Let’s face it — many of us are smack dab in the middle of the “Sandwich Generation.”  Oh, sure, we’re better known as aging Baby Boomers, but our booming days are long past.  We’re in the Land of In-Between enjoying our newly emptied nests and . . . either filling them back up with aging parents or managing their care from a distance.   We often find ourselves utterly frustrated, burdened and feeling guilty because, after all, we are grown-ups and this was NOT supposed to happen — but “they’re our parents!”  We want to be DONE with the responsibility of taking care of someone else!  THIS WAS NOT PART OF THE PLAN!!  Or WAS it?

We Baby Boomers have new grandchildren.   We’re exploring activities and interests that were put on hold for 20 years while we raised our own kids.  We’re no longer sleep deprived from sitting up and pacing every Friday and Saturday night for our teenagers to return home (hopefully a few minutes beFORE curfew and sober!)  Exorbitant high school and college tuition payments are in the past and our nest eggs have been feathered quite nicely.  The embers in our marriages are smoldering with the same intensity as they were in the beginning, and generally, Life is good — but for the dog and Mom and Dad or just Mom or just Dad.

My 90-year-old mother’s advanced dementia and a fall in the middle of the night one year ago underscored her need for specialized placement, taking her out of my brother’s house into permanent skilled care.  Four months of required physical therapy for her broken vertebrae at a large skilled nursing facility saddened all of us.  We unaffectionately referred to it as “God’s Waiting Room.”  No one likes being stalled in a waiting room. Not the patients, not the families.  No one.   And being there for four months was excruciatingly depressing! As her therapy drew to an end, we focused on finding a place for Mom that we all liked and one that she would come to accept  . . . eventually, we hoped.

Three Oaks is perfect!  It houses 6 patients, all at least 90 years old with varying degrees of dementia,  in a 5-bedroom mid-century sprawling ranch-style house with 3 shifts of 3 full-time caregivers. Each resident has moved in with his or her own bedroom furniture, personalizing that special room in the house.   Paul’s son brought Paul’s grand piano!  It occupies a corner in the spacious living room, just to the right of a big, bay window!  All of the residents’ framed pictures line the mantle over the word-burning fireplace, just like family photos in many homes sit on end tables, bookshelves and other prominent spaces.   Cornelia’s china cabinet stands against a paneled wall in the family room.  Many of her favorite Lladro figurines stand guard over the days’ activities.  Madge’s mosts cherished memento is an 8″x 10″ framed photo of her with husband that she carries around lovingly clutching it against her heart — only NOW she thinks it’s a picture of her parents!

Visiting Mom in the early months following her move was nothing I looked forward to.  In fact, I dreaded it, but out of guilt and obligation, I forced myself to go.

“Ugh!” I thought, “I’d better go over there and sit for awhile!  Mom doesn’t even know who I am, but still, I’d better go!”

And she didn’t know who I was, nor does she now.  But a lot has changed since my early visits.  I have learned that there are two Lands of In-Between, just like there are two Dakotas, two Carolinas and two Americas!  My Land of In-Between is MUCH different than my mother’s.  Emotions as ominous as guilt, obligation, worry, responsibility, fear, resentment, anger and disappointment over past events and even some bitterness lurk in the dark shadows and corners of this Land.  They are the denizens of its haunted forests. Will, reason and intention govern the inhabitants.

Mom’s Land of In-Between is unrecognizably beautiful to those of us in MY Land.  There are no haunted forests.  Will, reason and intention have faded; confusion, vulnerability and a sort of innocence have emerged and taken a strong foothold.  There are no negative emotions — oh, don’t misunderstand!  There are MANY unintended outbursts of surliness, absolutely , but there is no intentional driving motivation of ill will or anger at all.  Mom, Cornelia, Jeanne, Madge, Paul and Mary Lou reside in their own private, individual worlds, but . . . they still interact with each other and with each other’s visitors.  Realizing the difference “languages” of the two Lands is  when the fun begins!

One day, hoping to break up the monotony of trying to make small talk with my mother, knowing that she can’t communicate clearly or rationally, I decided to bring my Springer Spaniel with me to The Oaks.  After all, Rusty might just prove to be an excellent therapy dog!

Our entrance that day was far from ordinary.  Rusty rushed through the front door, excited to be on a field trip, and even more excited to explore the inside of this new house he was in.  I leashed him and walked him from person to person so they could pet him.  After all introductions were made, Rusty laid at my feet while I sat on the couch next to my mother.

“What’s his name?” asked Cornelia.

“Rusty,” I answered.

“Dusty?” she asked, to confirm.

“No, RUSTY!” I answered a bit louder, realizing that all of them were most likely hearing impaired.

“Crusty?” asked a voice from another couch.

“No! RUSTY!” I said even louder still.

“Puss-ty!  What kind of name is that?” scolded Madge, “What a disgusting name!  I can’t believe anyone would name their dog Puss-ty!”

“You’re right!” I said, going along with her line of illogic, “Puss-ty IS a disgusting name!  What do you think I should call him?”

“How about Rusty?” she offered.

“PERFECT!” I exclaimed, “I’ll call him Rusty from now on!  How ’bout that?!”

And it was settled.  Rusty was now renamed “Rusty!”

Lunchtime is especially entertaining.  Mom, Paul, Madge and Cornelia each have their own place at the dining room table.  Jeanne and Mary Lou never sit with the others.  I’m not sure why, but then again, there are myriad things at Three Oaks that I don’t quite understand.  No one picks up a fork until Mom has led them in the Catholic version of Grace before meals.

“AHEM,” she begins, clearing her throat, a prayerful reverence overtaking her usual vacant demeanor.

