why life is so hard?
The story
For the past three months, I have been carrying my dad's appointment folder to clinics, covering Maya's shifts at the store, and trying to make my apartment livable after the upstairs pipe burst. I keep doing the next obvious thing, yet the question in my head is why life is so hard? A cardiology visit, a closing shift, or wet carpet does not sound impossible by itself. Stacked together, the clinic calls, store schedule, and repair mess feel like a pile of chores that can call me back.
At Dad's cardiology office, I know which parking level has the working elevator and which clerk will actually check whether his referral arrived. I keep his pill list in a plastic sleeve because he leaves loose papers in his jacket pockets. During his last visit, he looked around the packed waiting room and said, "You should get frequent flyer miles for this place." I laughed because Dad making a bad airport joke was the nicest part of that appointment.
Maya's childcare keeps falling through, so her name pops up on my phone whenever I am already putting on my work shoes. She asks politely, and I keep saying yes because I know what a sick kid does to a paycheck; After I told my manager, Dan, that I was worn out, he said, "All that constant stress comes from a bad attitude." I had just sent him a photo of the revised schedule with my name covering Maya's closing shift. I did not argue because I needed the paycheck more than I needed Dan to understand how rude that was.
When the upstairs pipe burst, dirty water ran through my bathroom vent and soaked the bedroom wall. I pulled up damp padding, washed towels at the laundromat, and replaced a warped closet shelf while waiting for maintenance to show up. The maintenance guy pressed his palm against the wall and called it "basically dry," even though the apartment still smells like wet drywall. I spent $180 cleaning clothes and replacing a power strip that got soaked. The landlord's portal now says the repair is resolved, but the bathroom baseboard still lifts when I touch it.
Yesterday at 6:40 a.m., the plastic tab on Dad's appointment folder snapped in the clinic parking lot. His test orders slid under a parked SUV, and one page landed in a shallow puddle. I crouched beside the tire, trying to reach the papers without putting my knee in the water, and I started crying. A woman carrying a travel mug helped grab the wet page and quietly said, "Take your time." The broken tab was tiny, but it was the only thing my hands could not quietly fix. I got the pages back into order and walked them to Dad at the clinic door;
Dad noticed my face, took the folder, and said, "Let me carry something for once." On the drive home, I finally texted Maya that I could not cover her next closing shift, and she replied with a heart instead of getting mad. I am definately not cheerful about Dan, the damp baseboard, or the clinic calling again, but refusing that shift gave me a little room to breathe. Tonight the folder is held shut with a binder clip, Dad's papers are dry, and my work shoes are staying by the door. Am I overreacting, or what would you do when simply keeping Dad, work, and this damp apartment going makes you ask why life is so hard?
