Sandwich Generation

What it is and why the Sandwich Generation should join the F***-It Club

Try as you may, there are some things you can never prepare for. I thought I was ready for parenting, how laughable it all seems now. Also there has been a blow in my life that I never even saw coming, that of the massive and sudden decline of my parents health and a switch in roles in our relationship. My parents' GP called me "Sandwich Generation": when, at the point of seeing your kids off to school and getting a semblance of your old life back, you are called upon to help elderly or long-term infirm parents. I was offered support initially, but being in denial, I didn't take up the offer. As time has passed, my outlook has changed.

New parents will know that childrearing is the toughest job you'll ever do. You can try and prepare, but can't actually know what its like until you're there, weak, sleep deprived, with a raw, scoured complexion and a joyous, crazily beautiful bundle in your arms and sheer euphoria in your heart. Even before becoming pregnant I was smug in the knowledge that I'd done my homework, read the books, was armed with facts I'd sought out myself and facts that had been thrust upon me by friends and colleagues. All would be well, after all, I'd been a kid myself, right? Oh sweet ignorance. I'm glad I anticipated an abrupt change in the pace of my life and so, during the months before becoming pregnant, I dove headlong into work and play, burning the candle at both ends, and in the process, experiencing the time of my life.

So yes parenting is tough and your life changes forever, but one of the things I hadn't counted on was the worry. The ever-present, all consuming worry that even after the colics, gripes and rashes of infancy are over, it never, ever wears off......ever. Have I packed them off warmly enough? Will they overheat? Do they need sunblock? Are they Vitamin D deficient? Should I be enrolling them into fencing classes? Will it scar them for life if I don't... Oh FFS.

Just as I began to relax and get ready to head back to an existence that would cater for myself as well as the kids, there came the diagnosis of my father's Alzheimer's. This was an unexpected blow which I'm still reeling from even 18 months after diagnosis. (...Ah, his memory was not conveniently selective after all, and the times his rudeness to others had made me wish the earth would open up and swallow me... the penny dropped). At the same time, the arthritis my mother has suffered since she was a teenager flared up, perhaps aggravated by the toll of living with my father's illness as well as her own. Its not easy watching the decline, it is in fact hellish, and its not right to see your nearest, who have always been strong for you, become so weak and needy. And then you realise that you will lose one parent not once, but twice. So for a long time, rather than face this inevitability I chose to ignore the fact that it was happening at all.

Coming to terms with being a carer has been a long journey for me, a virtually vertical learning curve comparable in fact to becoming a parent for the first time. As I've mentioned denial is the first stage you go through, followed hot on the heels by a long period of blind anger (at my folks for letting me down *sigh*), then guilt for feeling so angry, and finally, well, resignation and acceptance because there's nowhere else to go.

I've taken as much help from the wonderful NHS as I can, but even so, time is never my own and sometimes I feel like I have four children rather than two. I am thankful to be a homeworker, fitting family commitments around deadlines and I often work into the night as my working day gets bitten into by dealing with the people that make my parents lives tick. And then there's the time spent on kid worries and the busy activity timetable that means chauffeuring the kids to clubs and fencing (not really.... but I'm still considering...).

Easy it ain't. Your goals get put aside and you feel like your life has been hijacked. But if you find you're in a similar situation, specially with ailing folks, the best advice I can give is take all the help and respite you can get, but most of all, try not to get too angry for too long. Push through it. If you do need to let off steam now and again, find an understanding mate who will allow you the occasional rant, and then move on. If you absolutely have to be angry at something, be angry at the diseases, not the poor souls who are suffering them. After all, the alternative is much worse. So count your blessings and cling on to what you have for as long as you can, cherish your loved ones, and even though its hard, enjoy this time as it won't be with you always. One day you may look back on this period and miss it, for one way or another, all things must pass.

Life is both long and short and whichever way you look at it you must minimise the bad and make the most of the good. One of the best things I've done to get me through is to become a fully paid up member of, what my girlfriends and I have labelled "The Free-Falling F***-it Club". I suppose it's the guilt free club you join that lets you to do stuff you haven't done for a while or maybe have never done at all. Its about allowing yourself to be totally carefree for a moment, it can be as simple as a night at the flicks or a little more hedonistic, like blowing the expense, getting a sitter in and going out dancing till dawn. Or getting a naughty tatt' on your arse. Singing Karaoke passionately at the top of your voice. Joining Twitter. Being creative - going totally nuts, and writing a blog about your life.

Twitter, Proust & Eoin Macken

Why I tweet, why it's taken this long, pit falls and cyber crushes

I've always thought of myself as a pretty self-sufficient individual, maybe it comes from being an only child and having grown up a mile outside of the arse end of nowhere.  I don't use FaceBook to keep in touch with far flung friends and family, nor do I need to broadcast pictorial moments of my life to the crazies on a stalking binge or trolling high.  I communicate with folks I care about via email and Skype, and sometimes actually meet up with them face to face - you know the concept, sharing a meal, going to the pub and such.  I think of myself as a bit of an analogue girl in a digital world.  I'm not a technophobe, but I do hate the thought of the likes of Google owning me.  Its a Big Brother complex.

