These days, I wear shackles. Invisible chains holding me tight next to Routine. There is not much space, not much air, just enough oxygen to suck it in. ALL IN.
I work at night which means I’m supposed to sleep during the day. But as a caregiver there can’t be an “I.” Instead, there are Hands — crushing the tablet so it can be mixed with his adult milk (because the tablet tastes horrible, it makes him vomit). The Hands do it at eleven so he can drink both milk and medicine by the time the clock strikes at eleven thirty. Sometimes, the Hands go about adjusting the direction to where the electric fan blows; other times, it will go pick a fresh clean diaper and remove the one soaked in urine and feces. When the Hands are still, the Feet do its bidding. Going to pharmacies to buy more medicine, diapers, and toiletries. It’s an alternate pattern of Hands and Feet — working busy at night, tending to our patient at day. Fatigued, but I’d rather be that the Hands and Feet work frenzy… than be still and hear nothing but the worrisome lub-dub of the Heart
as each day unfolds for it to hurt
and hurt and
~image by Larm Rmah