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost,” she says, enunciating each word as if she were an ordained priest offering Sunday Mass, but pronouncing ‘Father’ like ‘FAAHH-thaaah’  “. . . Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive, FROM THY BOUNTY (which she strenuously emphasizes; why, I don’t know), through Christ, Our Lord, Amen.”

Before closing with a second Sign of the Cross, she peeks out at the others from her bowed head to confirm their participation.  When satisfied, she finishes . . .

“In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”

Ordinarily, no one would think much about this daily ritual; however, Paul only looks prayerful with head bowed and hands in his lap because he’s nodded off.  Cornelia folds her hands but never bows her head.  Instead, she looks at me, silently mouthing, “You’re so pretty!” during the entire prayer.  Madge, the only non-Catholic in the group, makes no attempt to bow her head OR fold her hands.  She picks up her fork, marches it around the perimeter of her plate as if it were a stainless steel soldier, then guides it through the air like an airplane, saying, “Look what I can do!” and then she winks at me, with a playful glimmer in her cloudy blue eyes!  Just as Mom ends Grace with the second Sign of the Cross, Madge stiffens like a Marine, stares straight ahead with her right hand to her forehead, makes a clicking sound, then salutes!

Conversation flows quite easily during lunch.  It seldom makes sense, but there is a constant exchange over what’s happening in everyone’s lives!  Madge visits her mother every afternoon.  It seems she’s been in some sort of horrific accident, resulting in either an amputated or broken right leg.  The extent of the injury just isn’t that clear to me yet.  Madge has unselfishly made herself available to take care of her mother every day, right after lunch!  One day, she even showed me a picture of her mother — the 8″ x 10″ photo of herself and her husband.

“See?” she explained, “There she is!”

“No way!  That’s your mother?” I exclaimed, “She looks JUST LIKE YOU!”

“Yes,” she confirmed, “that’s my mother!”

“My gosh!  You are her spitting image!  You are both SO beautiful!”

And with that, she smiled as she lovingly stroked the faces on the photo.

Madge knows she doesn’t have a car, so she relies on Gloria (one of the caregivers) for transportation.  God bless Gloria.  She walks Madge out the front door and down the driveway “to visit” Madge’s mother every afternoon following lunch.  Gloria may walk Madge down the driveway two or three times a day.  Patience and compassion are in abundance at The Oaks.

“It’s time to go see Mother!” Madge announces to Gloria after they’d just returned from one such visit.

“Oh, Madge!” explains Gloria, “Your Mom went to New York, remember?”

“Oh, yes! I DO remember!” agrees Madge, believing the deception.

“Yes, she went there for New Year’s.  She wanted to visit Time Square and go to a play on Broadway!  We’re supposed to pick her up at the airport later this afternoon!” Gloria continued, hoping for a respite in walking Madge down the driveway.

And it seemed to work.  As the visit continued, Gloria and I chatted about this and that.  I told her I was planning on going to the movie later that day.

“Oh!  Can I go too?” she asked.

“Um m m m m . . . well, I’d LOVE to have you come along, but . . . aren’t you supposed to go pick up Madge’s mom at LAX?” I joked.

“That’s right!” chimed in Madge, “Mother’s coming home today!”

With the mid-day meal eaten and cleared, my mother and I moved to the overstuffed couch in the family room.  Madge came with us, once again explaining that her mother’s leg had been badly injured and that she couldn’t wait to go help.  Only half-listening, my attention turned to Mary Lou, Paul and Jeanne whose attention was glued to the television.  The three of them sat in their usual places, throw blankets across their laps, raptly staring at the screen, hardly ever blinking . . . as if by blinking they’d miss the best part of the show.

“What are they watching so intently?” I asked James, another caregiver.

“Naked and Afraid on Discovery Channel.  It’s their favorite!” he answered, unaffected by how this sounded to a visitor such as I.

“WHAT!!!??” I exclaimed in utter shock and disbelief, “Naked and Afraid?  What in the world is THAT?”

From what I can tell, Naked and Afraid is a reality show testing the survival skills of two hippies, now in mid-Life, who’ve obviously dropped a few too many sugar cubes laced with acid.  The episode du jour spotlighted one such couple who had accepted a 21-day challenge in the rain forest of Guyana.  We at Three Oaks tuned in AFTER they’d arrived and set up camp at the river’s edge.  Why nakedness is mandatory escapes me; perhaps it intensifies the challenge.  Who knows?  Anyway . . . I, too, became mesmerized with the show.  I couldn’t beLIEVE the lunacy.

“Look at that guy!” I said to Gloria and James, “he’s SUCH a lazy bum!  He’s making his idiot girlfriend do EVERYTHING . . . and she’s so stupid, she’s actually DOING it!  He’s been trying to spear a stingray for 5 days now and the only thing he’s caught is a crab with a broken leg!  He even ate the whole thing without offering the girl even a tiny little crab’s leg!  And in the meantime, she’s up on the hill, covered head-to-toe with poison ivy, constructing a hut on higher ground for when the monsoons come!”

The three of us commented, criticized and chastised every move the social drop-outs made until something caught me off guard and hit me like a ton of bricks.

“Just look at the beautiful trees!” whispered Mary Lou, “Hummingbirds and lots of animals live in them!”

“<GASP!> They’re lovely,” added Cornelia.

“Uh huh,” agreed Paul.

And there it was — the clash between my rational world and the other Land of In-Between.  The three “sane” people were full of judgment and scorn; Mary Lou, Mom, Paul and the others were in awe over the beauty of the rain forest.  They didn’t even realize that the beatniks were stupid and naked.

What began as forced visits out of guilt and obligation have changed into hours of acceptance, appreciation, humor and most of all great love.  Those six dear, sweet people have brought home the fact that Life isn’t lived our way . . . it’s lived God’s way.