The life is Busy, life of a caregiver. It revolves around his existence, the ebb and flow of his life force. He gets out of bed later each day, goes to bed earlier, communicates less, gazes dimly ahead more often.
He wants to eat less, if ever. Sleep overcomes him in an instant, no matter what we are doing. His face fades into blues and purples when he sleeps. His mouth droops, and I desperately look for his breathing, letting out my held breath when I finally discern the rise and fall of his shirt.
Sleep escapes me. I writhe. Only to be spat out of me bed at 5 am like a broken pretzel. A broken glass pretzel.
I will stop for now. The pain wins again.