(From the Archive) The Father Wound: Parenting My Boomer Dad
Amy Holan (also known as Havi Zavi) is a Licensed Psychotherapist and writer who publishes Havizavi.com, a synthesis of travel essays, art, culture, and adventures.
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I look over and see my aging dad grimace in pain.
“Dad? You okay?”
He nods as he absently rubs his leg.
“It’s just this damn knee. It feels like it’s on fire.”
He has just arrived for his visit, and already I find myself fretting. Is this knee thing new? Did he bring a cane? I take a mental inventory of the preparations I have already taken: a frame for around the toilet to make it easier to stand, chairs placed strategically to help him tie his shoes. We should be okay…I tell myself, trying desperately to self-soothe as I feel my anxiety spiking. Take a breath, he’s 81.
My fretting over him should come as no surprise; this has been our pattern for the past forty years.
Him, head bowed over the steering wheel, sobbing after my mom left him. Me, age five, consoling him. “It’s okay daddy, you still have me.”
Amy Hollan as a child in the 70s
Him, standing by as I cook dinner, a pre-teen with a second-hand cookbook trying to make something besides a microwave meal.
Me, calling the sports bar at midnight, one AM, two AM, asking the bartender to tell him to come home.
A pattern of constant worrying and fretting that is woven so tightly it feels impenetrable, binding us together and slowly suffocating me, the comfort and pain so intrinsically connected that it is hard to know where one stops and the other begins.
I pull the car out of the airport and onto the freeway, pointing us towards my home, wondering if this was all a terrible mistake. I practice my deep breathing and listen as he recounts his flight woes. I try to tell him something and he listens for a beat before jumping in, interrupting with a non-sequitur that has become his norm. “You know, in 1985 I met this guy…”
I fade in and out of listening, and as usual, he doesn’t seem to notice. I am simply a lacuna, there to receive all his stories, to listen and nod quietly. He looks so much older, I think grimly to myself. It is as if my dad, ever the tough guy, is crumbling in front of me. The man who at 45 took a kick to the mouth from our giant thoroughbred Artie, sawing his chin in half and dislodging several teeth. There were no tears. There were no dramatics. He simply took a dirty rag out of his toolbox, pressed it to his face, and drove himself to the hospital.
It is as if my dad, ever the tough guy, is crumbling in front of me. The man who at 45 took a kick to the mouth from our giant thoroughbred Artie, sawing his chin in half and dislodging several teeth. There were no tears. There were no dramatics. He simply took a dirty rag out of his toolbox, pressed it to his face, and drove himself to the hospital.
Then this tough guy would disappear as he became consumed by the darkness that lurked inside him, rendering him catatonically depressed. I would spend my parenting-plan assigned weekends with him, begging for his attention. “Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad.” I would shout into his ear, his gaze never breaking at some unknown spot in the distance, mumbling to himself. In these dark times, my latch-key kid persona only deepened: it was me making dinner. Me trying to break him out of it. Me worrying, worrying, worrying…just hoping that he would stay alive in between visits so we would see each other again.
This parentification, where the child takes on the role of the parent, only deepened in my adulthood. Bossing him around (eat some vegetables! Take vitamins! Get some damn exercise!) became the theme of our calls and visits. He never seemed to mind. He would chuckle and agree, enjoying being parented, enjoying someone caring.
In return my dad was always there, ready to listen, when my own depression crept up. He understood, deeply, and would sit on the phone with me, without judgement or advice. It was as if those moments of support that left me feeling heard, seen, and understood almost made up for the moments where I was swallowed whole by the tidal wave of his own depressive episodes.
Then this tough guy would disappear as he became consumed by the darkness that lurked inside him, rendering him catatonically depressed. I would spend my parenting-plan assigned weekends with him, begging for his attention. “Dad. Dad. Dad. Dad.” I would shout into his ear, his gaze never breaking at some unknown spot in the distance, mumbling to himself... Me worrying, worrying, worrying…just hoping that he would stay alive in between visits so we would see each other again.
Almost.
We arrive at my home and work on getting him settled in. I heft his giant suitcase onto the luggage rack I have purchased specifically for this moment, something waist high since bending is now a problem for him. He is 81, I remind myself, gently calming myself down before I mentally start to reprimand him for not taking care of himself. He is 81.
