I sit here, 4:30 am, tears streaming down my face, nothing I can do, nothing anyone can do, listening as my dad thrashes and throws himself around in his bed. Hours and hours of the same. When will this stop? How can this continue? A break please, just some sleep for him. Is that too much to ask? A little sleep? Peace for him. Is that too much to ask? Just a little peace in his body. When will this end? HOW will this end? There doesn’t seem to be any easy way out of this. It’s heartbreaking to realize that I feel a sense of victory when I haven’t heard his movement for 60 seconds. When 10 minutes have gone by and he hasn’t gotten up yet again, I feel hopeful. Happy for 10 minutes of blessed sleep. How can that be? How completely wretched to be down to feeling victory for 60 seconds of no movement or 10 minutes of some sort of sleep. I’m listening, trying to decipher the sounds. Is he getting up? If so, I’ve gotta beat him by being to the bedside before he’s actually standing, otherwise, he stands and begins to fall asleep, his body collapsing as he does. He is starved for sleep but he NEEDS to move. The desire to get away from this terrible tension is greater than his utter exhaustion. He can’t handle the intense feeling of tension anymore, somehow, someway he MUST get away from it and so he staggers, pitching and leaning, trying his best to get away. I’m there. Turning him, helping him, directing him back to the bed where he lays down yet again so the whole cursed process can begin over. Legs churning, arms flailing, body thrashing….over and over and over. Hour after agonizing hour. What is this damn disease? For I feel as though I’m witnessing hell.