Squished: by the numbers

A funny thing happened on the way to the Bronx VA

If you’ve ever taken care of an older person, you’ve probably had a minute when you thought your brain was going to explode.

Like: 

A couple of years ago when my father was still living on his own — and my brother and I didn’t have 1/10th the eldercare problems we have now — I was driving over to pick up my dad for an appointment. (At that point he lived near me in NYC.)

The second that I pull in front of his building, naturally, the phone rings, it’s my mom’s doctor — and Mom has collapsed in her office. Up in Fishkill. (btw, Mom and Dad are divorced.)

So my 90-year-old dad is shuffling out of the building — and I should go help him, but now I’ve got a collapsed mom over an hour away, and I’m quizzing the doctor, who does that annoying thing of conveying how incredibly serious this is — yet it’s not a crisis.

Except, oh, Mom is en route to the ER in Poughkeepsie. Her friend Eddie came to pick her up. This is fantastic news. Eddie is 85, can’t feel his feet (severe neuropathy), and should NOT be driving.  

Back to Dad, who’s made it to the car — and doesn’t understand why I don’t get off the phone and do the usual, Hey Dad! howaya? chatty thing. I hang up and try to breathe slowly (isn’t that what you do in a panic attack?). But Dad is confused now and not, you know, gentle bewilderment. Full-on old-guy pissy. I love my dad. But he can be a prima donna. 

So I try to explain to him — as I auto-pilot drive to the Bronx VA Hospital for the appointment — what’s going on. But he can’t hear me. Also, he can only follow a storyline that involves WWII.

Then, as usual, we get stuck at the red light near the top of W. Kingsbridge Road, which is basically the El Capitan of the Bronx. It’s not a long hill. But you could die there. And that’s when I hit a wall — right there, clinging to that near-vertical hillside.

Actually, I’m pretty sure it was two walls, simultaneously closing in on me (yes, I know which movie scene that is) — and I thought 

I can’t fucking do this.

Have you seen the numbers?

So let me translate what “I can’t do this means.” It means: We can’t do this. And in fact it might be helpful if there were some public acknowledgement of this fact. Or a song.

Yes, I’ve seen all the headlines about the “gray tsunami” (so many) and the well-meaning research (there’s lots) or the “special report on aging” in the NY Times a couple of months ago (great job). 

But I mean: Widespread, ongoing, in-depth, raw and painful, can we get some help here: Discourse. Because, if I’m honest, a fair number of well-educated people in positions of power still don’t seem to grock what’s happening. And we need to get on the same page.

* 

About 10-12 years ago I was writing for MONEY Magazine, when it was still a magazine with paper in it. I had to look up caregiving statistics — and I remember being just gobsmacked at how bad it all sounded.

This came to mind recently, but I couldn’t recall the exact data points, so — owing to my current status as an actual caregiver, not just a curious journalist — I looked up the numbers again. Guess what?

JUST AS BAD IF NOT WORSE!

In fact, the amount — and the cost — of unpaid caregiving just keeps rising, according to a 2023 report from AARP, Valuing the Invaluable. Which isn’t surprising because the number of old people also keeps growing, so it makes sense (unfortunately) that these two things would rise in tandem. 

Some stats for ya:

• 38 million: Number of people who care for someone over the age of 50.

• 35.5%: Percentage of unpaid elder-caregivers who are women over 55. 

• 60%: Percentage of caregivers who still work full or part time.

• $600 billion: The estimated economic value of caregivers’ unpaid work — up from $470 billion in 2017.

This is not a picnic 

Never in the history of this planet have so many had to care for...so many. It’s as if, by prolonging life to the very limits of medicine and science, we’ve paved a road and just kept paving it, without asking: Hey, where’s this thing headed? Do we need a couple of rest stops here or what?

Forget the so-called Sandwich Generation. That picnicky term doesn’t do justice to how frantically squeezed we all are. My brother and I (and our very patient spouses) make plans, scrap plans, swap parents like we’re a four-way trapeze act. 

Because unless you’re very wealthy (or low income — more on that in subsequent posts), the safety nets for older people and their caregiving families are few and full of holes. 

At that crazy moment on the hill, I had one of those lightning flashes that illuminated the whole chaotic picture, and I got it: We have to build a better road.

I mean. Have to.

So. This is Squished. Glad you’re here. Hope you’ll stick around, send me your stories, what makes you laugh (or scream), and let’s keep talking.