Quiet

90 days…
2 months, 29 days...
12 weeks (rounded down)…
2160 hours...
129,600 minutes…
7,776,000 seconds.

That’s how long we have been trying to get my Dad help. That was how long I have been juggling caring for him at home, working during the days, managing my fibromyalgia, all while trying to maintain my own sanity.

The dogs barking at nurses going in and out…
Therapists traipsing through the house…
Phone ringing from family calling to check on him…
Ambulances littering the front yard, slam of their doors and clinks of their stretchers...
The tv blaring at all hours because he cannot sleep.
Coughing that lasts all night from trying to catch his breath...
Constant usage of the laundry machines to keep him in clean bed clothes...
Frustrated arguing echoes at night…
Creaking and rattling of the hospital bed.
Fighting and campaigning with doctors, agencies, social workers, begging, pleading for help…
Crashing sounds of loss of balance, exhausted groans of those picking him back up.
Emergency calls from home causing me to leave work early...
Dozens of hours spent in ER's, desperate for help.
Muscles aching from strain, screaming from positioning him.

Late tonight, help was there. Like a beam of peace fighting through the storms.

And now... all’s quiet.
Cold and empty.
Eerily calm.
Silence bounces off the walls.

It’s... different.
I’m not sure that I like this.
I miss him already.