DadsDoingDishes has been on a hiatus – unfortunately, not by choice. Recently, I experienced firsthand the challenges faced by sandwich generation parents — those caring for both aging parents and young children. While I knew this day would eventually come, I had been fortunate to avoid it until recently. When my 88-year-old father — my mother’s primary caretaker — was hospitalized with pneumonia, everything changed. Stepping in to care for my elderly parents while also managing my own family’s needs has been far more challenging than I expected. Surprisingly, it’s not just the logistical demands or physical strain that’s been hardest — it’s also the emotional toll.
Thankfully, things have now settled a bit, and I’m adjusting to this new normal. I hope sharing my experience can offer insight and support to others facing similar struggles.
The Caretaker Needs a Caretaker
My mom has been essentially bedridden for the past several years — confined to a recliner in her bedroom and only able to get up, with a walker, to use the bathroom. As a result, my father has become her full-time caretaker, tending to her every need.
Complicating matters, my mom has been adamant about refusing outside help and insists she will never leave her home. When I once suggested considering a senior living community, her response was, “[o]ver my dead body.”
I constantly worry about what will happen when she’s no longer able to get up at all.
Getting Sick
Over this past Christmas, my dad caught a cold — nothing serious, just a mild cough and runny nose. By mid-January, he seemed fully recovered.
Then one evening, he called to tell me that he felt “weak” after walking up the stairs. Knowing I rarely get a straight story from him, I started asking questions. It turned out that after reaching the top of the stairs, he had become dizzy and struggled to breathe. Concerned, I urged him to make an appointment with his primary care physician.
Several days later, I accompanied my dad to his physician’s office. My father was unusually nervous and scared. I reminded him that we were at the doctor’s office, and if anything, he should feel a sense of relief that he was getting a checkup. The doctor listened to his chest and noted some fluid in his lungs – pneumonia. While she didn’t seem overly concerned, she prescribed an X-ray and a five-day course of antibiotics.
Over the next few days, my dad took his medication and seemed to be improving. On the fifth and final day of his antibiotics, we had a follow-up call with his doctor. He sounded great — almost proudly sharing that he’d been to Costco and Trader Joe’s earlier that day.
I thought we were in the clear…
Things Get Worse
That same evening, around 10 PM, I was getting in bed when my dad called. He sounded frightened and said he “didn’t feel right.” He couldn’t explain exactly what was wrong — just that he was scared and wanted me to come over.
To be honest, I didn’t want to go. He had seemed fine earlier — no fever, no clear symptoms — just a vague sense of unease. But my wife reminded me that if something was wrong, I’d never forgive myself for not going.
I was annoyed, but I went.
The next morning, I woke up at 4:30 a.m., planning to drive home before traffic picked up. But before I could leave, my dad appeared in the bedroom — and he looked terrible. He was pale, struggling to breathe, and clearly unwell.
We rushed to the ER. Almost immediately after arriving at the Kaiser ER, a nurse began taking his vitals. I overheard her quietly tell a tech that my dad had a fever and was likely experiencing sepsis. Worse yet, his oxygen level was around 78% — far below the healthy range of 95% to 100% (more on oxygen levels here).
This was serious.
My father was immediately admitted to the ER and placed on oxygen — his saturation levels improved almost instantly. Then came the tests: X-rays, an EKG, a CT scan, and an ultrasound.
The first update we received wasn’t good — his pneumonia had significantly worsened since his last X-ray. The ER doctor explained that the antibiotics prescribed were either too weak or the treatment course too short.
Eventually, it was clear my father needed to be admitted to intensive care for closer monitoring. He was transferred to the ICU.
One of the hardest parts of the ordeal was my father’s confusion and inability to understand what was happening. Despite being told multiple times that he had pneumonia, he kept insisting he was sick because he had “overdone it.” After trying to explain the situation repeatedly, I eventually gave up.
Caring for Others
While my father was in the hospital, my mother was home alone. Each morning, I’d prepare her meals before heading to the hospital to visit my dad. In the evening, I’d return to my mom’s house to ensure she was fed and comfortable.
