude restless energy and fidget. By contrast, my father does a lot of staring and sitting still.

They also require more entertaining. We ran through the pictures on the wall of every doctor in the department and decided based on their headshot whether they liked their jobs or not. I ran through a long riff on what the likelihood was that they would have to amputate her arm. She laughed and told me it was ridiculous. I responded that it might be, but how amazing would it be if I was right? She laughed again and went back to asking questions about why we were in a second waiting room.

It was in that second waiting room that I noticed the biggest consistency, which is what a difference a friendly doctor makes. Both Sophie and my dad were anxious in that situation, Sophie because she is anxious by nature and my father because he is convinced that it was the hospital that killed my mother, and his world-class survival instinct puts him in high alert. Sometimes I can disarm him, sometimes I can’t. The radiologist totally disarmed Sophie, took her x-rays almost sweetly, and then took her into the back hallway to let her see the results. Sophie had never seen an x-ray before. “That’s so cool,” she said.   My father doesn’t say that anymore. There the similarities end.

And then there’s this note for Sandwich Generation dads out there: when you take your daughter to the hospital, it is a special bonding experience in a totally different way than caring for your elderly parent. So when it happened to me, I commemorated it with a milkshake, just like my mother used to commemorate my broken bones with a slice of pizza.

When I got to Duke in the fall of 1987 (do the math… that makes me 45 years old), I quickly discovered the combined lures of beer, pizza, unlimited snacking, and industrial quantities of industrial college food.  The result was the predictable “Freshman 15″, where I suddenly became more of a man, so to speak, than I had been before.  About 10% more.  Since I hadn’t started as a world-class athlete to begin with, this turned my 5’6” frame a little doughy.  I went through bouts of being more careful, but my roommates and I were well-stocked on Papa John’s coupons and you could go to “kegs” pretty much every night of the week.  It took me until about halfway through my sophomore year to keep the wheels on the car in this department.

Fast forward to 2014 (still 45 years old) and my latest bouts with stress eating.

I am in way better shape than I was in college.  I need to be.  A nutritionist informed me three years ago that men over 40 lose roughly 1% of their muscle mass every year if they don’t build it back up.  This could be a total lie, of course.  I didn’t ask her for proof and for all I know, she said it purely for shock value.  And it worked.  Over the next year or so, I developed a weight routine to which I stuck religiously, and which I even started to enjoy.  The alarm would blare at 5:40, I would emerge from bed, and hit the espresso maker downstairs.  I had it on a timer so that it would warmed up and ready for me to take a long pull before leaving to lift, run or swim.  I felt great.

I still visit the gym or run semi-regularly.  Unfortunately, at age 45, “semi-regularly” means not enough.  And the “semi” crept in there, I recently realized, when my father moved up here.

I think when juggling a lot of responsibilities, the easiest ones to drop are the least urgent.  Working out rarely feels urgent.  So my five times per week/every week routine dropped back to four times per week/most weeks.  Close enough, I figured.  I got a little less careful eating; I am part-owner of a burgers and fries chain, after all.  There were enough stressful afternoons and evenings that I might have added a beer that might not otherwise have been in the mix.

This got worse when I started spending a lot more time both at and commuting to work.  Now the 4 times per week/most weeks dropped to 3 times per week/some weeks.  I’ve had some weeks that are better than others, and even after these, I’ve noticed that I’m not making much progress back to the level I achieved last year.  I also notice that the more stressful days at work lead to poorer sleep, which makes exercise impossible, which in turn leads to poorer sleep.

The last piece of this newly doughy puzzle is the sound of the ticking clock of my children growing older.  Now they are 11.  Chances are that I have limited months and years left that they still want to goof around with me in the morning.  The kind of love they have for me right now is mortal.  I can feel myself fighting back against time by wanting to extract every last ounce of this time in their lives when they still think I’m funny, when they still want me to know how much they love me, when they want me around even when they are sleepy and fumbling for their school books at 6:30am.

