THE SANDWICH GENERATION

I read somewhere recently that July was, among other things, designated Sandwich Generation Month by somebody to honor those who find themselves in the challenging position of providing significant support and care to both aging parents and their own children. The term was coined by Dorothy Miller in 1981 when it was becoming apparent that longer life spans, the economy, and other factors were combining to create a socioeconomic trend not previously observed. In the years since, some subtle refinements and nuance have been added. They now talk of the "Club Sandwich" in which some are now involved in care for their parents, their children, and also their grandchildren. For a smaller number of generally younger people, such care encompasses their children, parents, and grandparents. There is also the term "Open Face Sandwich" to refer to anyone involved in elder care.

All this thought of food has come to me over the past month as we have struggled with all the issues around Ingrid's mom, while also continuing to prepare for the last child's wedding coming up this fall. Compared to many, our situation has been mostly good. Both kids are out of school and on their own with good jobs and bright futures. There has been no "boomeranging" of kids having to come back into our home for various reasons.

My parents passed away more than 15 years ago with essentially no muss, no fuss. In both of their cases, the end came quickly; there were no long drawn-out downward spirals requiring nursing homes, multiple hospital visits, etc. Although my mom suffered some memory problems the last few years, Dad cared for her. Then she passed suddenly, asleep in her favorite chair after her morning walk. Dad was lonely, but still comparatively vibrant until his cataracts prevented him from getting out and around. There was some confusion about what his insurance would and would not do for him, and he basically wilted quickly thereafter. Upon his first visit to the hospital, I got a call saying it would not be long and that he wanted to go. It was at the time of our son's high school graduation celebration, and he implored me not to disrupt things and travel back there to sit in the hospital room; he had plenty of other relatives there to keep him company. There was no need to worry how anything was going to be paid for or who was going to do it. Really, very, very simple and straightforward; I now realize what a tremendous blessing and a curse that was. I now feel guilty to this day that I was not there at the end, even though I know, as he did, that it would have been pointless.

Unfortunately, we are not getting off scot-free. Ingrid's family has had way more than their fair share of physical and mental health issues over the years. Her father (Jim) passed away in 2003 after extensive battles over the last 45 years with everything from a burst aortic anuerism, bipolar illness, kidney failure, and an unusual vascular disease to blindness and loss of a leg due to diabetes complications. His last few years were tumultuous to say the least. Seemingly countless falls at home, trips to the ER, in and out of rehab, VA, and nursing facilities. Still, for all his challenges, he was basically gracious to the end; happy to have visitors, resigned to his fate, and ready to go on.

Now, it is Ingrid's mother's time. Brunehilde (or Omi as most in our family call her) was a German war bride. Her parents were pretty well off before WWII, and she was basically forced into a life of stark survival during the war. She remembers nearly drowning in a basement after an attack collapsed their home around them, and we still have a dented candelabra as a memento of that time. Her father was drawn into service as a Major in the Third Reich and had enough influence to get his family moved out to a small village (Waldaubach) to escape the Allied bombings.There were years of great shortages, nothing to eat but potatoes, questionable meat and cabbage, wondering how they would ever get through the next day. Then, the war was over; she was an attractive teenager, and there was this red-headed American Air Force guy (Jim) in town with access to chocolate.

They married and he brought her back to the States, which I gather entailed some culture shock. Jim's family situation was different from hers. Grandma had spent several years in a state hospital for depression, while Grandpa had sent all the kids to an orphanage because he felt he couldn't care for them. They lived on a small farm outside of Waxahachie, Texas. Jim was the oldest of seven kids. Life was hard, and Jim was still in the Air Force. There were several transfers around the country, winding up with a year away in icy Greenland. Brunehilde was with Jim's family in Texas when Ingrid was born.

Jim finally got out of the Air Force and worked as hard as he could at one job or another. Another daughter came along, and there were periodic trips back to Germany, as well as visiting relatives to their home in Dallas. In the 1960's, Jim's health began to decline, especially starting with a car wreck which he later described to me as a suicide attempt. He was always a little crippled up after that, and then the bipolar stuff set in with a vengeance. Brunehilde did everything she could, doing childcare in the home for a little extra money during those times Jim couldn't work. Jim's stint in the Air Force had qualified him for a range of VA benefits that, looking back, were really quite remarkable. There was some help from Germany, and finally Jim got started with a small paint contracting business that brought in enough. Fourteen years after the birth of their first child, Preston came along.

Brunehilde was always a major social butterfly, and every German in Dallas seemingly knew her. There were a lot of Germans in Dallas, and they often gathered at her home for kaffeklutches, parties to celebrate almost any occasion, or just in general to hang out. An inheritance from Germany paid for a nice backyard pool, and Jim loved to barbeque steaks while everyone splashed. I came along and joined the family at the height of the party.

