The Sandwich Years

In our backyard, where we pile up some of the bigger pieces of junk we have accumulated through the years, is a chair like no other. It has a lightly-upholstered seat and arm rests. It is a most beguiling chair because at the center of the seat is a perfectly round hole so big a basketball can be tossed right through it.

The chair is a reminder of my sandwich years.

You know, of course, the old saw -- there is a time for sowing and a time for reaping. A time to receive and a time to give back. A time for making something of yourself and time for raising a family. And for many – not all – there is a time for the sandwich years.

My children were ages five to 19 when my mother, 72, was felled by a cerebral stroke. Though it was described as moderate, it left her paralyzed on one side of the body, unable to walk, and unable to talk. A year after convalescing in my younger sister’s house, she came to live with me and my family.

The inability to speak coherently can be a condition known as aphasia. For an aphasic, the idea or the word is clear and intact in his or her mind but it just wouldn’t come out right when he or she attempts to get it out. At first, my mother virtually pulled her hair out of sheer frustration from not being able to express herself. Eventually, she withdrew into silence and learned some sign language.

What do you do when your sick, helpless, frustrated, and unhappy mother joins you, your husband, and your growing children in your cramped little home?

First you try to recover from the initial shock of seeing the world turn upside down. Suddenly, your parent needed parenting. You brace yourself for the anticipated tug and pull between the demands of growing children and an ailing mother.

Then you arrange for help. If you’re lucky, you manage, as I was able, to engage the services of a caregiver with a tough physique and a gentle heart -- the first for carrying Mom from bed to wheelchair to bathroom or car and back; the second for comforting her with touch or word in her darker moods. And at first those moods were so frequent it was all you could do not to break down. You get a neighborhood hilot – almost as old as your mom but a thousand times stronger – to massage her limbs each day with some potion, hoping against hope she might get some of her motor functions back.

Then you reorganize the house -- its rhythms and patterns -- around the afflicted one.

From school, each of the children had to take their regulation 30-minute turn with their grandmom. They could do their thing with her -- talk to her, read to her, sing to her, feed her, or simply lie down beside her to hug or hold hands.

On weekends, we pushed her to the center of family activities. We pulled her wheelchair to the table’s kabisera during meals. We took her to mass when we could borrow my sister’s car. We forced her to watch home movies though she would sleep through most of the run. When the afternoon cooled, we pushed her wheelchair out into the yard so she could watch children play and people go by or simply wait for sunset and listen to the bird calls.

I bought her a couple of Reader’s Digest large-font books so she could revert to her old love for reading. She just looked at the pages awhile and let the volumes fall heavily to the floor.

My son came homehappily one day carrying a big magic slate, certain he could now communicate with his Lola. He coaxed her by writing on the slate : L-O-L-A- S-U-L-A-T-K-A-D-I-T-O. Uhmmm, no thanks, her wan smile seemed to say.

My other son bought a bingo set not too long after. My mom hated bingo when she was younger -- dismissing it as a no-brainer -- and it seemed she was not about to love it now. She refused to play.

I guess that was then that an inspiration hit me. With my children’s help, I proceeded to execute it.

We set up a square table at the center of the living room even as we covered the table with a thick folded blanket. I lugged a heavy old box -- fringed with cobwebs and laced with dust -- from a top cabinet and poured its contents onto the table. Some of the tiles bounced as they hit each other. With my mom seated on one side and I opposite her, I bade my older sons take the two vacant chairs. Shuffling the tiles noisily, we built walls out of them on all four sides of the table. We were ready to play.

A son rolled a dice to determine who was first.

I began to distribute the tiles, giving the first set to my Mom, whispering a prayer.

Holding my breath, I watched my older daughter by her side put up the tiles for her.

I continued to watch, my blood rushing to my face, as Mom pointed at this tile and that for my daughter to arrange.

When I tossed one tile to the center of the table, my mom smiled broadly and held up her good hand. She was “pung.”

We all let out a whoop of joy. MY MOM STILL LIKED TO PLAY MAHJONGG!

Later, my children would boast they were the only youngsters in the world taught and encouraged by their elders to gamble, bribed to play every weekend, scolded when they didn't want to, told they could keep their winnings. The katulongs – there were three of them at the time – also learned the game. They didn't have to be bribed to play though -- it was part of their job description.

Someday, I might tell you what the big-holed upholstered chair was used for during those sandwich years.