My parents tend to live in denial or be oblivious, and this was all too apparent during this experience. Whenever I’d return home, my mother would act as though everything was fine and rarely ask about my dad. If she did, her only question was, “When is he coming home?” Or she’d joke, saying, “What’s wrong with your dad?… Every time he gets sick, he runs straight to the doctor.” This behavior contrasts to when I called her one morning and she was crying. She refused to say why. Then I found out, she was crying because she felt like she had to feed the dog.
I tried explaining, to my mother, that dad had pneumonia, but my mom would just sit there with a blank stare. My whole life, I’ve never been able to tell what my mom truly understands — or refuses to understand.
A challenging aspect of this situation was juggling everything while trying to keep up with work. Thankfully, my boss was incredibly understanding and allowed me to work remotely during that time.
Ironically, I ended up getting influenza A. Just prior to my Dad being hospitalized, both my son and daughter became very ill, with my son’s fever spiking to 105°F. They both tested positive for influenza A. And when my nose wouldn’t stop running for several days, I finally decided to test. Sure enough, I tested positive for influenza A.
To be fair, I’m not sure if I contracted the flu from the ER, which was filled with elderly patients battling both influenza and pneumonia, or from my children. Regardless, the effects of the flu were minimal because I had to power through- and make sure everyone was cared for.
Getting Out of the Hospital
After a night in the ER and two nights in intensive care, I received news that my dad would be discharged but would need to remain on oxygen until he “recovered.” Kaiser informed me that a company would be in touch about delivering an oxygen concentrator. The oxygen delivery company reached out, and we coordinated the delivery. Now it was time to leave the hospital and time for me to figure out what was next.
Just before picking up my dad, the concentrator was delivered. However, when the delivery person tested it, it started malfunctioning. The representative repeatedly shut it down and reset it, but it still wouldn’t work. After several attempts, I requested a replacement. He swapped out the machine, and we reviewed how to use it, along with some troubleshooting tips. He also demonstrated how to fill the portable tanks provided by the company. Additionally, the delivery driver mentioned that Kaiser had instructed the concentrator to remain on and deliver 2 liters of oxygen per minute. “I hope nothing goes wrong with this machine,” I thought. With that sorted, I headed to pick up my father from Kaiser.
When I arrived at my dad’s hospital room, a nurse informed me that she had gone over the discharge instructions with him and asked if I wanted to review them. Knowing my dad might be confused, I agreed, and I’m glad I did. As we went through the medication instructions, the nurse mentioned that the concentrator machine needed to be set to 4 liters per minute—contrary to what the oxygen delivery company had told me. She assured me that it was essential for it to be set to 4 liters per minute.
My dad and I arrived home. I planned to spend the night at my parents’ house to make sure my dad would be okay. About three hours after returning home, the concentrator began malfunctioning. Every 30 — 45 minutes or so, a loud alarm would beep, and the oxygen machine would stop working. Fortunately, I remembered the reset instructions. Oddly, I wasn’t stressed out, I just had to fix the situation.
I then called the vendor that provided the machine. For reference, this vendor has an average rating of 1.1 stars out of over 1,800 reviews on the Consumer Affairs website, and Yelp is no better, with a 1.5-stars rating from over 3,700 reviews. But I digress.
After spending 15 – 20 minutes trying to reach a representative, I finally got through to someone and we began troubleshooting. The rep acknowledged that something was wrong with the machine and placed an order for a replacement. The new concentrator would be delivered between 6:00 and 10:00 PM. It was now about 3:00 PM.
At 6:00 PM, I called for an update. The representative told me I just had to wait for the four-hour window, but she would send me a text with updates on the delivery. When I checked the link in the text, sent to me, it showed that the machine had already been delivered. WTF.
I called three more times for a follow-up, each time spending about approximately 15 – 20 minutes on the phone, but I never received a proper update on delivery time. Meanwhile, the concentrator machine continued shutting off every 30 to 45 minutes. I just kept resetting the machine hoping it would work long enough until the delivery came.
10:00 PM came and went with no machine delivered. When I called again to follow up on the status of the replacement machine, the representative informed me that the order had been canceled. One can understand the 1-star reviews – a company has to try really hard to earn that one star. Another replacement machine was ordered.
So, through the night, I was waking up every 30 to 45 minutes when the concentrator shut off, only to reset it and try to get some rest. As I sat in bed, waiting for the machine to shut off, I wondered what would happen to my parents if I wasn’t around. Morning couldn’t come soon enough. Finally, around 8:15 AM, the replacement machine arrived.
