Sandwiched
It was a cold Sunday evening last month. My family and I had just returned home from going out to dinner to celebrate my son Jonathon’s 18th birthday. We were all in great spirits and about to enjoy his special donut cake from Rebellion Doughnuts, the heavenly new shop in Noblesville.
Then my phone rang. It was Mom.
“Where are my keys?” she asked. I frowned. I had found them earlier in the day still dangling from her door and had placed them on the side table near her recliner. I had also teased her about not wanting to join us for dinner that evening, but Jonathon had picked a sushi place and my mother won’t touch the stuff.
“They should be on the table right beside you, Mom.” I replied.
“Well, they’re not there anymore.” I was perplexed, but figured they were close by.
After asking if she had looked around, I told her I’d call the staff at her assisted living facility to have someone come to her apartment to help her find them. I was certain they’d locate them quickly. Thankfully someone picked up right away and a nice woman reassured me they’d help Mom.
So I went back to lighting the candles for Jonathon and we all sang “Happy Birthday.” I was amazed to realize that my son was truly becoming a man. As I finished up my Boston Cream donut and was devouring the last bits of chocolate, my phone rang again.
“So, I take it you found them?” I asked after seeing it was Mom.
“No … they couldn’t find the keys.” I asked Mom a bunch of questions, perplexed at how the keys could have disappeared – and also, I’m ashamed to say, getting a bit angry. I tried to tell her they’d show up and not to worry but she became quite agitated.
“Okay, fine, we’ll be there in 10 minutes,” I finally said, not hiding my irritation at having our special celebration interrupted.
My husband John offered to go with me and was a Godsend. He reminded me on the drive that Mom was only five minutes away and this was not a big deal. But I still fumed.
We got to her apartment and literally tore up her living room. I went through her kitchenette and bathroom as well and felt like I was losing my mind. How could her keys have vanished?
Then I heard the sound of her television in her bedroom. I walked in and found her keys right in front of it. I brought them to her.
Mom’s face fell.
“Oh, I’m so sorry to have bothered you,” she said, the embarrassment and sadness evident in her voice and on her face.
And my heart broke.
All at once I melted and felt tears brimming. I took a deep breath, then knelt before Mom and took her hands.
“It’s okay, Mom,” I gently replied. “And I’m sorry that I got so irritated. This only took 20 minutes and it really wasn’t a big deal. Besides, when we left, Jonathon and his best friend had moved on to play videos games upstairs! So it didn’t even matter that we were gone.” I told her that I loved her. We both smiled and hugged and thankfully, all was soon right with the world.
This incident bothered me for the next couple of days, however. Like many folks, I’m not the best at forgiving myself. But, I’m human. Being in the sandwich generation is tough. And, like others in it, I may slip again.
All we can do is step back and try to see things from their side. And never be afraid to shower your family members with love and offer a sincere apology.