Dorthea L. Hughes - Hushed Cries: Healing is Found in the Choices You Make

Healing is Found in the Choices You Make

dorthea L. hughes

NEW YORK

NASHVILLEMELBOURNE

Hushed Cries

Healing is Found in the Choices You Make

2017 Dorthea L. Hughes

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Life is about choices. Be careful what you say and do.
Like my great-grandfather John always said, This is coming up again.

I sat next to my fathers bedside. Seeing him for the first time in three years, various thoughts filled my headsome good and some bad. Neither of us spoke. Instead, we listened to the unspoken conversations in our minds. Looking him over, I was amazed. In my mind, he had always seemed bigger than life, and now, lying in the bed watching television, he looked so small and weak. Where was the giant man who had created my nightmares and inspired my dreams?

When I first walked into his house, fear consumed me. How would he treat me? Would he scream and call me names? Could I dare to hope that I had been gone long enough for him to miss me? How could I be thirty-five and still feel terror at the thought of displeasing him? Self-consciously, I fingered my hair extensions and wondered if he would be angry with me for wearing them. I had also gained weight since he saw me last. He had always lauded my long, thick hair and chastised me for gaining weight. In that moment, I decided that if he said anything to hurt my feelings, I would walk out the door. I wouldnt turn back, and I wouldnt returnnot even for his funeral.

Sitting in the silence, I glanced at my watch. Ten minutes had passed. He stared at the television, not even glancing in my direction. Perhaps we were each waiting for the other to speak. What could I say to him? How did I even get here? Glancing back at him, I surveyed his head of completely white hair. The enormous bed seemed to swallow his gaunt body.

I heard his wife chatting with my sisters in the next room. Every now and then, she would enter the room and offer me something to drink or eat and tell me how happy they were that I had come to visit. She behaved as if I had not been gone for the last three years, as if nothing had occurred that would make me walk out of Dads life. Did it happen like I perceived it? Or was I overreacting and just being difficult?

The incident that had forced me to walk away screamed inside my head and anger rose up in my throat. Ironically, I lived only a few miles away from my fathers house, and avoiding him in this small town had been difficult.

I wasnt wrong. I made a good decision three years ago.

Realizing I would need to use his phone when I was ready to go home, I surveyed the room. My insecurities spiked, reminding me of what had happened on that day that forced me out of his life. What if we wind up arguing at the end of the visit? What if he kicks me out of his house before I can borrow a phone to call my husband?

I might be forced to walk home and endure the cold, winter night. Sweat beaded upon my forehead, and I started to panic. Maybe I should make up an excuse to use the phone now. Maybe I should leave before anything could go wrong. On the other hand, if Dad didnt accept my excuse, I could anger him. I was just about to work up the nerve to ask for the phone to call my husband DeAnte, when my stomach rumbled. Sickness overwhelmed me. I have to get out of here.

In my home, I reigned as queen. There, my family loved and spoiled me. My home was my retreatthe place where I was in control of my life, of my emotions. Why did I venture out of my sanctuary? What made me believe that I could handle this situation? If I leave now, I can probably still get home in time to watch Law and Order: SVU .

When I left the house, DeAnte had been preparing dinner. Have they eaten already? I pictured myself enjoying my dinner of catfish, spaghetti, tossed salad, and garlic bread. My taste buds danced in my mouth. I didnt want to deal with the turmoil of my life tonight. I wanted to go home and watch other people deal with their lives.

I began rehearsing excuses to go home. I could easily say I needed to get home and get the children ready for bed, even though my husband always did that. I could say I had to go home and do my homework. I had been working on attaining a dual bachelors degree from Franklin University in human resources and management. Everyone knew that Dad was big on schoolwork.

I looked over at him, preparing myself to speak, when a realization hit me: He is going to die . I realized that he would be dying sooner rather than later, and that I had to stop running from him. If I was ever going to deal with my past, it would have to be now. I also realized in that moment, that as much as I hated him, deep down, I loved him too. I wanted to spend as much time with him as possible if he would allow it. I realized that I missed him being in my life.

I still couldnt really believe that his cancer was backthat he had only nine months to live, at most. How could this be? Disbelief and regret played tug-of-war with my soul. Regret washed over meregret for all the time wasted fighting and hating him, hating this man whom I loved more than anyone or anything. What would I do without him? Who would I turn to when I had a problem or needed unsolicited advice? Who would I hate enough to push me to do better for myself and my family? Who would fight the giants that I couldnt defeat? He had been the biggest monster in my life, someone who had tried to destroy me, mentally and physicallyevery day of my young childhood and most of my adult life. Nevertheless, he was Dad. How do I explain that the man I hated most in this world also held a part of my heart? Even though I hadnt spoken to him in years, I thought of him as a place of refuge. I always knew that he was there, that he was close, but that wouldnt be the case anymore.

As thoughts swirled through my head, a commercial flashed on the TV. Dad turned to me, smiled, and excitedly yelled, The prodigal daughter has returned. While his joy warmed me, I did realize that gone was the strong voice that had once terrified me; this voice was now weaker. Before I could grasp the idea of the strength required for him to raise his voice, I saw him smile at me, and I dared to hope that it would be a good visit. My dad had the same effect on all of his children; we loved to see him smile.