So given this, why, once the boat has departed and many have already jumped ship, have I given Twitter another shot?  Well I blame Proust and Eoin Macken.....Let me explain.

Being 'Sandwhich Generation' (see other blogs) I'm 'caught' between looking after young children and often having to drop everything to care for infirm parents.  So work from home is my best, and frankly, only option, and I'm immensely grateful to have found a niche in the sound editing of audio books.  I can fit my life around the deadlines, often working into the night when I have to.  But it is a solitary occupation, requiring absolute concentration, a world away from my past jobs in media, where I kept a dozen balls in the air to the soundtrack of raucous, innuendo-laden team banter.  Right now I really miss that banter.

Proust's 'masterpiece'  "A la Recherche du Temps Perdus"  is the tome I'm presently working on.  I've tried to like it, to find something redeeming in the despicable characters or some profound social comment on humanity, but I'm afraid it all eludes me.  Perhaps there is something lost in translation? After all, compared to the French above, "In Search Of Lost Time" sounds more like an episode of Dr Who...  Proust is new to me and I dearly wish I could promote him, but I have to say - please don't bother. Read Camus, Flaubert, or my favourite - Le Grands Meulnes by Alain-Fournier.  You see I've suffered Proust for six weeks now, so you don't have to.  God is not in the minute detail here, and as you can tell, Proust is killing me.  Really, truly, he is.

For the first time in my working life, I've found I have to get up and get away from the screen and actually switch off in case I throw something, or fall asleep.  I can't take a much missed fag break as I gave up the Gaulois along with Sartre and black polo-necks.  So having exhausted my music lists, and without wanting to be drawn into lengthy chats with mates, how do I survive this arse/brain numbing ordeal?

Somewhere during the 50 page description of Albertine's white cotton and lace blouse, (but never, ever, what lay beneath - oh, come ON, get it ON...) I revisited my old Twitter page.  The one I had found so strangely alien a couple of years ago when I was too cyberphobic to continue with it.

There were my old mates Stephen Fry (@stephenfry) and Russell Brand (@rustyrockets).  Rusty was mute, presumably testing out his newly released rocket on a couple of floozies, and with nothing to promote, he wasn't even asking his mum to send condoms.  Mr Fry was doing marvellously darling.  What a guy, really, I love him but I won't go into it, as we all know he is consummate in everything he does (how come the busiest people find the most time?).  There was brainy Brian Cox and his-ever-so-much-more interesting tweeter wife @giagia, who I WANT TO BE.  Not because of her husband - oh no.  She's just my type of girl, brainy, sassy, with an amazing ability to squeeze a baby anecdote into 140 characters that will leave you cheering with delight.  She ails a bit poor love and tweets about it. But I forgive her all this and sympathise. Check her out.

And that was just about it.  So with a conviction not to check out mates and old boyfriends, I started to search for people I liked, and there were plenty to choose from.  I picked a few prominent folk and sat back and watched in bite sized, work friendly chunks.  I chose Ed Sheeran, as my former music breaks had allowed me to discover his genius, but I ruthlessly fired him shortly after because, as it is, there's enough Lego talk in my house thank you.   Unfollowing people seems a bit dispassionate, but my break-time is precious, and if you don't amuse, I'm afraid you're out mate.  I love comedy and Bill Bailey and Eddie Izzard are firm favourites from my first twitter attempts.  Bill has a healthy sense of the absurd with a passion for conservation, and Eddie isn't really funny on twitter, but I like his politics and the pretty pictures he takes on his runs.  I tried tweeting all of the above and more at some point or other, but everything fell on stony ground.  I also shouted out my frustrations over Proust which only succeeded in making me feel properly mad.  I was sending out a shout, and with no followers, it felt like I was talking to myself.

Could I survive without followers, someone to make me feel less crazy? I tweeted an old mate in the film industry who was signed on, and as film is a passion of mine and as she's really busy, I thought she might be just the candidate for my longed for quick virtual water cooler moments.  I tweeted @InsomniaFilms and waited.

In the meantime, after watching an episode of much loved - best family viewing ever - Merlin on iPlayer, I searched for the cast.  No sign of activity from the leads, but there were three of the knights of Camelot - probably two too many knights to handle... even for me.  I like the look of Eoin Macken, the charismatic Irish actor who plays Sir Gwaine with a smirk and a swagger, and I randomly (almost) clicked his follow button (@eoincmacken). Little did I know that within his timeline lay an epiphany in the ether, my conversion and perhaps indeed, my downfall.

Right then.  Lets go - I tweeted a succession of Merlin-based tweets in a row that would amuse no one but myself and the result was, unsurprisingly, nada.  I got on with my life.  Over a baked spud I saw Macken had tweeted a message to check out a mate's trailer for a short film.  Fab.  I've always loved film and used to work in the industry, perhaps Twitter would satiate my thirst in the quest for perfect film making.  Good man.

