Sandwiched - written July 6, 2016

Written July 6, 2016:
I am a sandwich.  My mother is 94 and my daughter is 24.  When I call my mother, she recites her physical problems, going into detail.  When I call my daughter, she recites her existential problems, going into detail.  I am a sandwich, servicing both with a patient ear and sympathetic sighs.   "Yes, it's horrible for you.  I agree - this is very sad/terribad/the pits."  

I am also a sandwich between by my sibs.  The middle child between a domineering big sister and self-center younger brother.   To my extreme horror, the two decided to move our mother from her glorious condominium in Florida to a hotel-room size apartment in an assisted living residence in New Rochelle.  I am heartsick.   My mother needs twenty-four hour care.  My sibs did not sign up for this. She loved her caregivers.  Now she is lonely and very depressed.

Isn't this elder-care abuse?   My sister has power of attorney and her son is a lawyer.  My brother is an MD, who drugged my mother into submitting to their plan.   (It was called "anti-anxiety" measures.)

My mother just called me to say that she can't find her blue blanket.  She is alone.  No one is answering her buzzer.  She hasn't been alone in her Florida apartment since September.

The four adults (my brother, his wife, my sister's son and his wife) -  who put her into this predicament - live 15 minutes from her new abode.    I live 35 minutes by car on the other side of Westchester.  But she called me at 9:30 pm this evening, because she is afraid to "bother" them.

Oh yes, it is horrible for her.  It is very sad/terribad/the pits.
I wish I were able to take my mother back to FL and make her feel better again.