Missed bite of the sandwich generation

I could hear the persistent beep of a second call coming in on my phone this afternoon as I was talking to my mother in California.

In my mind, I told myself, "It must be Craig; he always calls about this time to see when I'll be getting home."

Actually I was already on the train heading back from Queens to Manhattan, having the usual-but-not-so-usual call I have each weekday with my mother, who lives by herself in California -- or did until a few weeks ago when she took her third fall in 20 months. This time she broke a rib that punctured a lung. She was in the hospital twice for it, and now is on oxygen full time. She hates it, connected to an oxygen generator and dragging around a clear plastic tube wherever she goes, the way Marley dragged his chains in "A Christmas Carol."

The beep continued, then a pause, then the long beep, signalling a message left on my cell phone.

My mother, who is 83, now has my sister living under her roof. My sister and my mother are like kerosene and flame; they ignite each other with sparks of painful angry slights and long-time hurts and neglects. Craig and I get to mediate, although lately I've been more cowardly and let Craig, whom both women admire and respect, do more intervening.

My mother needs care and my sister is trying to do it as well as she can, but sometimes she is bossy and blunt. My mother is trying to survive and express her will to live by denying she's ill and by keeping her independence with a fierce sort of do-it-myself attitude. I'm better at dealing with her, but I know my mother's demands can be endless, while my sister's orders can wearing.

I end the conversation with Mom; she's feeling depressed and unhappy.

I check the message; it's not from Craig, after all, it's from David, trying to reach me after two weeks of phone cutoff at the FOB.

He understands; "I guess you're in the subway; I'll try to call tomorrow."

I'm devastated.