I was focused on my work at the computer when my phone rang. It was my older sister. I hesitated. For many, a call from family is routine; for me, it’s a rarity. Even though we all reside in the same city, it’s been over two months since I last saw or spoke to anyone in my family.
“Hello?” I answered, my heart racing.
“Hi,” she replied, followed by a long pause. “Did you know Dad is in the hospital? He has COVID-19.”
“No, I didn’t,” I said, feeling a mix of shock and confusion. She informed me that my father had been admitted that day and that our younger brother and sister’s husband were also unwell. For a moment, it felt surreal, almost like a scene from a comedy sketch.
“Is it serious?” I inquired. My brother-in-law had been hospitalized for nearly two weeks, while my brother was isolating at home.
“Okay, thanks,” I said, feeling a wave of uncertainty wash over me. What should I do next?
I knew I had to call my mother. “Hey, I heard about Dad,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. She explained how his oxygen levels had dropped dangerously low, leading to his hospitalization. Visits were prohibited, but she would receive daily updates via phone. Her calm demeanor surprised me—she’s a retired nurse, which made her composure understandable.
An uncomfortable silence followed, as it often does during our conversations. “Let me know how he’s doing,” I said, and we ended the call.
In previous writings, I’ve shared how my parents subjected my siblings and me to emotional and physical abuse. I fled home for a time but returned to prove I could be a good daughter. Over the years, the situation improved; the hitting and yelling stopped, but the past was left unaddressed. “Let’s just move on,” seemed to be the unspoken agreement.
Eventually, I moved out for good, albeit under tense circumstances. My parents disapproved, especially since I would be living alone as a young woman, but they knew they couldn’t stop me.
Here’s the crux: my parents never apologized for their actions, nor did they recognize the harm they inflicted. To them, their behavior was normal. Although they eventually acknowledged their mistakes, they never expressed regret, leaving an invisible barrier between us.
Isn’t it interesting how those who hurt you often rush you to forgive and forget? If you don’t, you’re labeled resentful. Apparently, that’s my new identity.
My sisters maintain a close bond with our parents, which perplexes me. I suspect it’s because they’ve relied on my parents for childcare due to their own personal and professional circumstances. Perhaps they experienced something I didn’t—conversations that remained beyond my reach.
Despite our shared connection as public school teachers, my father and I have never worked at the same school. As news of his condition spread, I received calls from colleagues asking about his well-being. Their concern only heightened my anxiety; they expected me to be more affected by this news.
To the outside world, my father is a likable figure. But for me, he was the man who yanked my hair and punished me for minor offenses. He once told me I was a “disgusting pig” in need of weight loss. He was my tormentor.
Now, at 64, he faces health challenges, including diabetes and hypertension. Thankfully, he received medical attention in time, but several risk factors remain. After speaking with my mother, I found myself contemplating my emotions. I wasn’t happy, but I wasn’t devastated either.
Is it strange that I wished I could feel more? I created a formidable wall between my father and myself to shield my emotions. It might seem extreme, but it’s akin to distancing oneself from an abusive partner—an act of self-preservation.
My parents inflicted wounds that few can imagine. While I once felt guilt over my detachment, I now recognize it as my mind’s coping mechanism. If I care less, I can’t be hurt as deeply. I don’t harbor hatred; I simply don’t think about them. The only thing tethering me is a sense of obligation.
There’s a tinge of sadness, too. I realize I’ve missed out on a bond that many people cherish: a loving father-daughter relationship. I’m aware that my troubled relationship is a source of various emotional struggles; it’s practically a textbook case.
So, here’s my dilemma: I don’t wish for his death, nor do I want anyone to die. Yet, it unnerves me how little I truly care.
Years ago, when I left home, my father accused me of selfishness, claiming I didn’t consider the pain I was causing. That moment of guilt quickly faded as I reflected on my own suffering—someone had to advocate for me. I needed to escape.
Now, I am no longer a child; they can’t hurt me physically anymore. However, I face a different peril: the risk of emotional numbness, of detaching from everything to avoid pain. Of all the harm my parents caused, this is perhaps the most insidious.
The responsibility for my emotional state now lies with me. While I once found safety in numbness, it’s time for that chapter to close. I refuse to live as an emotional zombie—existing but not truly alive.
This struggle is mine to confront, and I must try to find a way through it.
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Summary:
This article explores the complex emotions surrounding an estranged parent’s hospitalization due to COVID-19. The author reflects on their difficult family history, the challenge of feeling detached from a parent who caused them harm, and the struggle to confront their own emotional numbness. Ultimately, they recognize the importance of addressing their feelings and understanding their current state.
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