i am looking at a pill on the rug it’s small and pink and i think it’s the heart one but maybe it’s the one for the nerves and my hands are shaking so bad i can’t even pick it up. baba is asleep and his breath is heavy like he’s fighting something in his dreams while i sit here with the plastic tray and the labels i can barely read anymore. it’s 2:37 in the morning and the light from the kitchen is too bright but if i turn it off i might miss another one and then the whole day is ruined. one mistake and his blood turns to water or it turns to stone and i’m the one who has to explain to the paramedics why i can’t keep track of a simple schedule. the list the doctor gave me is three pages long and half the words look like spells or curses but they’re just chemicals to keep his body from falling apart. lisinopril and metoprolol and that one that starts with an a that makes his ankles swell up like balloons. back home you just went to the village healer or you prayed but here it’s all milligrams and timing and if i’m five minutes late my stomach does a backflip because what if his systolic pressure spikes. what if he strokes out because i was scrolling on my phone or i fell asleep for ten minutes too long and missed the window. he’s an ischemic event waiting to happen and i’m the only wall standing in the way. he calls me beta and tells me i worry too much but he doesn’t see the way his hands tremble when he tries to hold the tea cup. he thinks he’s still the man who built a house with his bare hands and moved us across the ocean with nothing in his pockets but a few dollars and a prayer. he doesn't realize he’s fragile now like glass that’s already cracked and i’m the only one holding the pieces together. my cousins back home send me messages asking for money for a new phone and they think i’m living the american dream but i’m just counting pills in a dark kitchen wondering if tonight is the night the ambulance comes for him. earlier today he fought me on the blood thinner he said it makes his skin turn purple and he’s right he has these bruises all over his arms that look like rotten fruit but the cardiologist said without it he’s a ticking time bomb. we yelled at each other in the hallway and i said some things i shouldn't have and he looked at me with so much sadness it felt like a physical weight on my chest. i had to force the pill into his mouth like he was a child and then i went into the bathroom and turned the water on so he wouldn't hear me crying. it’s humiliating for him and it’s exhausting for me and there is no dignity left in this house just the smell of antiseptic and old age. the medical system is a total mess and i’m the only one who speaks english well enough to argue with the insurance people who keep saying they won't cover the brand name even though the generic makes him vomit. they talk to me like i’m stupid or like i’m just some girl who doesn't know anything but i know exactly how many milligrams it takes to keep his heart beating. i have spreadsheets and alarms on my phone that go off every four hours and even then i feel like a total failure every single day.