I was nine years old. It was a cold March, and we had just moved into our house, which is now in the hands of “thieves.” My mother couldn’t take time off from work, so she was busy unpacking the boxes in the evening. She was trying to finish some chores when her phone rang. My dad asked, “Can you pick me up from in front of the hospital?” We had just one car, and in case of need, she would pick him up and drop him off where he wanted. Apparently, that would be the case today as well. I was also with my mother.
The hospital was on a busy street where the car could not park; we needed to move very quickly to not disrupt the traffic. When we reached the hospital, my mother was looking around saying, “Where is he?”, and I noticed my father with his eye bandaged. My mother, thinking that this person was not my father, continued down the road without looking at him. When I insisted that my father was waiting there, we turned back to the front of the hospital. The person with the bandaged eye was really my father. When my father quickly got into the car, my mother asked in surprise what had happened. He calmly said, “I had cataract surgery.” My mother showered my father with questions of “When, why didn’t I know about this?” To such bewilderment, agitation, and anxiety, my father laughed and replied with one sentence: “I wanted to surprise you!”
Two years passed… One Saturday morning, my father went to a meeting beginning with the Morning Prayer. He was going to come home for breakfast, as he always did. He was as punctual as a clock. That’s what happened that day too. At 8.50 am my mother’s phone rang, it was my father’s number. My mother skipped saying, “Hello” and said laughingly, “Tea is ready, boss!” But the voice on the phone belonged to my father’s friend Uncle Faruk. He was saying that my father was hospitalized, and calling my mother to the hospital. That day, for the first time, I realized by the concern on my mother’s face that she also had fears. Fortunately, the hospital, which once belonged to the Hizmet Movement, but is now in the hands of “thieves,” was only 300 meters away from our house. My mother unintentionally hurt my hand when she gave it a hard squeeze while holding it. Two minutes later we were at the hospital. We found our car parked wrongly in front of the building. My mother, who quickly checked the car before entering the hospital, said, “It’s not an accident,” in a low voice. As I understand now, she had a fear of traffic accidents due to a painful experience.
At the hospital we entered with quick steps, her voice trembled as she asked about my father. When she got the answer, “In cardiology,” her fear seemed to surpass her shock. During all this, she never let go of my hand. As if she would fall if she did. She was out of breath as we ran up the stairs without waiting for the elevator. She wasn’t hearing me. When we came to the cardiology department, Uncle Faruk and Uncle Ali were there. “It’s nothing bad, is it?” my mother asked in a muffled voice, as if her past was passing through her eyes, squeezing her heart. Uncle Ali said, “Calm down, sister! It’s okay, it was a heart attack,” he said. My mother sat down so as not to fall down. Then the doctor came. “I wish him a speedy recovery,” said the doctor, then told us that the angiography was successful. Mom wasn’t answering, just biting her lips. Uncle Faruk explained: “He had a heart attack at the association yesterday. We brought him to the hospital and started the hospitalization procedures. He was supposed to have an angiography today, but he didn’t want you to hear about it. He said: ‘I’ll spend the night at home, won’t let her know, you can call her here after the angiography.’”
“He came for the meeting in the morning, but on the way back he got worse, we brought him here urgently and he had the angiography, he is conscious now.”
I don’t know if mom heard everything he said. She asked the doctor, “Can I see him?” The doctor said we could if we kept it very short. We went in to my dad’s room. He was laughing. My mother, who was now a little relieved after seeing my father, scolded him in a mix of fear, reproach and confusion, “What is this now?” My father laughed: “I surprised you!”
When my father came out of the hospital a few days later, my mother read the meaning of “surprise” from the dictionary. My father, whose laugh usually consists of a smile, was roaring in laughter. My mother said authoritatively, “I don’t want any more surprises, please don’t surprise me again!”
Why am I telling you this now? It’s been five years since my father was abducted and illegally imprisoned. This time I am waiting for him to give us a surprise in accordance with the meaning of surprise, and praying for him.
Dad, please really surprise us this time, we’re so tired with you gone!
