by Christy Cunningham

Created on: November 17, 2008

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Silence

This morning I woke up in my parent's spare bedroom. I've been ill and didn't want to be alone so I slept at my mom's. As I layed in bed basking in the glow of the early morning sun and enjoying the spring fragrances coming in through the open window, I closed my eyes and my mind took me back to nine months ago the last time I had stayed there. In August I remodeled my apartment and moved into their spare room for the interim.

Every morning I would be awakened by the sound of my dad filling the tub for his early morning bath. I would think to myself, "Why does he get up so early? He's got cancer; he's always so tired he should sleep in." Then I'd go back to sleep. A couple of hours later when I was ready to arise, he'd either be studying his scriptures or eating breakfast, I'd call out from my room, "Good Morning dad!" and he would respond by saying, "Are you alright dear?"

I could visibly see that dad was getting worse and knew that I should prepare myself for what was to come. However, I felt that the time couldn't possibly be near. He was still mowing the lawn and he wasn't in any pain. He was just tired and weak all the time. So every morning when I heard that water pouring into the tub I felt safe in bed and knew my dad was still around.

One day the pain began but he refused, at least he tried to refuse to let it change his daily routine. I noticed that the daily baths were getting a little later. He hated with a passion that he was being "so lazy" and "sleeping the day away" (He thought that by eight am the day was practically over.) The routine continued although altered a bit and one morning, after he'd had a dreadful night of pain I finally heard the tub fill and I felt safe again, "Dad's okay" I said to my heart. He called to me from the bathroom "Did you have a good sleep dear? I was incredulous! His body was being ravaged by this horrible disease and yet his words to me were, "Did you have a good sleep dear?"

Suddenly, one morning I was awakened not by the sound of running water, but by silence. Dad did not get out of bed that day. The next morning I silently prayed that I would hear the sound of the faucet but to no avail. One morning I heard it again. The awaited pour of the faucet only to have my hope smashed to pieces when I realized it was only the washing machine. How I longed to hear that familiar noise. As long as dad was alive I still could be the little girl. There was someone who I could go to for help. There was someone who

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