So, I don’t want to sacrifice that time to be in a windowless gym with a bunch of fellow middle-aged men who probably had the same fatalistic nutritionist who gave them the same advice.

The result has been predictable.  It’s the Sandwich 15 and it happens when you have too much to juggle and want to savor the last moments of your kids’ childhood innocence.

I would like to be able to report in-depth statistics on Sandwich Generation dads putting on weight.  I don’t have them.  Sandwich Generation dads are less well understood than, say, freshmen in college, probably because the 18-34 demographic has decades of purchasing power ahead of them and we have… well, less than that.  But it’s too bad.  In any case, I have found my Sandwich 15 and now I am into my sophomore year, so to speak, of being Sandwich Generation.  Now I just need to find a rhythm and routine that lets me repeat the results of my last sophomore year experience, and work it back off.

When my father first got sick last summer and ended up in the hospital, I debated even going to New Jersey to see him.  Part of this was driven by the naive belief that his condition wasn’t actually that serious — more on this later — and part of it from the memory of conversations  past that went something like this:

Me: “If you moved to Boston, it would be a lot easier for me if something went wrong.  In New Jersey there’s not much I can do since I live here.”
My father: “I know — but don’t worry, I’m doing fine right now.”
Me (considering): “That’s true until it won’t be, and then we have real problems.”

I found out he had fallen ill when we couldn’t locate him for 2 days.  We had called him on his birthday and he sounded discombobulated, distant, not all there.  Now I know that C Diff has dementia as a side effect.  That was on a Sunday.  By Tuesday, my brother was worried.  He had called an ambulance that Sunday night, it turns out, and was admitted to the hospital.  From his room’s old-school phone (Side note: why do even brand-new hospitals have terrible telecommununications?  Makes no sense.), he couldn’t figure out how to call long distance, couldn’t get help to call my brother or me, and hadn’t grabbed his cellphone on the way out of the house.

Finally he had called a neighbor, who got in touch with us.

I talked it through with my business partner, who had recently lost his father.  He kindly reminded me that although it was probably nothing, I should go see my father.  So I skipped out of work and called to let him know I was coming.  Two trains and a car ride later, I made it to Princeton Medical Center.

So I arrived to his room.  The first thing he said to me in a dry-throated hospital whisper was “what took you so long?”  I had almost forgotten how angry he could make at moments where I wanted to feel empathy, love, respect, admiration for my father, anything but anger.  And then before I could respond, he croaked out 2 more words: “Diet Coke”.

The doctors wouldn’t give him Diet Coke.  That’s odd, I thought.  Later that day when I was talking to one of the doctors, I understood why they were being so cautious.  This is when I discovered that C Diff is a deadly bacterial infection with a 50% survival rate in people that age.  My father’s intestines were so inflamed that his stomach had begun to swell.  The Vancomycin and Flagyl pumped intravenously into his system had slowed the spread of the infection, but couldn’t stop it.  It seemed, she told me, that surgery would likely be required to repair them.

There are a few moments in your life where you realize that some moments ago, everything changed, and you just didn’t know it yet.  When you find yourself unexpectedly in love with the woman who will become your wife and you flash back to the time you first met her and were oblivious to the enormity of what had just happened.  When your child repeats something about themselves you once said in anger and didn’t mean, and you don’t remember it, but they do and maybe always will.  The instant when a doctor tells you that your father is probably going to die, and even if he lives, you understand that he is now your responsibility.

That happened when he had gotten sick on Sunday.  Now it was Wednesday.

I did two things.  First, I called my brother and told him that he had to drop what he was doing and get on a plane, right now.  I didn’t know how much longer my father would be himself, and I didn’t want my brother to miss it.  And I convinced the doctor to let him have a Diet Coke.

I don’t know why I zeroed in on this, my first real act of being a caregiver.  My father is a creature of habits and Diet Coke was one that made things seem a little more normal.  I thought that could help him.  Maybe I wanted to see if I could convince the doctor as some sort of way of using my competitive nature to re-inject some normalcy into a situation that blindsided me.

