I guess, in retrospect, I was already playing the role of psychologist by being a good listener; however, at times like these I found myself thinking that perhaps I should never have told my family that I had decided to study psychology. My parents were not exactly cryptic in voicing their hope that I would become a doctor. Of course, their intention was for me to become a medical doctor – a healer, a high-income earner, and the high priest of society in those days.
There was only one problem with my studying medicine: I could not stand the sight of blood. Even talking about medical conditions could make me extremely squeamish. When I thought about physical injuries in enough detail, I could feel myself getting light-headed and panicky. These traits do not bode well for a person planning to make medicine one’s vocation.
Early in my career I assumed that the dynamic behind my decision to become a psychologist was the realization that I could be a doctor and hopefully a source of pride for my parents, without worrying about blood and guts. Of course, to my parents a Ph.D. was not a “real” doctor, but years later I think they derived some pleasure in the instances they referred to me as “doctor.” Outsiders did not have to know of my “shortcoming” –that I was not a medical doctor.
It is now 2015, and I love my profession. My father, who unfortunately passed away in 2008 at the age of 96, spoke about the Holocaust until the end of his life. I now understand that he suffered a horrible trauma and nothing I could have said would have erased his painful memories. Nor could I supply any cogent or reasonable response as to how something as heinous as the mass murder and torture of six million innocent people by the government of a civilized country, while the world remained silent, could have transpired.
As an adult I now know that there simply are no answers to these questions. More important, I recognize that my discomfort during those walks to synagogue, all those years ago, originated from feelings of helplessness and impotence to make everything okay for my father – something I desperately wanted to do.
Nevertheless, I now understand that my career choice of psychologist was not just a means to be a doctor sans the medical component. I finally understand that as a son and a skillful psychologist I was able to do something that no other professional, not even a medical doctor, would have been trained to do.
I now know that my sympathetic ear, empathy, and words of validation through the years were palliative. I may not have been able to take away my father’s pain, but I was always there to share it with him. For this I am grateful.