Listening

Listening

There is a lot of stuff thast gets miraculously saved on my computer. I don’t think that I have ever shared this one with you:

Subject: Network:Inspiration for midweek

Date: Wed, 31 Jan 2001 08:27:16 -0800

From: Kay Nuyens <knuyens@novagate.com>

To: “Network@Hypnotherapycenter.com” <Network@hypnotherapycenter.com>

 

Dear Friends,

Many blessings for an awesome week!

Love,

Kay

 

Learning To Listen

 

We all know what it’s like to get that phone call in the middle

of the night. This night was no different.

 

Jerking up to the ringing summons, I focused on the red,

illuminated numbers of my clock. Midnight. Panicky thoughts

filled my sleep-dazed mind as I grabbed the receiver.

 

“Hello?” My heart pounded, I gripped the phone tighter and

eyed my husband, who was now turning to face my side of

the bed.

 

“Mama?” The voice answered. I could hardly hear the whisper

over the static. But my thoughts immediately went to my daughter.

 

When the desperate sound of a young crying voice became clear

on the line, I grabbed for my husband and squeezed his wrist.

 

“Mama, I know it’s late. But don’t… don’t say anything until I

finish. And before you ask, yes I’ve been drinking. I nearly ran

off the road a few miles back and…

 

I drew in a sharp, shallow breath, released my husband and pressed

my hand against my forehead. Sleep still fogged my mind, and I

attempted to fight back the panic. Something wasn’t right.

 

“…And I got so scared. All I could think of was how if would hurt

you if a policeman came to your door and said I’d been killed. I

want… to come home. I know running away was wrong. I know

you’ve been worried sick. I should have called you days ago but

I was afraid… afraid…”

 

Sobs of deep-felt emotion flowed from the receiver and poured

into my heart. Immediately I pictured my daughter’s face in my

mind, and my fogged senses seemed to clear, “I think —”

 

“No! Please let me finish! Please!” She pleaded, not so much in

anger, but in desperation. I paused and tried to think what to say.

Before I could go on, she continued. “I’m pregnant, Mama. I

know I shouldn’t be drinking now…especially now, but I’m scared,

Mama. So scared!”

 

The voice broke again, and I bit into my lip, feeling my own eyes

fill with moisture. I looked up at my husband, who sat silently

mouthing, “Who is it?”

 

I shook my head and when I didn’t answer, he jumped up and

left the room, returning seconds later with a portable phone held

to his ear. She must have heard the click in the line because she

asked, “Are you still there? Please don’t hang up on me! I need

you. I feel so alone.”

 

I clutched the phone and stared at my husband, seeking guidance.

“I’m here, I wouldn’t hang up, ” I said.

 

“I should have told you, Mama. I know I should have told you. But,

when we talk, you just keep telling me what I should do. You read

all those pamphlets on how to talk about sex and all, but all you

do is talk. You don’t listen to me. You never let me tell you how I

feel. It is as if my feelings aren’t important. Because you’re my

mother you think you have all the answers. But sometimes I don’t

need answers. I just want someone to listen.”

 

I swallowed the lump in my throat and stared at the

how-to-talk-to-your-kids pamphlets scattered on my nightstand.

“I’m listening,” I whispered.

 

“You know, back there on the road after I got the car under

control, I started thinking about the baby and taking care of it.

Then I saw this phone booth and it was as if I could hear you

preaching to me about how people shouldn’t drink and drive.

So I called a taxi. I want to come home.”

 

“That’s good honey,” I said, relief filling my chest. My husband

came closer, sat down beside me and laced his fingers through

mine.

 

“But you know, I think I can drive now.”

 

“No!” I snapped. My muscles stiffened and I tightened the clasp on

my husband’s hand. “Please, wait for the taxi. Don’t hang up on me

until the taxi gets there.”

 

“I just want to come home, Mama.”

 

“I know. But do this for your mama. Wait for the taxi, please.”

 

I listened to the silence fearing. When I didn’t hear her answer, I

bit into my lip and closed my eyes. Somehow I had to stop her from

driving. “There’s the taxi, now.” Only when I heard someone in the

background asking about a Yellow Cab did I feel my tension easing.

 

“I’m coming home, Mama.” There was a click, and the phone went

silent. Moving from the bed, tears forming in my eyes, I walked out

into the hall and went to stand in my 16 year old daughter’s room.

My husband came from behind, wrapped his arms around me and

rested his chin on the top of my head.

 

I wiped the tears from my cheeks. “We have to learn to listen,” I

said to him. He studied me for a second, and then asked, “Do you

think she’ll ever know she dialled the wrong number?”

 

I looked at our sleeping daughter, then back at him. “Maybe it

wasn’t such a wrong number.”

 

“Mom, Dad, what are you doing?” The muffled voice came from under

the covers. I walked over to my daughter, who now sat up staring

into the darkness. “We’re practicing,” I answered. “Practicing

what?” she mumbled and laid back on the mattress, but her eyes

already closed in slumber.

 

“Listening,” I whispered and brushed a hand over her cheek.

 

–Author Unknown

 

1-30-01

*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Meryl Hershey Beck, MA, M.Ed, LPCC, CPC

Energized For Life

PO Box 86642

Tucson, AZ 85754

800-995-0796 ext. 0321

 

One thought on “Listening

  1. That is a good one Doc!

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