Navigating the 'Sandwich Generation': One Member's Perspective on the Term

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With ageing parents living longer and children not leaving home, what’s it like to be stuck in the middle? Watch Insight episode Sandwich Generation on SBS On Demand.

Phyllis stood by her father’s bedside, her hand gently squeezing his as he took his final breaths. In that poignant moment, she witnessed the departure of her funny, wise, and loving father from this world.

The passing of Phyllis’s father, Dino, in 2011 marked a profound turning point in her life, leaving her unprepared for the changes that would follow.

When I think of sandwiches, I imagine high tea at the Ritz with sliced cucumbers and tiny cupcakes. But being a member of the so-called sandwich generation — combining the care of an elderly parent while rearing two teenage-boys — feels far from tidy.

The sandwich generation needs a rebrand. It’s often more like an unpalatable, chunky soup.

I juggle full-time work, a radio-hosting role, freelance speaking, writing and film gigs, plus the co-parenting of my beautiful 19-year-old and 16-year-old sons, Dean and Max.

And since my beloved father Dino passed in 2011, I’ve also taken up the mantle of being the primary caregiver to my 95-year-old mother Barbara, who lives independently.

Reflecting on those final moments, Phyllis recalls focusing intently on the pulse in her father’s neck. As long as she could see the rhythmic sign of life, her father was still with her.

An adult daughter hugs her father, with both of them smiling.

When her father slipped away, the loss was overwhelming, leaving Phyllis and her family devastated by the void his absence created.

I remember staring at the pulse in his neck; as long as I could see his heart beating, Daddy was still alive.

But soon the beats stopped and Mum called out, frantic: “Phyllis! He’s gone!”

Her husband of 42 years, her filter through which she saw and understood the world, was no longer here.

My Daddy was gone too. And we were devastated.

The ever-increasing role of caregiving

I went to grief counselling for a year, and basically sat with a stranger in a room, sobbing.

Instead of therapy, mum opted for a more Greek-style of grieving.

She wore black, pored over old photos and cried alone — or with me, friends, on the phone, at the cemetery, in malls, in her sleep.

Mum was ‘happy’ to ride the grief roller-coaster by herself.

In some ways, my mother has felt Dad’s loss more acutely than me. Apart from sharing her bed and history, he occupied many roles in her life.

He drove Mum to bingo, the bank, shopping and family events.

He was her sounding board and confidant. He’d stop by the fish markets during his taxi shift to pick up her prawns.

My father was also Mum’s interpreter when her limited English faltered.

After Dad passed, I picked up where he left off.

Only, as well as being Mum’s driver and occasional shellfish supplier, I added several new roles to the list: grief counsellor, Easter-Birthday-Xmas event planner, personal shopper, stylist, therapist, social director and general life admin bitch.

A woman in a red dress sitting next to an older woman in an aqua top, who is standing. Both are smiling

Phyllis with her mother, Barbara. Source: Supplied

At the same time, my boys are getting older — and I find they need me more than ever.

As they become men, I can’t take my eyes off the ball. I need to be present, and there are often important and sometimes difficult conversations we need to have.

When boundaries and love co-exist

Life in my world rarely pauses. In a single hour, I might be on a FaceTime call with Mum as she complains about her aches or a relative, and reminds me to eat — while I’m checking on her medication delivery and booking her long-overdue haircut (“it feels like ants are crawling near my ears!”).

At the same time, I’m helping my 16-year-old finish a 1,800-word essay that was due yesterday, Googling how to parent a sensitive 19-year-old, texting their father, and frantically leaving Mum’s call just in time for a Teams meeting with colleagues wrestling clients and deadlines.

Still with me?

Over the last few years, I’ve developed iron-clad boundaries for every teen, occasion — and nonagenarian.

And it’s not because I don’t want to help Mum when she has a nosebleed at 1am in my ensuite … and of course, I’ll be there with her in Emergency for 10 hours after she’s contracted pneumonia following a heavy bout of COVID.

But the Wi-Fi fix that’ll put her back in front of a late-night Greek soapie binge can wait until tomorrow, right?

Boundaries are vital, because drowning in the soup, desperate for a chunk of her own time, is me.

A woman takes a selfie that includes her two teenage boys and an older lady — all smiling for the camera.

Phyllis (left) has learned that the only way she can effectively care for her two teenage sons and elderly mother is by caring for herself, which means setting strict boundaries. Source: Supplied

Last year, I wrote and performed in my first one-woman show in 20 years — A Little Bit of Lip — at the Sydney Fringe Festival. It was a series of monologues based on ‘my daily struggle as a peri-menopausal co-parent of teen boys and caregiver for my wisecracking mother’.

I shared intimate, life-affirming stories with strangers in the dark. It was like free therapy — and one of the greatest acts of self-care.

As the needs and demands of my mother and teens expand, I grow more determined to keep my boundaries intact.

With the advent of menopause, I’m also becoming more unapologetic and outspoken, less the people-pleaser I used to be.

I’m also learning that boundaries and love can co-exist.

In fact, it makes our love for each other more resolute.

For me, setting boundaries is as simple as saying no.

Even after I say a firm, but gentle, ‘Not today, Mama’, in response to yet another Wi-Fi troubleshooting request, I know that the world will still keep spinning.

My mother is my fiercest critic but also my loudest cheerleader.

And I hope my sons are inspired by seeing the fierce love and support we have for each other.

As for that soup we’re all in?

Yes, it’s messy. But it’s also hearty, rich and nourishing.