I clicked the link and stopped chewing my lunch as I watched a stunningly shot teaser for a WW1 short called "Coward". Bingo!  Oh, I love that trailer and an image of a simple chair in the snow is achingly poignant and beautiful, with a ethereal, evocative soundtrack. I had to write, but failed miserably in squeezing my thoughts into 140 characters. So I tweeted twice and clicked @droddham 's follow button, pleased at finding someone immensely talented to follow.  Later that evening I was rewarded with a response from him - Blimey. I politely asked for a follow, as I was new and felt mad, and he kindly reciprocated.

My mate Emma got back to say hi and and let me know about the radio play "Jailbird Lover" she'd directed for Radio 4.  I listened to it on iplayer on a Sunday morning.  It was warm and funny with a great ending - perfect lay-in material, so I tweeted her to let her know how much I'd enjoyed it, she then retweeted to her followers and I promptly got another follower in the name of the play-write Craig Hawes. @CRHawes1 has turned out to be a fabulous, favourite tweeter making hysterical, informative and irreverent appearances on my timeline.

Watching Eoin Macken's timeline one evening I saw he'd responded to someone's question as to how to do something within a film editing package.  It was a long string of tweets full of technical phrases.  I thought it impressive and also touching that he'd taken the trouble to help - I really warmed to him.  I've always found computer talk funny and innuendo ridden, so I tweeted "Oh sweet Lord no, I've just seen Eoin Macken's tech talk. I'm done for.. #cybercrush", then I went to bed.  In the morning I'd received a mention from him containing some tech talk innuendo that made me laugh aloud.  I loved that this guy actually read his many hundreds of mentions and that he bothered to respond so cheekily and amusingly.   I told him to go wash his mouth out, and chanced my arm for a follow.  Oh dear.  This was good fun.  I felt myself beginning to be won round.  Would I be waving my deadlines goodbye?

In between Proust banging on about cups of tea and biscuits I researched Macken.  I  visited his website I found a post that, well, knocked the stuffing right out of me.  He'd posted a tender, heartfelt poem written about his father at the time of his passing, and he'd left it there for all to see - peers, his fans, everyone.  I'm immensely private, hence the pseudonym, and was more than slightly awestruck by this public show of love and grief. Some of the comments made by others on this piece were equally as heartfelt and moved me just as much.  I don't know if it's because I've been living in fear of losing two of the closest members of my family to different but equally cruel diseases, anyhow, all the words on that page struck a massive cord with me.  The display of emotional guts and the mutual support shown there helped me with my own fears and silently, strangely, shifted my perception of blogging and social networking.

Just a few days ago, having been given some great news about a loved one's health, I felt a weight lifted from my shoulders and a mist from my eyes.  In my massive euphoria and inspired by the writing of Macken and others, I've began to write myself - not for catharsis as I have done in the past, but for pleasure.   I've always worked in art and media fields, always being the organiser and fixer, but never the creator.  I wondered if I could ever be brave enough to pin something up, as it were, something of my own making?

As the paper tower that is Proust's script slowly diminishes and I see light at the end of the tunnel, I again wonder if I will actually be able to post a blog, or in fact keep this twitter thing going.  What initially felt like rummaging through someone else's knicker drawer and shouting in the darkness, has evolved and became not just a lifeline during my Proust ordeal, but also a pleasure.

I received a great boost when Mr M retweeted a Proust related comment of mine to some 10K followers.  It was thrilling, and I felt that there was someone out there who had actually heard of the navel-gazing author and understood my pain.  Then, having thanked him, he only went and quoted favourite comedian Bill Bailey's take on Proust at me!!   "so what's this Proust book about then?"(sic) "well this bloke wakes up, walks around a bit & imagines he's a biscuit...for 3000pages". Damn it!  I don't care if I never get a mention from him again, he has to spread the love - but there'll always be a corner of my heart that is Macken's.

And for how long will Eoin lead this twitter fest?  In the future will he have the time or inclination, or indeed like other well-knowns, will he become overwhelmed by sheer numbers? After all, his following is ever-growing and I imagine, becoming less manageable.  He is a shiny new star in the making, set I believe to hit the stratosphere by whichever route he chooses to take.  For now he is chucking out whimsical thoughts, or starting hashtags which get devoured, digested and spat right back at him in a hundred different colourful ways.

I have to say that if I gave up this ethereal pocket cyber planet, as well as the Frys, Hawes, Gias and Mackens of the ecosystem, I would miss the contributors to EM's timeline who have proved a perpetual source of amusement and hilarity in my mini breaks. These  predominantly female followers from all points, all ages and backgrounds, are highly articulate, funny and creative and have made me laugh aloud every day since I discovered them.  I'm jealous of their abilities and they hardly seem to suffer the terrible "Twitter Tourette's" that I do, which I put down to the bad influence of former smutty-minded colleagues.  That's my excuse anyway.

Well after a month of being connected, Twitter may not have proven quite the virtual water cooler I had imagined or hoped for, but that's a very good thing.  It has in fact given me an awful lot more.

So, post Proust, will I stay or will I go.......?   I say "Bring on Ulysses!"

For a parting is, by jealousy rendered cruel, but, by gratitude, impossible.                          Marcel Proust

You can check  out  any time you like, but you can never leave.                                             (The) Eagles

PS: I reinstated Sheeran, I missed the chappy.....