I’m part of the sandwich generation — caught between being a new mom and my mom’s caregiver

This First Person column is written by Beverley Ann D’Cruz, who lives in Brampton, Ont. For more information about First Person stories, see the FAQ. 

The call came around 3 a.m. 

“Your mum had a stroke,” I heard my cousin in India say.

I crumpled to the floor. As I sat sobbing, he explained that she was in surgery and still critical. My mind swam with disbelief. Less than 24 hours ago, I had spoken to her over video chat. She’d been in high spirits singing Old MacDonald to her new grandson — our daily morning ritual since his birth that April. 

The most devastating thought crossed my mind: I might be going home to a funeral.

A week later I flew to Mumbai alone. It was too short a timeline to organize an emergency passport and visa for our little one. During the 17-hour flight, I repeatedly pumped and dumped breast milk in the airplane restroom, wracked with guilt over abandoning my infant son for three weeks. But my mother might die. I needed to be there for her, as she had always been for me.

I arrived to find my mother hooked up to machines in the intensive care unit. While she learned how to swallow and say her name, stage four lung cancer was quietly consuming my father — a diagnosis he was handed as we came to terms with my mother’s condition. Suddenly, I was facing the grim possibility of losing both of my parents. 

The guilt and helplessness I experienced watching my parents succumb to age and sickness was compounded by emotions that may be familiar to other immigrants. Grief for the time lost because I moved away. Frustration at the inability to do more due to the distance. 

And the biggest one of all: fear I would arrive too late to say our final goodbyes.

I was prepared for none of this. 

The plan had been to shift my parents to Canada that December once their paperwork was approved. I looked forward to recreating my own idyllic childhood, with mom at the stove cooking my favourite meals as dad — my Fixer-Man as I affectionately called him — sat at the kitchen table repairing a broken toy. 

Six months after my mother’s stroke, the cancer claimed my father. My sister, who’d taken a year-long sabbatical from her job in the U.S. to care for my parents, had to return to her family. And we faced a big decision: leave our mother in India with a live-in caregiver — a stranger — or bring her to live with me in Canada.

So on July 18, 2024, almost exactly one year since my cousin’s early morning phone call, my mother arrived at our home in Brampton. 

The stroke had rendered her almost completely non-verbal initially, but she re-learned how to walk and feed herself. I was confident that, with some TLC, I’d have her back to being the bubbly, talkative person she once was.  

At least, that was my plan.

My mother refused physiotherapy. Every suggestion to go for a walk was met with a dismissive wave of her hand. The determination that had seen her through a remarkable recovery was replaced with stubbornness, and I could see she was regressing a little more every day. For eight months, I pushed her to do more and she pushed back. 

Soon all the clashing demands started to take a toll on me. In between helping mom manoeuvre the stairs and assisting 2 a.m. washroom runs, I was working a full-time job, doling out meals and doing daycare drop-off. My son was competing with nana for attention; my partner was ignored. I was everywhere and nowhere at the same time. 

Then my mother broke her leg, and the amount of help she required doubled. I let go of my fantasy of her baking cookies with my son and singing him lullabies. The reality: I was bathing and dressing them both and changing two sizes of diapers. 

Anger overtook the sympathy I initially felt for my mom. This was supposed to be a joyous time for me as a new mother, for her as a grandmother. 

Worse still, I felt shame. 

Coming from South Asia, there’s a cultural expectation to care for your aging parents with pride and without complaint. It was taboo, a sign of ungratefulness, to talk about the physical, emotional and financial strain. 

The truth was I didn’t want to be my mom’s caregiver; I wanted her to be my mom. I missed her voice, her advice, her affection and realized that I’d lost her while she was still alive.

One Friday afternoon it dawned on me that I hadn’t showered in five days, and I knew I needed help. 

Grappling for balance, I turned to therapy and reset my expectations for myself and for my mother. Over time, I stopped imposing on her what I wanted her to do — to talk in full sentences, to go to physiotherapy — and started accepting her decisions. I know that she’ll never be able to take my son to the park but it’s heartwarming to see them sit together every evening and watch Bluey on the television. Bonus: I get downtime with my partner.

Eventually, I stopped trying to perform all caregiving tasks and enlisted the help of a personal service worker thrice a week. Paying out of pocket is a monetary drain and a financial choice I know others might not have, but the peace of mind for a few hours allows me to be fully present for my own family. 

Online support network connects grandparents who are raising their grandchildren

The breathing room helped me refocus. Putting my family first wasn’t wrong. Asking for help wasn’t failure. I want my mom to enjoy her golden years and my son to be proud of his mother for being a supportive daughter. I knew I was doing the best I could, regardless of how tough it got. 

There is no mandate to love caregiving. I only needed to give like I cared. 

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