I was sitting at my desk, focused on my work, when my phone rang. It was my older sister calling. I hesitated. For many, receiving calls from family is routine, but for me, it’s a rare event. Despite living in the same city, it had been over two months since I last saw or spoke to any of my family members.
We’re not particularly close. Contact typically happens only during obligatory family gatherings, which makes me anxious whenever I receive a call.
“Yes?” I answered.
“Hi,” she said, 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, feeling a rush of emotions.
“He was admitted today,” she continued, adding that our younger brother and our sister’s husband were also unwell. It felt surreal, almost like a skit from a Monty Python show.
“Is it serious?” I asked.
It turned out my brother-in-law had been hospitalized for nearly two weeks, while my brother was only isolating at home. “Okay, thanks,” I said, overwhelmed. What should I do now? I realized I needed to contact my mother.
“Hey, I heard about Dad,” I said.
She explained that my father’s oxygen levels had dropped significantly, forcing his hospital admission. Due to visitor restrictions, she would only receive one daily phone call with updates. Her calm demeanor didn’t surprise me; she’s a retired nurse.
Once again, there was an uncomfortable silence in our conversation. “Keep me posted,” I said before we ended the call.
In the past, I’ve shared my experiences of physical and emotional abuse from my parents. I left home for a few months but eventually returned to prove my worth as a daughter. Over time, things did change—there was no more hitting or screaming. But we never truly confronted the past. It was as if the unspoken agreement was to move forward without addressing the hurt.
Years later, I moved out permanently, despite my parents’ disapproval. They were concerned about me living alone, but ultimately, they could do nothing to stop me.
Here’s the crux of the matter: My parents never apologized for their actions or acknowledged the pain they caused. I came to understand that, to them, their parenting methods were normal. They eventually realized their mistakes but never expressed remorse. Consequently, an unspoken tension lingered between us.
Isn’t it interesting how those who hurt you often rush you to forgive and forget? If you don’t, they label you as bitter. That’s the narrative I’ve been stuck with.
My sisters maintain close relationships with our parents, which has puzzled me. They often needed my parents’ help with childcare, leading to more frequent visits. Did they experience something I didn’t? Did they have conversations I missed out on? The outcome is clear: my siblings connect with our parents, while I remain distanced.
Amusingly, my father and I share a professional background; we both worked as public school teachers, albeit in different schools. Since his hospitalization news spread, I’ve been inundated with calls from fellow educators asking about his condition. While I appreciate their concern, their surprise at my indifference adds to my stress.
To the outside world, my father appears charming. “Such a wonderful person!” they say. Yet, this is the same man who used to pull my hair or hit me with a belt for minor mistakes. The same man who called me a “disgusting pig” at nine years old.
Now, he is a 64-year-old man battling multiple health issues. Thankfully, he received early medical attention, but his health risks are significant. After speaking with my mother, I found myself questioning my feelings.
I’m not happy about his condition, but I’m also not as devastated as one might expect a daughter to be. Shouldn’t I be crying? I’ve built a substantial emotional barrier between us over the years. If I were to compare it to escaping an abusive partner, would that still sound extreme?
My parents inflicted deep wounds on me. I used to feel guilt over my detachment, but now I recognize it as a coping mechanism. If we distance ourselves from someone, we reduce the potential for pain.
I don’t harbor hate; it’s worse than that: I seldom think about them. The only thing tethering me to them is a sense of obligation.
I do feel a certain sadness, knowing I was deprived of a normal father-daughter relationship. This fractured bond lies at the root of many of my emotional struggles.
And here’s my dilemma: I don’t want him to die, just as I wouldn’t wish that for anyone, yet I’m startled by my lack of concern. When I left home years ago, he accused me of selfishness, claiming I wasn’t considering the pain I caused them. For a moment, I felt guilty, but then I remembered my own suffering. I needed to escape, so I did.
Now, I’m not that little girl anymore. They can’t hurt me, but I face a different danger: the risk of emotional numbness. Of all the scars they left, this might be the most profound.
But this numbness is no longer their responsibility; it’s mine to manage. I once thought this emotional wall protected me, but I refuse to live as an emotional zombie, drifting through life without truly engaging.
I must confront this challenge head-on. I don’t know if I’ll ever fully recover, but I have no choice but to try.
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Summary
This article explores the complex emotions surrounding a daughter’s response to her estranged father’s hospitalization due to COVID-19. It delves into the impact of past abuse and the struggle to reconcile feelings of obligation, detachment, and grief.
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When Your Estranged Father Is Hospitalized With COVID-19, family dynamics, emotional abuse, estrangement, coping mechanisms, father-daughter relationship