Documenting Death, again...

Today is January 6, 2018. My Dad celebrated his 85th birthday, New years Eve at home, in a bed provided by hospice care. There was cake. He didn't eat any.

My Husband, myself and my dogs have been living at my Dad's (24/7) for 2 weeks. His neighborhood is in transition. Some are renovating, many are for sale. The house next to my Dad's scares me. Odd traffic. Odd hours.

I am worn down from care-giving. Lacking sleep. My hair seems to be falling out. I flip from tears to anger to calm. From what I have read, I am suffering "Care-giver Burnout." It is not pretty. Neither am I. Schlepping around in sweats, skipping showers, pain from attempting to sleep on a bed that doesn't agree with me, homesick.

While taking the dogs out yesterday morning, I saw a man emerging from the "Crack" house. He was bent over, shuffling, head down, hoodie up. I thought, "Damn, these people are mucked up."

As I watched him slowly migrate to the road, I thought, "Ya know, he could me me. Caring for a dying parent, so much stress. I look just like him."

I doubt he is caring for anyone but I saw my broken self in that man.