Ever since my dad was admitted to the hospital, I didn’t know what to feel. I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know if I should feel sad. I know by right, by basic, normal human standards, I would feel sad. And I probably did, but I didn’t want to feel it.
Maybe because I thought he didn’t deserve my sympathy.
But I know I cared, because I bought him meds. I go to visit him at the hospital even though it’s far, out of my way and I have tight schedule. I ask, I read, I seek opinions and suggestions.
So I cared.
But I didn’t know what to feel. I didn’t want to feel sad. Because, I probably thought he didn’t deserve my sympathy. I thought I cared because it’s my responsibility, it’s what I should do.
But, I think I care because I’m scared. I want to save him. I don’t want him to go for unnecessary surgeries, chemos and countless of scans and scopes only to find nothing useful.
I hadn’t cried, because I had been pushing myself from crying. But I need to.
I understand the need to be a rock, to be the one with the clear head. But I need to feel too, I need to cry to. I don’t have to cry in front of Papa. I can be his rock. I can be the person who says and supports what he’s thinking but too afraid to say it alone. He doesn’t need to see me cry. They all don’t need to see me cry. I can be everybody’s rock, but I need to cry. On my own.
Crying would clear my head. So I can be the clear one for the family.