I’m 31. Two kids, 7 and 4. Single mom. Two jobs. I live 1,200 miles from my father. He’s 68, rapidly declining. He’s got Parkinson’s, but it’s the dementia that’s… the operative term is ‘accelerating.’ A month ago, I got a call from the neighbor. Dad had locked himself out, in the rain, for two hours. He was disoriented. Couldn’t remember his own address. She found him shivering, just sitting on the porch swing. This was the precipitating event, I guess. The moment of no return. The first attempt to secure home health aid was… a shitshow. The agency I found initially seemed competent. I did all the intake paperwork, provided medical history, outlined a schedule. Three visits a week. Just basic checks, medication prompts, light meal prep. They assured me they had staff. Two days before the first scheduled visit, they called. “We’ve experienced an unexpected staffing issue.” Translation: someone quit. Or maybe they just overbooked. Whatever. I spent another full day, between shifts, on the phone, cold-calling other agencies. This became a recurring theme. The logistical complexity of coordinating care from a different state is… I don’t even have the words for it. It’s like trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube while driving a car at 80 mph, blindfolded. I’d find an agency. Vet them. Do the paperwork. Schedule the initial assessment. Then the aide wouldn’t show up. Or they’d come once, then cancel indefinitely. “Unforeseen circumstances.” “A family emergency.” I understand, theoretically. People have lives. But my father’s life is also… his. And he can’t manage it. I feel this… disassociation. Like I’m watching myself, a character in some bleak social realism drama, frantically typing emails at 3 AM. My primary job is remote, which is a blessing and a curse. I can technically work from anywhere, but the demands are relentless. My second job is bartending weekends. That’s for groceries, school supplies. The kids. I try to explain it to my eldest. “Grandpa’s not well. Mommy has to help him from far away.” She just looks at me with those big, solemn eyes. She doesn’t understand why I’m always on the phone. Or why I look so tired. The latest aide, a woman named Beverly, lasted exactly two weeks. She was great. Dad liked her. She was reliable. Then I got an email. Not even a call. An email. “Beverly has accepted a full-time position elsewhere. We are unable to provide a replacement at this time.” I called the agency. The receptionist sounded… indifferent. Like this was a daily occurrence. I felt this surge of… not anger, not really. More like a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. A physiological response to sustained stress. My heart rate elevated. My palms got sweaty. I just stared at the wall. This past weekend, my ex-husband had the kids. I spent literally 48 hours straight trying to find a new goddamn aide. I called every single damn agency in that goddamn county. Some didn’t even answer. Others put me on hold for an hour. One lady just laughed when I told her I needed someone consistent. “Honey, everyone’s short-staffed.” I finally found one. They promised someone by Friday. It’s Thursday. I haven’t slept properly in days. I can feel the cortisol surging through my system. I called Dad yesterday. He was confused. Thought I was his sister. Asked me if I’d remembered to feed the dog. He doesn’t have a dog. I had to remind him who I was. He kept saying, “You sound so… tired, sweetheart.” I just said, “I’m fine, Dad.” But I’m not. I’m really not. I feel like I’m… fracturing. Like a poorly constructed bridge under too much load. The structural integrity is compromised. And I’m just waiting for the collapse. The weirdest part is this pervasive sense of… not guilt. Not exactly. More like a failure to meet an unarticulated societal expectation. I should be there. I should be present. But how the fuck am I supposed to be present when I’m 1,200 miles away, working two jobs, raising two kids, and spending every spare minute on the phone trying to orchestrate something that feels fundamentally un-orchestratable? There’s no manual for this. There’s just… this. And I don’t know how much longer I can sustain it.