by Shae Wallace
Most people are scared of the dark, but I am scared of the quiet: a place I’ve never known. Growing up as the youngest of five children, the house was always loud. From hockey sticks scraping against the kitchen tile to the sound of Barbies talking to one another while driving down the hallways, there was never a moment when all five of us were
quiet at the same time.
I was thirteen, my sisters were sixteen and nineteen, my two twin brothers were twenty-two. Our Dad had been in a coma for nine days following his open heart surgery. Sitting in that cold, drab waiting room, they told us it was a routine procedure–only a one percent chance of any complications. On May 18th of 2019, my Dad was in that one percent.
That was the first time that none of us knew what to say. For the first time in our entire lives, our house remained silent with only the sounds of settling floorboards and air conditioner hums filling the air. None of us knew what to do with ourselves without him, we could listen to each other’s breathing. It was an eerie silence. Hockey sticks no longer scraped the floors. Our dolls laid on our bedroom floors untouched. The pool remained empty as leaf debris and greenery moved in. There were no longer joyful screams of play, laughter following stupid jokes, or chatter of a happy family living together–only a dead silence. I was used to being the quiet one in my family, but now that my spirited and fun-loving siblings were incapable of being themselves, I hated the isolation we found ourselves trapped in. I didn’t know what to do but I knew I hated what was happening. I needed my siblings back. I needed to figure out how to cheer them up so they could save me, too. We needed to be ourselves and follow our hearts. We needed to help each other and never let go of one another. We needed to make our Dad proud.
He was the best person I knew. My Dad was an ever-present shoulder to cry on. At every game of every sport we played, he was always in the audience, beaming with pride for us. When I would be stuck at our kitchen table with impossible math homework, he never made me cry or feel stupid, he agreed that they were impossible. He was a person who wanted to give the world and more to his children, offering wisdom and care through many talks, stories, and words of advice with each of us. Until one day he couldn’t anymore.
I think as children, we believe that our parents are going to live forever. I thought that mine would at least make it to my middle school graduation. I didn’t get to hear him yelling at me for staying out late on school nights. I never get to go into the office for “Take Your Daughter to Work” day. I’ll never get to go to another father-daughter event with him. I didn’t get to see his prideful face at my high school graduation. We didn’t get to agree that college applications felt impossible. He didn’t help me move into my dorm or decorate my room. He won’t dance with me at my wedding. As time passed on, the thought of every experience he won’t be there for weighed me down further and further into my grief.
No one was the same after that day, and we never will be, but together we grew stronger. Together, we learned how to handle our emotions–both the old ones we thought we’d overcome and the new ones that surprised us. We faced our panic attacks together, supporting one another through them until they slowly became less frequent. We started therapy to process all of the pain that scarred us. Eventually, we went back to school, traveled to new places, joined new clubs, started new schools, lost and gained many friends, and made so many new memories from new experiences without him, but together. Slowly, we started recognizing ourselves once again. It took about two months for the noise to slowly begin again–for the pool to be occupied, the yard to be played in, and the hockey sticks to start scraping the tiles again–but none of us could
let go of what we had lost.
I think about my Dad all the time. At first, it hurt too much imagining his smile, remembering his voice, and thinking of the life I’d have to live without him. But, I learned to endure that pain to honor his memory, instead of taking myself away from it. I’ve realized that I can’t change what happened, but I can make sure that our house is never quiet again. So, no, I am not afraid of the dark–I welcome it–because when I close my eyes, there is always a chance I could see him again.