The Irony of Life

My dad was a strict man. He use to tell people that with 5 daughters he had to be. He had years of medical school and residency and finally a job offer that would leave him with more free time, or so I thought. My sisters and I would do our best to be quiet when we heard him either come home from work, doing the bills, from an exercise run, basically anytime we knew he may be tired or stressed.

At the time I didn’t get it. I would ask my mom why he was angry, why was he always tired and cranky. She would sigh and say “Christine, one day you’ll understand.” I would sulk and explain that we are all going through stuff; middle school was hard and dealing with homework, sports, and social drama was exhausting. I was starting to realize that peer pressure was real, that those who I thought were my friends weren’t, that some days I wondered if it was all worth it. The pressure of grades and doing well was something strongly valued in my household that I often wondered how I was a part of this family. I struggled to do well in school and sports. I blamed my dad for a lot of it, projecting it all on my poor mother who took my yelling in and would stay silent, as if she understood. I said he was putting too much pressure on us, I did try I just wasn’t as smart as everyone else, why couldn’t he give me a break?

But there were also times when on a Saturday he would play “Monster” with us, and crawl on the floor growling while we would giggle, scream and run away. He would find a silly costume for every Halloween and take us to the best neighborhoods for big size candy. He would laugh at our jokes and his booming sound would fill the entire house. He attended every school event and every teacher’s conference. He meticulously planned a yearly vacation for all of us to spend time together. Whenever someone found out we were a family with five daughters, the comments would start, beginning with, "your poor dad!" or "you were really trying for that boy!" He would give them an obligatory smile but let them know that he wouldn't have it any other way. At the time, none of this held much weight for me, an irony of life.

Nonna was a proud woman who immigrated here from Italy and worked hard to provide as much as she could for my dad and his sister. They lived in a poor section of Brooklyn and compared to my dad’s stories about his own father's discipline techniques and moods, my dad was Mr. Cheerful. Nonno unfortunately passed before I was born so these stories were all I had of him. My Nonna continued to be there for every event, birthday, holiday, and graduation. We called her every Sunday night to talk about our week and it was also an opportunity for me to vent about her son.

Nonna was in the hospital a while this time, and I think we all silently knew she wasn’t coming out. On the last day of seeing her, the 7 of us slowly crept in the room, not knowing what to expect. When she saw us, she immediately waved us away, yelling in dialect that she didn’t want us to see her like this, wondering how my dad could even think to bring us. She wanted to leave this life and be with her husband, something she would often say ever since he passed all those years ago.

My father, someone who I knew to be the strong silent type, a firm no nonsense guy, made this sound that I have never heard before, and wish I never did. He put his hands to his face and with a mixture of a sob and a moan ran out of the hospital room, my mom following behind him. The 5 of us girls stood there, not knowing what to do or say. I couldn’t even believe what I saw. My dad could cry? He was sad? In that moment I realized we are all watching our own parents grow up. We like to believe that our parents, and most adults for that matter, know it all. They know what is right and wrong, they know how to problem solve, they can figure out anything. They don’t worry or hurt; they never are given an issue they can’t fix. But in that moment, it hit me; they are just people, kids in adult bodies I would say, going through their own stuff. I realized that struggles never end, even into adulthood.

It was quiet on the long drive home and I spent the entire time watching my dad’s face. He was stoic and silent, something I was use to him being. This time however I understood, and felt sorry for what he was going through. I desperately wanted to help but didn't know how. We got home late and went to our separate rooms where we closed ourselves in. I awoke sharply later that night when I heard the phone ring, and I knew she was gone. I silently cried, unsure if it was more for missing her talks and her presence or knowing my dad was in pain. Either way it shook me to my core.

I decided then that I wanted to be a helper. That when I was older, I would help people because seeing my dad, an adult who was the strongest person I knew, suffering was too much. I became a therapist and do my best to ease anyone who is in pain and help in any way I can. When I started working and became mentally exhausted seeing one patient after the other, I would picture my dad’s face that day all those years ago in the hospital room. It would reenergize me and give me a new burst of energy to continue my day.

When I became a mother, I finally lived the way he had to. It’s unfortunate in life that you can’t understand something until you experience it, no matter how often people tell you about it. That you also are a child in an adult body, searching for answers, comfort, and connection. You are doing all this while maintaining a stressful job, house, and balancing friendships and children’s schedules. You worry about bills and the kids’ emotional wellbeing, you wonder if you paid the car insurance on time, if you took the chicken out of the freezer, if you signed that permission slip. My husband, a small business owner, worked long days, and most weekends was pulled aside for some issue that had come up. He worked hard to give his family everything he could, and I worried that my children wouldn’t see that, the same way I hadn’t.

Today I am fortunate that my parents are still with me. They attended my graduation, my wedding, and could be involved in the lives of their grandchildren. My dad is a changed man, no longer with the weight of the world on his shoulders. I’m sure with 5 independent daughters out of the nest, it is easier living for him. I make sure to check in often, because I realized from that day in the hospital that no matter what age you are, there is always a struggle going on for everyone.

I now understand, and I am grateful.