Homebound

Here I sit with my disabled son. I love him and yet, I’m frustrated to the brink of a primal scream. I know, I should be ashamed of myself. Not everyone can do this. This job that I have without monetary compensation, but lots of spiritual reward.
I’m thankful for his delightful demeanor. He likes to laugh and play using my hands to clap. He seems to be happy all the time, even when he’s sick. He gets sick often. With music playing, he bops up and down with the rhythm of the song. He’s feeling better after having a miserable week of refusing food, drink and anything fun. His ear infection seems as though it left, but I’m still required to be at his side.
He’s weak from not walking. Watching him all night has left me drained and tired, ready to use the hard wood floor as my bed and pillow. But I hold off and wait for the opportunity to have someone else watch him while I close my eyes for moments at a time. My hope for sleeping at a normal time has slipped through my hands as I receive a phone call from the night nurse. She can’t make it tonight. It shouldn’t matter. I usually work two nights and two days in a row, but it does matter.
Maybe it’s because I was looking forward to a lost opportunity to sleep for more hours than the typical four. Or maybe it matters because the five consecutive years of his needs have escalated to a cliffhanging level.
Irony can be a humble teacher because as of this day (4/18/21), I am the official night nurse. I have all seven nights to watch. My night nurse is now the day nurse. Life has a funny way of teaching us to appreciate the situation present because life happens.

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