Siblings, torn over caring for mother, learn to work out differences

The glass exploded when it hit the pavement, sending horseradish into the air, where it mixed with Seattle rain and fell from the sky.

It was then, after throwing a jar of my favorite condiment at my brother, that I knew I was really stressed. The smell lingered over my mother's Wallingford neighborhood for a week.

This was shortly after I had moved back to Seattle from New York City, in part to help with the care of our then-94-year-old mother. I don't remember what we were arguing about that night, but our differences are usually about much or how little time I have to contribute to her care.

I work one full-time and two part-time jobs (my brother, Sterling, is retired). I am alone, having been widowed twice (my brother has a partner). I have struggled financially (my brother owns two homes, in Belltown and Palm Springs). I don't know many people here (Sterling has friends in Seattle he's known 45 years). Not that I ever feel sorry for myself or anything.

The constant caregiver

As we work hard to sort this out, we are not alone. People 85 and older are the fastest-growing segment of the population. Nearly 80 percent of them are cared for by family members. Women — usually daughters — are still the most common caregivers, but the number of men assuming the task is increasing.

Sterling and I do not suffer in silence. We both unload on friends; mine call him obsessed because of his 24-hour-a-day focus on our mother; his think he is devoted and that I am not pulling my weight.

Our parents had been married many years when they adopted Sterling as a newborn. Four years later — surprise — me. Sterling says his dedication to our mother now is a thank-you, a payback for adopting him and giving him a good life. He says he feels an obligation.

My father's death was quick. He was almost 91 when he began to have chest pains. In one week's time, he went from the hospital to a nursing home, where he died after just three days. Our mother will be 96 on Monday, and Sterling says her longevity is why he works so hard at maintaining her quality of life. "They don't die," he says, speaking of her and her cousins. "They live, and live, and live, and live."

That can-do nature

While we may be untraditional in that Sterling is the primary caregiver, we are absolutely traditional in other ways. Linguistics professor and author Deborah Tannen says women want to talk, but men want to do.

He is magnificent at it.

He decorates my mother's apartment for Christmas. He bundles her up and speeds her around Green Lake in her wheelchair. He has her pucker so he can touch up her lipstick. He makes sure the back of her hair is combed. He gives her an injection of insulin in the morning, and has breakfast with her seven days a week.

Our mother feels a sense of security with Sterling that I don't think she feels with me. He can lean close, speak directly into her ear and convince her to take the pill, roll up her sleeve, drink this, try harder.

I have been lucky to have been on the receiving end of his doing. In 1979 and 1980, my husband Frank Conley, a Seattle radio news anchor, was dying of a brain tumor, and I was taking care of him at home. Sterling and a friend would come to our house and cut the grass, trim the shrubs and weed.

I have heard Mother tell people that Sterling is her best friend; it doesn't wound me. There have been enough times that she has said to me, "Becky, I don't know what I would do without you." She doesn't make me feel bad for being gone for years; I don't think Sterling has forgiven me.

And, in fact, there are some things I do well for my mother. I buy her pretty panties and bras. She loves to play gin rummy, and I have more patience than Sterling does at cards. I give her showers, and I take off rouge when she has had a heavy hand.

It is when Sterling is burned out, or I am overwhelmed, that we fight. Our biggest argument is about having help, having others do some of what we do now. But assisted living is expensive, and she really doesn't need it.

So we play a game that could be called, "Who Has It Worse?" The rules require that we have immature conversations about which of us is under the most stress. Another game we play is, "Who Can Hang Up the Phone First In Anger?"

If only Supernanny Jo Frost visited baby boomers. She could send us to the "naughty corner," we'd shed a few tears and then we'd play nice.

The meaning behind the message

The sibling relationship is one of the most challenging in life, says author Tannen, whose books include "You Just Don't Understand: Women and Men in Conversation," and "I Only Say This Because I Love You: Talking To Your Parents, Partner, Sibs, and Kids When You're All Adults."

She said siblings can find themselves stuck in old childhood patterns. Family baggage and childhood rivalry gets unpacked when a parent is elderly or dying.

The key to improving relationships, Tannen says, is to distinguish between the message and the metamessage.

"Every utterance has one or more messages," she says. "There is the meaning of the words, but also the history of the relationship, the tone of voice, the timing and what the speaker means — the metamessage.

"What we say, and what we hear, are often two different things," she says. "What the speaker means, and how the message is interpreted, can be different."

This is true with Sterling and me. It drives him crazy that I ask questions — of the surgeon, a nurse, the physical therapist. I've been a reporter all my life, and I don't know how not to; I'm just looking for information.

Sterling, however, may feel I'm undermining him when I ask questions, or that I'm not confident of his care or decisions.

If we can listen for the metamessage, the powerful stuff families say that makes us crazy, we may be able to act like the adults we are.

A learning process

To manage my stress (and stay out of the naughty corner), I try to keep a few hours of the day for myself, hoping they won't notice that I didn't drop by. It is a relief not to see them. It is a relief to see them.

Sterling and I are learning. He is better at asking if I can help, and I am hoping to cut back on work so that I don't feel as overwhelmed when he does ask.

Recently, when my mother was recuperating at his condo, Sterling cooked a pot roast and invited me over. I asked if I should bring horseradish, but he said no, he had some.

I think — I hope — that we both laughed.

Rebecca Morris has been a broadcast and print journalist for 33 years. She teaches journalism at Bellevue Community College.