Over the course of the week, I stayed at my parents’ house to make sure my dad was okay through the night. I’d prepare breakfast for them, then head home to help my wife with the kids and get my son to school. Life has to go on and so did the routine of making my son’s lunch, getting him dressed, and taking him to school. After a day at work, I’d pick up my son, rush home to help my wife, then head back to my parents’ house.
Keeping Up with Responsibilities
At the end of my son’s last soccer season, I promised to be the team manager for the upcoming spring season. So, when my dad was first admitted to the hospital, it coincided with the beginning of the spring season. I needed to send out informational emails, set up Zoom calls with parents, and ensure our players were registered.
I remember sending team emails from the hospital and hosting informational Zoom meetings with parents while sitting in my dad’s office, the steady rumble of the concentrator humming in the background. I wanted to quit so badly — not just as team manager, but even to pull my son from playing soccer this season. I wasn’t sure I could stay committed, and it didn’t seem fair to the team or to my son. Every time I had to do a task for the team, I swore I would quit the next day. But I decided to stick with it — and I’m glad I did. I am having so much fun.
When my father was first admitted to the hospital, he was in the process of renovating a rental property. I had to step in — ensuring the contractor finished the job, getting the house listed for lease, screening potential tenants, and finalizing the rental process. I got it done. It was a valuable experience, even though it pulled me away from my family.
The one person I am most grateful to throughout all of this is my wife. She has been incredibly supportive during this entire ordeal, encouraging me to take as much time as I needed to care for my parents. Ironically, she was the one I was neglecting. To make matters worse, she had been suffering from severe gallbladder attacks over the past several months, and the attacks had become more frequent and intense. We were fortunate that she never experienced an attack on a night when I was absent.
Many days passed when I wouldn’t see my wife except on FaceTime. On those days, our conversations were often brief — just a few minutes to check in, make sure the kids were okay, and confirm there were no urgent issues. Recently, she underwent a successful surgery and is now recovering slowly.
As you will see, my time away from her and the family didn’t end here. I have not been giving her the time and attention she deserved, and I feel guilty about it. It’s a strange feeling — being fully aware of something, carrying that guilt, yet still remaining silent. I think I thanked her once for her support, but not much more than that. But, I do know if the roles were reversed, I would do the same for her.
Not Over Yet
After my dad was discharged from the ICU, I made sure to buy an oximeter and taught him how to use it. I would check it periodically to ensure his oxygen levels stayed in the high 90s.
Six days after his initial discharge, I was checking his oxygen level when I noticed it drastically dipped into the high 80s, even though he was on oxygen. I knew something was wrong. I called the advice nurse and explained the situation. She recommended that I bring him back to the ER.
I hesitated for a few hours, hoping it was just a temporary issue. But when I checked his levels again, they were still low. Realizing an ER visit was inevitable, I went home briefly, knowing I’d likely be heading back to the hospital that evening.
When I returned to my parents’ house, I called the advice nurse again, and once more, after checking with the doctor, she recommended that my dad return to the ER. I connected him to a portable oxygen tank, and around 11:30 PM, we were back at Kaiser. I could not believe we had to come back and I did not want to be there..
By the time we arrived at Kaiser, my dad’s oxygen level was in the low 80s. The doctors told me his condition had worsened, and they weren’t sure why. They began administering a strong dose of steroids, which seemed to help. Subsequently, the doctors informed me that they would need several hours to determine what was wrong. My dad was confused about everything. It was painful to hear his incoherent questions. Fortunately, we had a wonderful ER physician. I was advised to go home, rest, and come back in the morning.
My dad was admitted to intensive care and remained there for three days. Over the next several days, I fell back into the routine of feeding my mother, visiting the hospital, and getting home to see my family. Meanwhile, I wasn’t getting any clear answers from the doctors.
After reviewing his case, the pulmonologist called me. He explained that my father’s situation was rare, and he couldn’t predict the outcome with certainty. However, he believed that with continued treatment on steroids, my dad might eventually be okay. There were no definitive answers, but for now, my dad was set to be discharged with a heavy course of steroids.
