The Backstory

After we placed my dad in the care home, I expected my cheery mood to bounce back. After all, the acute trauma was over: all those months of sleepless nights, constant caregiving, frustration and anger (and its accompanying guilt), the exhaustion of always being on edge and on alert, all finally culminating in the exquisitely painful need to move him out of the house – it was all over. Dad was safe and looked-after. I had my life back. I could be happy again!

But I wasn’t.

I settled into a grey and joyless world. I went to work, took the dogs on walks, talked to friends. I struggled to find my usual sunny disposition. I tried “to be good to myself,” tried to snap out of the funk. I tried and tried!

Nothing seemed to work.

It turned into a difficult winter.

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The Backstory

We had to place my dad in a care home.

Just a few simple words, holding nearly unbearable pain.

My dad had Parkinson’s disease. We helplessly watched his inexorable decline, from a strong and fiercely independent do-it-yourselfer to a frail and unsteady man whom I barely recognized as my dad.

He became confused at night, getting up frequently and often aimlessly, sometimes staying in bed only a few minutes at a time. My brother and I started taking turns being on “night duty.” We assisted him to the bathroom and made sure he didn’t do anything weird, like fill up all the waste baskets in the house with water, or decide to pull down a ladder to paint the house at 3 AM.

It was constant. All night.

Our sleep was completely disrupted.

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