Ingrid and I married, had our first child, and moved away from Dallas in another couple years. After that, things slowly began to slide over the next ten years as Jim's health worsened. Eventually, they sold their home and moved to be near us. It was a tough change for them. After several years of hospital visits and nursing home stays, Jim finally passed away. Brunehilde was pretty lost for awhile, as she had pretty much devoted much of the last 15 years to worrying about and caring for Jim. She made a couple of unfortunate financial decisions in refinancing their home, and eventually ran out of money. Again, the VA came through with a widow benefit program, and she was able to move into a small apartment in a retirement community where she had a couple pretty good years with some new friends playing bridge.

Last May, she had a stroke and things have been going seriously downhill ever since. She has always been a very proud German; very opinionated and, some might say, bombastic. The sudden onset of her illness hit her like a thunderbolt. She has never exercised or watched what she ate; butter, goose grease and liverwurst were mainstays of her diet. Also, as happens to many over the years, she began to drink a little too much, and more with each passing year. Now, she is too weak to roll over in bed by herself and has become incontinent. She is terribly scared about what may come next, embarrassed by her condition, and generally unwilling to try any physical therapy. She has quit eating and just wants out.

The family is all just exhausted. Since late May, she has been in the hospital four times, a rehab center, home for three days before developing blood clots, and is now back in another rehab place. We understand she has about three weeks left on what her Medicare will cover, then it may be on to a real nursing home where she may basically lie in bed until she passes. The cost of what lies ahead is unknown. We are struggling to figure out what all the options are and have been overwhelmed by the alphabet soup of programs and the differences between various facilities; some take this, but not that. Lengthy forms, Application Assistance Agencies that won't call you back, seemingly endless requirements for various forms of documentation that nobody can locate. We should have started six months ago, and now it seems she may die before anything gets processed.

One bright spot is the wedding plans for our daughter seem to be going well. My major involvement is the periodic writing of a check, and that's ok right now. I'm sure my opinions on what color the tablecloths should be would be unwelcome anyway. With regard to what kind of sandwich I feel like, I guess it is more open-faced than anything else, but it feels kind of like it may be upside-down in the dirt. It has really prompted me to get serious about getting some things done that I have been putting off. Man, this part of life is complicated!!

THE WALDO CANYON FIRE

As I begin to write this, the event is not yet over. Still, it seems I should begin to put down some thoughts on this historic, yet all too predictable occasion. You see, I have lived here for about 30 years, and have been subject to innumerable warnings about the “urban/wildland interface” or something like that. A good friend of mine (former fire chief) once had to live through a similar event in Oakland, CA. He came here after that experience, and readily recognized the potential for a repeat here. Alas, there is not really much one can do in the face of the human desire to live up on a mountainside with a pretty view of the city.

           
            It began quietly, as many big deals do. It was a warm Saturday. We had gone out to Falcon to do a little babysitting while our son and his wife went out to lunch and a movie. I had gone down to Culver’s to get some hamburgers, fries, ice cream and other forbidden treats for the kids. On the way back, I happened to look over to the west and noticed a small plume of smoke on the Front Range. It was small as these things go; just a little puff of white against the background of green foothills and clear, blue sky.

 In my career with Springs Utilities, we were used to such things on or near our watersheds. We even had a special unit of volunteers who trained and qualified to become wildland firefighters. Every year, we have a handful of occasions where there is a lightning strike, a thrown cigarette butt, a poorly tended campfire, etc. On every occasion, somebody gets it put out.  One big exception was the Hayman fire in 2002, but even that was so far away from the City that it may as well have been in Texas.

Somehow, this felt different. It had been a terribly dry winter and spring. Frankly, it felt a lot like 2001 and 2002. There had already been some terrible fires up by Ft. Collins and out by Lake George. We had spent the last few days worrying about Ingrid’s sister and husband up near Florissant. The “Springer Fire” had threatened them enough to require evacuation of the horse, and discussion of whether they would come stay with us. Little did we know, we would soon be talking about whether we could stay with them.

The Saturday afternoon progressed. We fiddled with the kids and kept one eye on the news. First they closed Highway 24, then they announced the evacuation of the southern part of Mountain Shadows, a subdivision on the west side of the city. Things kept sounding worse and we were glad when PJ and Kelly finally got home. Our thoughts were for our two pugs, who might be approaching their biological limits. We headed home, with a continual view of the growing cloud of smoke on the western horizon. There were a few flashes of orange here and there, accompanied by dark black plumes. Even then, it seemed like one of those things “they” should be able to control, yet somehow I knew in my gut that it was not one of those other occasions where everybody would get to feel good after a little bit of effort.

