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Photo by Andy |
I've always loved the ocean. The colours of the water, exploring rock pools, dipping my toes into cold waves, feeling the sand rush against my feet. A deep breath of fresh air and my eyes looking towards the horizon. Being near the ocean has always helped put life into perspective. The vastness of the ocean and surrounding environment can make me feel small. In a good way. A reminder of where I fit in the scheme of things.
From the year I was born, every summer was spent in a caravan at the beach until I was around 17. But in recent years I've been lucky to spend a few hours here and there ankle deep in sea water. Life has gotten complicated. My annual leave has been used for writing university assignments or 'staycationing' at home. Peter and I usually try to plan fun things like gallery visits or day trips. But a lot of the last eight years has also been spent visiting aging parents. Each of us are down to one parent - my Mum (just over an hour away) and Peter's Dad (four hours away), both in their mid 80s.
I guess we've begun to really feel the pinch of the 'sandwich generation'. Although this term usually refers to people stuck between caring for elderly parents and their own children, we're feeling sandwiched on both sides by our remaining parent. I love my Mum and have spent the time since Dad died in 2012 getting to know Mum as a person, rather than a parent. We talk about her childhood, her first husband (the great love of her life), being widowed at a young age with two small sons, and life with my Dad. These regular visits and conversations have been interrupted recently by my eldest brother. After having his third stroke, he lost his job and was unable to pay his rent. He's moved in with Mum in her retirement home in his mid-60s. This week I spent time visiting Mum to talk about the risk of having my brother as the sole executor of her will/power of attorney given his own precarious health. The stress of caring for my brother is impacting my Mum's wellbeing and although we're sympathetic to my brother's situation, we're worried about Mum's health more. He doesn't seem to see the weight that his situation is having on her. The reality is that if she dies, he'll be homeless. I went to talk to her about adding me to her legal documents as co-executor. It also feels like we're putting Mum in the position where she has to talk to my brother about sorting his life out. We're a family who hate confrontation, so this situation is all our worst nightmare. My brother is also really complicated to talk to, as he tends to blame everyone else for what has happened in his life. We're the opposite policially and socially so I struggle to know what to say to him any more.
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Photo by Andy |
After a successful chat with Mum, I spent the night alone in the local caravan park. It was sweltering, but there was the most glorious sunset. I walked along the beach, watching lighting burst through the colourful sky. My toes in the water. A smile on my face, enjoying the beauty of the beach as it goes to sleep for the day. The next morning I was packed early and ready to check out of my accomodation. Another hot day was forecast, so I decided to drive to a different beach. Along the Great Ocean Road there is a stretch of water where a friend and I saw dolphins when we were in our 20s. It's always felt special. As I drove there, I suddenly realised that I was having a moment entirely for myself. I wasn't obliged to visit anyone. I wasn't having to look after anything. I'd popped a CD on in my car which I hadn't heard in many years (Quasi - Featuring Birds). As drumbeats and organ swirled the lyrics made me laugh, most of which I remembered like it was yesterday. I looked at the ocean to my left and found a car park. I walked towards the water. It felt like wave-based mindfulness. I waded out further and a water crashed against my thighs, making my shorts wet. I laughed, and then someone's dog brought a tennis ball to me in the waves. It's owner, walking along the sand called the dog's name, but it only had eyes for the ball bobbing in the salty water. I picked the sodden ball up, throwing it and the dog charged happily in it's direction. The owner and I smiled at each other. Bliss. I then heard the distinctive squawk of black cockatoos flying overhead.
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Doggo with ball - photo by Andy |
I looked at my phone, as I wanted to take some photos. I noticed two missed called from Peter's Dad. My mindful moment was gone. The other side of the pressure sandwich is Peter's Dad. Since's Peter's Mum died eight years ago, he's been worried about his Dad living alone. Luckily he's had great neighbours, friends and a community around him. But his health began to decline and he started dialysis for kidney failure over five years ago. Peter tried everything to keep his Dad in his own home for as long as possible. But aged care support isn't easy to navigate, and some agencies corner the market in regional areas, even if they are understaffed and poorly run. His Dad's health became an emergency in 2022 when he was flown to Melbourne for surgery. We were told he might not survive, but after an anxious wait the surgery was over and within days he was transpported home. Peter dropped everything to go help. His Dad struggled and ended up back in the local hospital. Eventually home, he had another fall in less than 12 months. In early 2023 he went into hospital again for two months, as doctors tried to stablise his condition. We were advised that he couldn't return home as he was no longer able to walk or move unaided. He entered respite care within an aged care home. He spent another couple of months in there, while Peter navigated the complex (and completely fucked) world of aged care homes and Centrelink. Heaven fobid any elderly person should try and navigate this themselves. A financial advisor was called in and Peter was left with no choice but to sell his Dad's house. It sold quickly but this meant we had to clear 35 years of history, including much of his Mum's personal belongings which were largely untouched since her death. This took weeks of our annual leave, filling multiple skips, trips to op shops and the tip. Cleaning, vacuuming, dusting and scrubbing. We made the settlement deadline with 24 hours to spare.
Peter has managed his Dad's finances and run errands as much as he can from Melbourne. But as the kidney disease gets worse, his Dad's behaviour has become more erratic. There are now signs of anger, confusion and delirium. We get phone calls at weird hours, or multiple calls in a row, strange accusations or questions asked repeatedly. Even though we know it's another sign of his declining health, it's hard to deal with. All this triggers aspects of Peter's complex relationship with his Dad. He essentially feels like he's living his Dad's life and no longer has room for himself. He's exhausted and at his wits' end. He is overwhelmed and needs a break. I had to call Peter's Dad asking him to give Peter some space for a while, but his missed calls tell me he doesn't seem to have retained this information.
I looked back out to the ocean. Reminded of how the expance of water usually makes me feel better. But I was fretting about the missed calls. I realised that the beach has space, distance, perspective. Where we live in the inner burbs of Melbourne is medium/high density. Multistory apartment buildings are surrounding us, as more are planned and built. Views are being obscured and we can only see metres ahead. But the ocean is a reminder to look further. To see the distance, the long game, the horizon. And maybe that's the loss of not getting to take a real holiday in the last eight years. Our vision has changed as we've been forced to focus on the issues directly in front of us. There hasn't been any breathing space, to fill our lungs with fresh air, and gain perspective. The sad reality is that things will remain the same until his Dad dies. Sometimes, this is just how life is. Hard. Complicated. A struggle. But one day, we'll both stand by the ocean, with our eyes cast at the horizon and breath.
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Photos by Andy |
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