The New Normal
My dad has now been home for over a month and we’re all adjusting to the new normal. To make things easier, I bought my parents a mini fridge and placed it upstairs so my dad can easily access food and drinks. We’ve also arranged for their housekeeper to come by for an hour each evening to help with household tasks, including preparing food. This is not going to be enough, but it is enough for now.
I constantly find myself thanking the housekeeper for her patience handling my dad’s obnoxious and rude behavior — he seems oblivious to the fact that if she stops helping, we’d all be in trouble. I try to visit twice a week to help with bills, shopping, and whatever else comes up.
There are days when my dad calls me more than ten times. If I don’t answer his FaceTime call, he immediately calls again. When I still don’t respond, he texts me, insisting he needs to speak to me urgently. When I finally get in touch, it often turns out he just needs help accessing his emails or resolving some other IT issue. There is always an urgent issue that is anything but urgent.
Emotions and Thoughts
This experience has taken a significant mental toll. While my dad was in and out of the hospital, I was too busy to think — just trying to keep my head above water.
After he was discharged, it hit me. For a while, there were days when I struggled to find the will to get out of bed. I believe this was largely subconscious — a way of delaying the uncertainty and challenges each day seemed to bring. I would linger under the covers until the very last moment, hesitant to face what awaited me. But I had no choice. My family needed me. And I knew my kids were watching.
Then, as time passed, the pattern shifted. I went from struggling to wake up, to waking every morning at 4 a.m. with anxiety. The mind works in mysterious ways. Many nights, I found myself relying on a supplement just to get some sleep.
The downtime is not that great — those moments when you can finally catch your breath, yet your mind seizes the opportunity to race through all kinds of thoughts. Driving between appointments and running errands, there’s time to think. More often than not, I find myself feeling like a failure, as if my life is spiraling out of control. I question whether I’m doing enough, whether I’m making the right choices. Maybe I should be visiting and calling my parents more often. I can’t help but wonder if others, faced with the same challenges, would find better solutions. I wonder why my parents have always seemed to be unhappy.
Another strange thing I’ve noticed is the absence of emotion in most of my interactions with my parents. Our conversations are largely transactional — focused on getting things done, like paying bills, following up with doctors and arranging food deliveries. I’m not sure if I should share my emotions — or even if I want to.
Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of the past. As I watch my mom barely able to hold herself up on her walker, I think, “[w]ouldn’t it be nice to just sit in the passenger seat again while my mom drives me to get ice cream?” Sometimes, I feel the urge to remind her of those moments — how special they were, how much they meant. But I never do. I just see her sitting in her recliner, silent, looking out the window and trying to pass the time. How did she end up so old? I feel so guilty she can’t enjoy what is left of her life.
One of the hardest parts of caring for my aging parents is witnessing their worst traits become magnified. The qualities I’ve long disliked — or have grown to dislike — seem to surface constantly, and intensified. Many interactions with my father leaves me feeling frustrated and angry. Usually, I fall back on my coping mechanism and ignore many of the obnoxious remarks. But other times, I just can’t help myself — I point out the absurdity of what he is saying. It never ends well when I stand up to my dad.
This experience has also made me reflect on my own mortality. I’ve come to the sobering realization that I’m middle-aged, and the clock is ticking. As I interact with my parents, I can’t help but wonder if my relationship with my own kids will unfold differently.
Few things I know for sure. While I have always had little in common with my parents, I do love them. How can I ever repay them for everything they did for me? Despite any perceived shortcomings, I am blessed to have such wonderful parents. I will always care for them.
One thing I do appreciate, though, is the time I’m able to spend with my children — and I’m making a conscious effort to cherish every moment.
At my son’s first spring soccer practice, I opened up to one of his teammate’s fathers about what was going on. He was surprised to hear everything I’d been dealing with, but he summed it up perfectly.
“It’s like holding a pitcher of water straight out in front of you,” he said. “At first, it’s manageable, but the longer you hold it, the heavier it feels. You keep straining to hold it up, but it gets harder and harder to hold it up.” But there is no relief in sight and no place to put the pitcher. I just have to keep holding it.
Wouldn’t a one-day break be great? Just to escape the overwhelming pressure. However, I know deep down I would not be able to live with myself if I tried to escape.
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