We checked the Channel 5 website on our iPhone while driving home. There was already a crazy warning about evacuation of a huge swath of the northwest side, just north of our home. We got home and turned on the news to find a rather panicky set of weekend reporters shrieking something about the need to evacuate “the ENTIRE west side of town”. Several different people repeated this several times, and it was clear they were not thinking about the meaning of their statements. This would involve some roughly 100,000 people and was plainly ridiculous at this stage of a fire. Another channel brought some calmer reporting and even an attempt at a map showing the areas of the City affected. The authorities had, of course, not ordered mass evacuations beyond a reasonable area right up against the foothills. The people at Channel 11 were at least trying to avoid unnecessary panic.

Sunday morning brought news of a midnight decision to evacuate Manitou Springs when winds shifted and the fire began moving south. Another section of the City west of us had been notified of pre-evacuation status. I considered this a typical conservative step, taken by authorities who were justifiably thinking of the worst case. I went to the gym, and spent a little time out by the pool. Ingrid visited her mom, who was in a nearby rehab center after suffering a stroke a few weeks ago. After lunch, we went down to the Broadmoor area to visit an in-home art show. One of the artists represented was a lady Ingrid had met last fall in Santa Fe, so of course we had to go and show our support. At the show, we even joked a bit about the fact that we were under “pre-evacuation notice”. When we got home, our attention was basically consumed by the U.S. Open Golf Championship on TV. The fire continued to burn heavily and the night was aglow with the reflections of flames to the west. Most of the news discussion now focused on the threat to Cedar Heights, another subdivision up on the mountainside.

Monday came and with it were continual reports of fire growth, the need for other areas to prepare for evacuation, etc. Rick called and asked if he could stay the night, as it was a long trip around to his home near Florrisant because of the closure of Highway 24. Of course we said yes. The big deal of the day was a lunch Ingrid had arranged with her Santa Fe artist friend Ellen, after which they were coming to our home to see some of Ingrid’s work. Ellen came and we had a wonderful time. She had some work in a Manitou Springs gallery, and we chatted a bit about the fact that she could not get in to get her stuff, wished her well, and agreed we would get together again sometime.

Smoke over our home

With the sunset, the sky glowed orange behind thick clouds of black smoke; a little bit of ash was falling. Rick came over after work and I grilled some kielbasa, we ate, then watched the news, which by now had become continual round the clock coverage. It was not good, yet it still seemed to be some safe distance away. The order to evacuate Manitou Springs was even lifted as the winds shifted back around to coming from the south. I figured the fire would have to burn through about four miles of developed land to get to us, and began to get a little complacent. After all, that would involve at least four thousand homes. There had never been such a fire in history; even the 1991 Oakland disaster wasn’t that big.

Tuesday morning, I went to the gym, then lay by the pool for a bit. Everyone seemed a bit off center, continually looking off to the west, noting the latest plumes of smoke. Ingrid got home from visiting her mom, Rick got off a little early. We were sitting around watching the news when they said the fire had moved into Queens Canyon which runs kind of north/south along the west side. The eastern ridge of this canyon is the last barrier; once it gets over that ridge, it’s in the City. Just after that, PJ called. He had been called to serve in the Emergency Operations Center and was privy to all the internal emergency services radio calls, etc.

“Dad, you guys really need to pack some stuff and come out to our house in Falcon.”

“Why? Our neighborhood isn’t even under pre-evacuation notice yet.”

“The fire is eating the Westside. They haven’t had time to tell the media yet. I gotta go.”

Ingrid was ready to pop, she had been growing more and more anxious for a couple of days, and now had a reason to fly into high speed action. I admit, I was reluctant to move too quickly; I don’t exactly know why I was dragging my feet-maybe I was struggling to accept the reality of PJ’s call. Still, I trusted PJ’s judgment that it was probably a good idea and it couldn’t hurt.

Despite having known of the fire for several days, we had not yet been officially on pre-evacuation notice and had not really done anything serious to get ready except think about it a little bit. We started out in an orderly fashion, packing a bag with three days’ clothing and some personal hygiene stuff. Ingrid ran to the office and gathered a few financial records. We went around the house, looking at artwork and pictures; decisions were made quickly-yes, that should come, that one could be replaced, oh, that was such a good trip, remember when-wait, we need to move. Ingrid had to have her “happy box”; I wanted the laptop and my Kindle. We gathered the dogs’ stuff, which frankly turned into a bigger pile than our own stuff. Rick was helping carry stuff out and also loading his stuff into his truck. The golf clubs, etc. were already in my truck, so we didn’t have to load those. The news was starting to sound more frantic, and we began rushing. We could see our neighbors running back and forth from their houses to their cars. I went next door to check on an elderly single man; no answer to the door. The smoke was choking and black chunks of ash were falling from the sky; it was time to go.

Here it comes.

