My father was a workaholic. Emotionally scarred coming through the Great Depression, he was consumed with providing security for his family. I was with him when he had a massive heart attack at the age of 49. He survived but his health was fragile from that point on.
Nevertheless, he soldiered on, weathered the storm of a corporate redesign and gained the admiration and respect of co-workers and bosses alike. However, he never acquired any hobbies. His work was his life.
His work took him away from home for much of the time and my mother felt alone and isolated. Aside from some corporate events, I don’t recall them going to movies or attending concerts and other cultural events. In middle age my mother also took a job to provide money for my sister’s and my college education.
Once my sister and I were settled, Dad’s idea was to save enough for retirement so that he and my mother could travel. They built up a considerable nest egg, but for my father, it was never enough. Mom begged him to retire so they could enjoy life. Finally, he agreed.
On his last business trip, he dropped dead of heart failure on the streets of Mexico City.