October

In October, my 79-year-old parents decided they wanted to go on vacation.

And because I am the Nice Daughter™, I offered to accompany them.

Living the life.

But let me give you context.

My parents are first-generation immigrants from Italy. They arrived here in 1975 with me in tow and about seventeen suitcases filled with tomato sauce and expectations.

Typical setup:

My dad worked.

My mom ran the house like a small emotional monarchy.

Baking, cooking, canning, gossiping with the neighbours — that was her daily routine.

And somehow decades later it still is. Except now she has replaced “raising the children” with “managing my father.”

My siblings call me a saint.

My dad speaks only when spoken to.

My mother speaks even when not spoken to.

He breathes deeply and says nothing.

We speak on his behalf.

This drives my mother insane.

Which drives him to breathe even deeper.

Two years ago my dad was diagnosed with bladder cancer.

Thankfully it didn’t spread.

Unfortunately he got a bad infection that made life… uncomfortable.

By October he was on medication and stable.

So we booked a trip to Samana.

Because my mother “needed it.”

Translation: she needed to complain somewhere warmer.

We arrived safely. Ocean view room. Air conditioning.

Critical mother as we entered our room: “It’s too cold.”

Me: “Do not touch the dial. We will die of heat.”

She touched the dial.

I woke up in a pool of sweat at 3 a.m.

She claimed she was “perfectly comfortable.”

The next morning I attempted to negotiate.

AC off at night, on during the day so we don’t return from the beach to a tropical sauna.

I obviously lost the bargaining war.

The days became routine:

6 a.m. beach walk with my mother.

Return.

Collect my father.

Breakfast.

Beach.

By 10 a.m. I was on my second margarita.

For survival purposes only.

My dad would go rest every afternoon after lunch. He was uncomfortable and tired.

Lucky him — he had the AC.

I had my mother.

Until 4 p.m.

Margarita number four.

The only time I could think was when my mother fell asleep on the lounge chair. That’s when the dramatic internal soundtrack would start.

I looked at them and thought:

When did they get this old?

The health scare had taken something from both of them. My dad seemed more confused than before. He couldn’t orient himself around the hotel. One afternoon he didn’t come back from the bathroom and I had to go on a small resort-wide search operation.

Margarita number five.

Mother wakes up. Thinking suspended.

When she falls asleep again existential crisis resumes.

As much as she was exhausting me I suddenly felt sad for them. Two immigrants who never fully rooted themselves here. Still watching Italian news. Still emotionally living somewhere between 1975 and Naples.

And my dad — slowly losing pieces of reality.

They looked like characters in a slightly dysfunctional play. And apparently I was the “stable” one holding it together.

That realization was humbling.

My siblings call me a saint for enduring my mother for a week.

Let’s be clear.

I am not a saint.

I am a woman slightly buzzed at 40 degrees Celsius trying to process guilt under a palm tree.

Because then the thoughts came:

Where was I when my dad started declining?

Was I too busy?

Were my calls too short?

Did I visit enough?

Oh.

Right.

I was working.

Being indispensable.

Answering emails at 3 a.m.

Building a career like it was a personality.

Turns out the company would have survived if I had closed my laptop at 5 p.m.

Time with my dad does not come with an auto-renew feature.

That trip — beyond the AC wars and margaritas — forced me to see something uncomfortable:

Achievement has a cost.

Now all I can do is show up more.

Call more.

Visit more.

Complain less about the thermostat.

Maybe being a saint isn’t enduring your mother for a week.

Maybe it’s learning to be present before there’s nothing left to be present for.