It seems a strong southerly wind had pushed the fire up Queens Canyon and it was really roaring right up to the ridge. Then just at the perfect moment, a large thunderstorm to the northwest pushed an “outflow” gust down into the City. The wind had been blowing from the south at 15 to 25 mph, really puffing up the fire. Within a minute, the wind shifted around from the west and blew 50 to 60 mph right down the mountainside. The effect was similar to lighting a blowtorch and aiming it at the City. The firefighters holding the line at the bottom of the slope had no chance; the only option was to get out, and get out quick, as a wall of flame some 100 feet tall came down on them at 50 mph. The neighborhood of houses behind the firefighters had no chance either.

The Evacuation

The mandatory evacuation area was instantly expanded (to include our home) and people were told to get out. The traffic jams were impressive, as black smoke billowed down over lines of cars sitting helplessly. Horns honked, reporters stationed at key intersections talked about how hard it was to see, etc. Thanks to PJ’s warning, we were a little ahead of the crowd and got to his house without incident. The rest of the night was spent in front of the TV, watching various homes blaze and hearing evacuee stories. So far, there had miraculously been no injuries.

It was a surreal feeling. Playing with the grandkids while watching houses burn, wondering how long we would be there. Chatting with Kelly about how to best keep our dogs apart from their dogs, what kind of pizza to get, etc. We went to sleep down in the kids’ playroom in the basement on a Murphy bed PJ and I had built some years ago. It was very comfortable, even with two pugs. However, nobody really got any sleep, as the TV news was on all night.

For the next couple of days, we just kind of wandered around, trying to decide what to do next. Ingrid’s mother, Brunhilde, had also been evacuated from the rehab center where she was recovering from a stroke suffered a month ago. She had not been doing really well, and when they told us they had to move her Tuesday night, the initial indication was she would go to one of the big hospitals. It did not turn out that way, and it took a bit of effort to figure out where she wound up. Once we found her, Ingrid visited to see how things were. She was scared and confused, as we all were.

In retrospect, it was amazing what we did not think to include in our mad dash of packing to evacuate. We forgot all of Ingrid’s prescription medicines. Our daughter’s wedding dress and veil were still in an upstairs closet; she was due to come into town in a few weeks for a fitting-the actual ceremony is scheduled for this fall. Ingrid packed the new pair of shoes she had gotten for the wedding, but forgot the dress she bought at the same time. I brought my electric razor, but not the charger. I also spent some time lamenting the fact that another upstairs closet held 35 years of photographs, as well as a box of stuff my parents had saved for me from my childhood. You know how it often goes: pictures get taken and developed, then put in a shoebox with the thought that someday, you will sort through them and put together albums. You just never get around to it. Once again, PJ came to the rescue. He had a chance to drop by the house while patrolling the area for looters, and brought home another load of stuff.

Hard to imagine a house surviving.

We worried about the status of friends’ homes. PJ brought back photos to show they were all right, even though one of them had a plastic “no soliciting” sign melted off the front door and every other house within 100 yards was burned to the foundation. Funny how fate works sometimes. That made us feel a little better.

I piddled around PJ and Kelly’s house, cleaned the garage, pulled a few weeds, watched the news, played with the kids. PJ worked, and worked, and worked. He would come in around midnight and get called out a couple hours later. Home again about 6 pm only to go back out at 9 pm when some motorcyclist bit the dust. We got to spend some time with all the wonderful neighbors, and watched all the kids roam from one yard to the next around their cul-de-sac. The American Dream was on display right in front of us, just a few miles east of a smoky hell.

We were starting to think it might be several more days, but the weather got a little bit more cooperative and all kinds of firefighting resources started coming in. Every day brought a little more progress. On the sixth night of the fire, a decision was made to allow our neighborhood to go back home. We joked that there would be huge traffic jams again, and decided to go back the next day. About three miles from our house, we ran into the back of a huge traffic jam on Garden of the Gods Road. They had two lanes blocked off, traffic cones everywhere. We theorized they must be checking identifications or something in order to allow people past a checkpoint. Only when we finally got home did we learn that the President and his entourage had been visiting the neighborhood fire station at that time, and thousands of people (who apparently knew more about what was going on than we did) had turned out to see him.

It's Over.

We are finally back in the house, but it still doesn’t feel like home. It is a really odd feeling: in some sense, it’s like we broke some kind of bond with most of our material things when we decided to leave them behind in the first frantic rush. Now that we are back together with them, it’s ok, but they no longer seem as important as they once were. We have been trying to sell the house for a couple of years, growing more dispirited as time has passed. We have been mentally ready to go for awhile, and this experience just kind of adds to it.

We are just grateful that we have not been forced to go by the fire, as many others have. Funny how something like this changes what you consider to be important.