I was typing away at my computer when my phone buzzed. It was my eldest sister. I hesitated. For many, a call from family is routine, but for me, it’s a rarity. Even though we all live in the same city, it had been over two months since I last saw or spoke to any of them.
“Hello?” I answered, apprehensively.
“Hi,” she said, followed by an uncomfortable silence. “I wanted to let you know Dad is in the hospital. He has COVID-19.”
I was caught off guard. “No, I didn’t know,” I replied.
“He was admitted today,” she continued, adding that our younger brother and sister’s husband were also unwell. I felt like I was in a bizarre comedy sketch.
“Is it serious?” I asked.
It turned out my brother-in-law had been hospitalized for almost two weeks, while my brother was simply isolating at home. “Okay, thanks for telling me,” I said, feeling a wave of uncertainty wash over me. What was I supposed to do next?
I realized I had to call my mother. “Hey, I heard about Dad,” I said.
She explained how his oxygen levels had dropped significantly, necessitating his admission. Since visits weren’t allowed, she would only receive daily updates via phone. Her calm demeanor didn’t surprise me; she had been a nurse.
Another awkward silence ensued. “Keep me posted,” I said before we hung up.
I have previously shared how my parents inflicted both physical and emotional abuse on my siblings and me. After escaping for a few months, I eventually returned, hoping to prove myself as a good daughter.
Things did improve—no more hitting or screaming—but we never truly addressed the past. It was as if the unspoken rule was, “We’re not doing the awful things anymore, so let’s just move on.”
A couple of years later, I moved out for good, albeit under more amicable circumstances. My parents disapproved of my decision to live alone as a young woman, but they knew they couldn’t stop me.
The crux of the matter is this: my parents never apologized for their actions or acknowledged the damage they caused. To them, their parenting methods were simply the norm. They eventually recognized their mistakes, yet the absence of any apology left an unspoken tension between us.
Isn’t it fascinating how those who hurt you often demand your forgiveness and, more importantly, your forgetfulness? If you don’t comply, you risk being labeled as resentful. I’ve found myself in that position.
My sisters maintain a close relationship with our parents, which has puzzled me for years. I suspect their need for assistance with childcare has kept them frequent visitors at our parents’ home. Did they experience interactions I missed? Perhaps.
As word of my father’s condition spread, I began receiving calls from fellow teachers asking about him. “Is your dad okay? Please update me,” they pleaded. Their concern adds another layer of stress; they expect my reaction to align with their expectations.
To the outside world, my father is charming and likable. Yet, in my eyes, he is the man who yanked my hair and hit me with a belt for minor mistakes. He’s the man who once called me a “disgusting pig” at nine years old. This is the man who terrorized me.
Now, at 64 and battling COVID-19 with multiple health issues, I couldn’t help but reflect on my feelings. I wasn’t happy, but I also wasn’t devastated like I assumed a daughter should be in this situation.
Is it strange that I wish I felt more anguish? Over the years, I built an enormous wall between us, and while it may sound extreme, if I told you I was trying to distance myself from an abusive partner, would you still think so?
My parents caused me deep pain, and while I once felt guilty about my detachment, I now understand it was my mind’s way of coping. If I care less, I can’t be hurt as much. I don’t hate them; I simply don’t think about them. The only tie that binds me is a sense of obligation.
I do feel a pang of sadness. I recognize that I was deprived of a loving father-daughter relationship—a loss that contributes to many of my emotional struggles.
I don’t want him to die, just as I wouldn’t wish death on anyone. Yet, it unnerves me how little I care.
Years ago, when I left home, my father accused me of selfishness, claiming I didn’t consider the pain I caused them. For a moment, I felt guilt, but then I thought of my own suffering. I needed to escape, and that’s what I did.
Now, I’m not a child anymore; they can’t hurt me like they used to. But I face a different risk—the danger of emotional numbness, of detaching from experiences to avoid pain. This detachment may have served me in the past, but it can’t last forever.
I refuse to live as an emotional zombie, merely existing without engaging with life. This is the challenge I face. I don’t know if I’ll fully recover, but I have no choice but to try.
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Summary
This article explores the emotional turmoil of dealing with an estranged father hospitalized with COVID-19. The author reflects on their complicated relationship, the history of abuse, and the challenges of reconciling feelings of obligation and detachment. The narrative reveals the struggle between familial duty and personal healing, illustrating the complexities of love and pain within families.
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