I sat at my desk, typing away, when my phone rang. It was my oldest sister. I hesitated. For most, calls from family are routine, but that’s not the case for me. Despite our family all living in the same city, it had been over two months since I last saw or spoke to anyone.
We’re not close; I typically only reach out during obligatory family gatherings. So, whenever I receive a call from them, anxiety sets in.
“Hello?” I answered cautiously.
“Hi,” she replied, followed by a long pause. “I wanted to let you know that Dad is in the hospital. He has COVID-19.”
I was taken aback. “No, I didn’t know,” I replied.
“He was admitted today,” she continued. She then mentioned that our younger brother and sister’s husband were also ill. I felt as if I had stepped into a surreal sketch.
“Is it serious?” I asked, and learned that my brother-in-law had been hospitalized for nearly two weeks, while my brother was simply isolating at home.
“Okay, thanks for the update,” I said, feeling a wave of uncertainty wash over me. What was my next step? My instinct told me to call my mother.
“Hey, I heard about Dad,” I said when she picked up.
She explained how Dad’s oxygen levels had dropped, necessitating his hospitalization. Due to restrictions, she could only receive one phone call each day to get updates. Her calm demeanor surprised me; she’s a retired nurse, which might explain her composed attitude.
As our conversation progressed, the familiar awkward silence crept in.
“Well, keep me posted,” I said, and we ended the call.
I’ve written before about the abusive dynamics in my childhood home. I had once fled for a few months, returning later in a bid to prove I was a good daughter. Things did improve, with no more physical violence or name-calling, but the past was never addressed. It felt like we were told to move on as if the scars didn’t exist.
Years later, I moved out again, this time on better terms, even though my parents disapproved of me living alone. They never apologized, nor did they acknowledge the damage they inflicted. To them, their parenting was standard; they eventually recognized the flaws, but an apology was never forthcoming, leaving an unspoken tension between us.
Interestingly, my sisters maintain a close relationship with our parents, which has baffled me. I suspect it’s because they’ve relied on my parents for childcare, allowing them access I never had. Did they witness something different? Conversations I missed?
The irony is that my father and I were technically coworkers; both public school teachers, we shared acquaintances. As news of his hospitalization spread, I received calls from colleagues concerned for his well-being. Each call added to my stress, as their kindness collided with my ambivalence.
To the outside world, my father is a likable guy, but I know him as the man who belittled me and used to strike out in anger. He’s now a 64-year-old man with a history of health issues, including obesity, diabetes, and hypertension. Thankfully, he sought medical help early, but he still faces significant risks.
After speaking with my mother, I was left to ponder my feelings. I wasn’t happy, but I also didn’t feel the profound sadness I assumed I should. Is it strange that I wished I could cry?
I’ve built an emotional fortress around myself. This might sound harsh, but if I told you I distanced myself from an abusive partner, would you judge me? My parents inflicted deep wounds, and while I once felt guilty about my detachment, I now recognize it as my mind’s protective mechanism.
I don’t harbor hatred; I simply don’t think of them much at all. The only thing tethering me is a sense of obligation. I do feel a degree of sadness, knowing I missed out on a loving father-daughter relationship. This fractured bond lies at the heart of many of my emotional struggles.
I don’t wish for his death, just as I wouldn’t wish that for anyone. Yet, I’m alarmed by how little it troubles me. When I left home years ago, my father labeled me selfish, claiming I didn’t consider the pain I caused. Initially, I felt guilty, but then I remembered my own suffering. I needed to escape.
Now, as an adult, I know they can’t hurt me anymore. Instead, I face a different danger: the risk of emotional numbness, detaching from everything and everyone to avoid further pain. Of all the wounds my parents inflicted, this might be the most insidious.
Ultimately, it’s my responsibility to navigate this path. I recognize that while this emotional detachment once protected me, it’s time to confront it. I refuse to live as an emotional zombie, drifting through life without truly engaging. This is my battle, and I must try to reclaim my emotional self.
For more insights on relationships and emotional well-being, you may find this blog post insightful here. Also, check out this resource for authoritative information on related topics.
Possible search queries:
- How to cope with an estranged parent’s illness
- Dealing with family estrangement during a health crisis
- Navigating complicated family dynamics
- Understanding emotional detachment from family
- Managing relationships with abusive parents
Summary:
The author recounts the complex emotions surrounding her estranged father’s hospitalization due to COVID-19. Despite a tumultuous childhood marked by abuse, she grapples with feelings of detachment and obligation. As she reflects on her relationship with her parents, she acknowledges the emotional barriers she has built to protect herself from past pain, ultimately recognizing the need to confront her feelings rather than remain numb.