Watching him age comes with the crippling fear I hold in my heart about my own mortality, the two tangled deeply as I see myself in thirty something years, grappling with an aging body and mind. What will I be like? I wonder as I feel the anxiety clutch my heart. This is a particularly harrowing thought as a proud Childfree by Choice woman. I hold few regrets when it comes to the decision to not have children. While it was the correct choice for me and my husband, we did not land on the decision lightly. There were years, years, of discussions, musings, and concerns as we wrapped our heads around this choice to not procreate. And while I am happy with this decision, in these moments with my dad, witnessing him slowing down, falling apart, growing older, I cannot help but wonder, who will take care of me in the end?
Amy with her father.
That fear-based thought can be easily squashed after one twelve-hour shift in the Emergency Room I worked in for years. Witnessing the end for so many people was a brash wakeup call that no matter how many children you have, there is no guarantee you will be surrounded by those you love when your end comes. I sometimes reflect on this when I am feeling the most charged, the most scared, the most lonely, and it soothes me. I reflect on my decade as a family therapist and think of what it takes to parent, and know, with certainty, that life is not for me. It is so much work to parent, so much push and pull in shaping the young to become productive, healthy, and happy members of society. It is an honorable path, certainly. Just not the path for me.
Instead, I am left parenting my parent, knowing that I am doing this out of a mishmash of love, obligation, and guilt. Years ago, I spoke to a Rebbetzin, or Rabbi’s wife, about my frustrations with my father. She reminded me that in the Torah we are commanded to respect, love, and honor our parents. She pointed out that we are not commanded to love our children. “That’s because loving our children is easy, it’s inherent in us. Loving our parents can be hard, so we are commanded to do so.” And so, I march forward, following this commandment. Pushing through and finding the internal strength and fortitude to show up, give love, and expect absolutely nothing in return.
My dad is sitting on the couch, looking at his iPad. “Aim,” he calls to me in the kitchen, “can you help me figure this thing out? It isn’t connecting.” Amy Holan: Daughter. Cook. Tech Support. I sit down next to him to figure out why his bank password is not working. He takes this moment to remind me where his paperwork is, when he dies. He shares all his passwords, so I can notify all institutions of his passing when he goes. A macabre conversation, but one we have been having for the past twenty years. I used to roll my eyes at it, and now I listen attentively, knowing that we are closer to that day with each passing moment. I feel my stomach drop and tears well in my eyes just thinking of it. For no matter how complicated our relationship is or has been, I know just how much I am going to miss him. My heart lurches and I take a deep breath, trying to hold onto this moment, grateful for this time with him. “Dad,” I start, looking over at him, wanting to say how much he has driven me crazy, grossed me out, made me uncomfortable, made me feel safe, made me feel heard, made me feel prized and like I mattered.
He looks at me, taking me in. “Have you heard the one about the guy who needed a push?” He smiles and turns toward me, happy for a brief moment of reprieve, a brief sigh of relief as age and mortality fade away and we get one more moment to laugh, together.
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Amy Holan (also known as Havi Zavi) is a Licensed Psychotherapist and writer who publishes Havizavi.com, a synthesis of travel essays, art, culture, and adventures. She is also a contributing columnist at Womancake on Substack, a publication serving large slices of wisdom for women over 40. When not traveling the world, she splits her time between the desert and a small, rugged island in the Pacific Northwest. A proud Childfree by Choice woman, she is delighted by the other honorariums she holds: wife, auntie, sister, cousin, friend, dog mom. You can find her on Instagram @havi_zavi.
" Witnessing the end for so many people was a brash wakeup call that no matter how many children you have, there is no guarantee you will be surrounded by those you love when your end comes." My dear mom said something similar just weeks before her passing—that there was but one way to leave this world, to walk out alone.
Cherish every moment you have with the people you love because we don't always get to have them with us. ❤️
Such a vivid depiction of the polarities involved with that dynamic. Many of us are still struggling to resolve that tension, long after they are gone.
BUT what’s the end of the joke???? Don’t leave us hanging!
“Have you heard the one about the guy who needed a push?”
_________??????
I’m a child free loner, only fringe relatives left, and really trying to prepare myself for the solo exit too. I’m a champ at being super prepared for solo road trips; that’s the template I guess.