It had one unintended effect, which was to convince my father that I could and would take care of him.  As signals went, I probably couldn’t have picked a more powerful one.

Since this blog is about being part of the Sandwich Generation and this happened 18 months ago, obviously he survived.  By now, Death should know better than to come for my father uninvited; he’ll probably decide when he’s ready and give Death the nod.  Within 60 days of this episode, we moved him to Massachusetts so that if something like this happened again, one of us would be nearby.

It worked.  9 months later he was back in the hospital.

I wrote an entry a few months ago called “Irony Alert”, so named because I had set up a Sandwich Generation support group only to miss the first meeting because I was with my father in the hospital.  He had awakened to find himself unable to move from bed and needed to be lifted out of the bed, wheeled in a gurney from the building, and taken by ambulance to Metrowest Medical Center.

I knew exactly what to do.  I grabbed his cellphone, his iPad, his headphones, an extra pair of pajamas.  And 3 Diet Cokes with plenty of straws.

I’ve since learned that I can’t control most of what happens with his health.  But what he drinks while he’s being poked and prodded by doctors?  There I am the master.  And he knows that.  Our relationship has never been the same since.  It was the moment, I know, that everything changed.

This past weekend, I had 48 hours in my own house without my wife and kids.  It’s true.  You’ve had this fantasy yourself, so I will let you take a minute to daydream before jumping into the next few paragraphs.

Ready?  OK, here goes.

One facet of middle age is all the facets.  You become a part of many other things, sort of an anti-20’s.  Then you are largely on your own with limitless options for what to do with your time.  You can be spontaneous.  Should you hit multiple parties on a Saturday night?  Binge watch a TV series?  Do a short volunteer stint?  Sleep in?  Make a last-minute decision for Friday night without having to plan ahead?  Finally catch up on that stack of bills with no one tapping you on the shoulder?   Sounds like the weekend I just had.  And it was spectacular.  While never having boundaries is its own kind of prison, shedding them is a release.

It was also a couple of days where I had space to step back from my Sandwich Generation self and ponder.  Pondering is luxurious.  I considered the weekend as an opportunity to be true to my actual self, whoever he is.  The best context I could dream up was an internal monologue about which communities I really want to be part of.  This is how I ended up at my synagogue on Sunday morning to fulfill a long-overdue volunteer obligation, and crashed an elementary school class party even though I’ve been elementary schooler free for 5 months.  Halfway through it, a friend texted me and demanded that I show up.  I’d had no plans to come — but absent the usual constraints, his was an invitation I was happy to accept.  Plus, I haven’t spontaneously hit a second party on a Saturday night since the Clinton administration.

I also lingered over a leisurely lunch with my father – at Legal’s of course – without really having to watch the time.  We sat a table with me on his left so that I could get at his better ear, and then he recounted his new TV watching regimen (warning: heavy on Fox News).  Some habits die hard though; after 60 minutes I forgot to avoid getting anxious about getting home.  This is the weekend I should have spent more time asking him the name of the woman whose picture he showed me.  “She likes me,” he told me.  I hope there’s a blog post coming about that one shortly.

Finally, I spent most of Sunday afternoon standing over the stove and various cutting boards, pre-cooking a lot of dinners for the week.  I had forgotten how relaxing and centering this is for me, even when I do it without a beer in my hand.  As I did this, and the clock ticked down to Nova and the kids coming back from their dance convention — by the way, this is a real thing — I considered that this is something I could do even with the various sandwich demands on my time.

And then the brief daydream was over.  The other night I was back to helping with late night homework, feeling guilty watching Nova juggle babysitters and weekend plans while I worked through plans for my next (disruptive) work trip to Israel, and skimmed past personal email again without answering it.  For the 3rd day in a row, I didn’t follow up as new tasks piled up on top of my list.

I wish I could say that the effects linger.  Somehow they don’t.  Like you, I am back to daydreaming about it.