I’m sitting here in the hallway of this damn place and he’s finally gone. It’s done. Ten years. Ten years of my life just... gone. I’m looking at the exit sign and all I can think about is that I can finally go home and sleep without my phone next to my head like it’s a ticking bomb. Does that make me a monster? I don't know. I don't even care anymore. I’m just so TIRED. My legs feel like they’re made of lead and my head is spinning... I can't even remember what it's like to just be me. Not the daughter. Not the nurse. Not the one who cleans up the messes. He stopped breathing about twenty minutes ago. It was quiet. Just a little rattle and then... nothing. I didn't cry. I just sat there and looked at his hands. Those hands used to fix cars and build stuff and then for a decade they just picked at blankets and forgot how to hold a fork. I spent ten years watching him turn into a ghost and then a baby and then a statue. And now the statue is gone. I should feel something, right? Sadness? Grief? All I feel is like a weight has been lifted off my chest and it's making me lightheaded. The nurse came in and she gave me that look. You know the one. That sad, pitying look like I’m some fragile little bird. She said "he's at peace now" and I wanted to scream at her. I wanted to yell THAT'S GREAT BUT WHAT ABOUT ME. I haven't been at peace since 2014. I’ve been changing adult diapers and listening to the same story about a dog he had in 1955 for three thousand hours. I’ve been the one getting the calls at 3am because he wandered out of the house in his underwear while my sister was in Cabo or wherever she goes to "find herself." My sister... god, I can’t even think about her right now or I’ll throw my phone at the wall. She called me yesterday to ask if I’d "handeled" the funeral arrangements yet. Handeled them. Like I’m her personal assistant. She hasn't been here in six months. She sends cards. Big deal. She sends a card with a bird on it and thinks she’s done her part while I’m the one dealing with the insurance and the doctors and the screaming fits. She’ll show up for the service in a black dress and cry the loudest and everyone will tell her how sorry they are... but I’m the one who lost my whole damn life to this. I look in the mirror in the bathroom here and I don't even know who that woman is. I’m 52 and I look 70. My skin is gray. I have bags under my eyes that haven't gone away in a decade. I missed my daughter's college graduation because he fell and broke his hip and there was NO ONE ELSE to stay at the hospital. I missed vacations. I missed being a person. I gave him everything I had until there was nothing left of me and then he just... died in his sleep. Just like that. So easy for him. The hallway is so quiet it's ringing in my ears. A cart went by a minute ago and the squeak of the wheel made me want to jump out of my skin. I’m waiting for the funeral home guys to get here. I have to wait. I always have to wait. I’m the one who stays until the end. I’m the one who signs the papers and hands over the clothes and picks the casket. It’s ALWAYS me. And I’m so ANGRY. I’m so god damn angry that I’m sitting here feeling GLAD he’s dead just so I can have a minute to myself. Is that what people want to hear? Probably not. They want me to say it was a blessing and he’s in a better place. Bullshit. He’s in a box. And I’m in a hallway. And the last ten years are a black hole that swallowed every bit of joy I ever had. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for ten years and now that I can finally breathe it hurts. It hurts my lungs. Everything hurts. I’m shaking and I can't stop my hands from trembling while I type this. I bet people are gonna read this and think I’m cold. They’re gonna think I didn't love him. I did. I LOVED him. That’s why I stayed. That’s why I did the stuff no one else would do. I loved him so much it ruined me. It chewed me up and spit me out and now I’m just this empty shell sitting on a plastic chair waiting for someone to tell me I can leave. But where am I even supposed to go? My house is just a place where I used to hide from the phone calls. My kids are grown. My husband left five years ago because he couldn't handle the "stress" of my family... he just walked away and I had to keep going. So yeah. He’s dead. He’s finally, finally dead. And I’m going to go home and I’m going to sit in the dark and I’m going to drink a glass of wine and I’m NOT going to answer the phone when my sister calls. I’m not gonna do it. She can figure out the flowers. She can figure out the obitury. I’m done. I’m so done I can't even see straight. I just want to disappear into the mattress and never wake up. I wonder how long it'll take before someone asks me how I’m doing without wanting something from me. Probably never. People like me don't get asked that. We just get more stuff piled on because we’re the "strong" ones. Well I’m not strong. I’m broken. I’m a mess. I’m a mean, bitter woman sitting in a hospice hallway at 2 in the morning and I don't feel a single bit of regret for saying it... I’m just glad it’s over. I'm just so glad it's finally over.