You ever just feel… like a machine? Not a good machine, like a fancy new car or somethin, but like an old refrigerator humming in the basement, just always on, always running, and nobody really notices it until it breaks down. That’s what it feels like sometimes, when the alarm goes off at 5:30 AM. My dad needs his first meds by 6, and then you’re into the whole routine. Lift him, change him, get him fed. It's a precise operation. You measure the liquid diet, you check the tube. Everything has to be just so, or he gets agitated. And when he gets agitated… well, it just makes everything harder. And then after that, it's work. The library opens at nine. So you speed through the drive, get there, smile at Mrs. Henderson who wants to know if we have that new romance novel everyone’s talking about. You recommend five books, you help a kid find a picture book about space. It’s… pleasant. Quiet. You know, you feel useful. You feel like you’re doing something good. Then it's back home. Another round of meds, another change. Make dinner, for him and for me, though most nights I just pick at something. You’re just… going through the motions. You’re tired, but you can’t really *stop* being tired, you know? Then my brother calls. “Hey sis! Just checkin’ in on Pop. How’s he doin’?” He calls maybe once a month. Sometimes twice. And I tell him, “Oh, he’s… he’s having a good day today. Ate most of his puree.” You make it sound okay. Because what’s the point in saying, “He screamed at me for an hour because I put too much ice in his water and then he tried to pull out his tube again”? No point. And then my brother says, “Good to hear! I’ll try to swing by next weekend. Give him my love.” Next weekend, next month. He shows up, sits for an hour, maybe watches a ball game with Dad if he’s lucid enough. And then he leaves. And Dad, for a few days, he’ll talk about how NICE it was to see his boy. His BOY. And then my brother calls ME, two days later. “Mom was telling me how great you are, taking care of Dad. Really, sis, you’re a saint. I don’t know what we’d do without you.” He’ll tell his friends, too, I bet. How he helps out, how he’s there for his dad. He’s the good son. The one who *visits*. And you just… nod. Or you say, “Oh, it’s fine. Someone has to.” Because what are you supposed to say? “I changed his diaper twice already today and I haven’t sat down for more than five minutes”? You can’t. You just… can’t. It makes you feel so… so small. Like you’re just the background noise of his life, but he’s the star. Sometimes you just look at the stack of bills, or the overflowing laundry basket, or the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun, and you think, is this it? Is this all there is? You’re so tired your bones ache, but you can’t turn it off. The humming. That constant, low hum. And you think about just… lying down. Just for a bit. But then Dad makes a little sound from the other room, or the little machine that drips his IV fluid beeps, and you’re back. You’re always back. You just keep going. Because what else are you going to do. What else can you do.