The Good Daughter

Rolled out of bed, took the pupper out to sniff and snuffle before getting down to the business of his morning ablutions. Back inside to prep his breakfast, change his water and make the coffee. No one took out the garbage, lug it out and replace the bag. Dishes left in the sink from the dinner I cooked the night before. Better wash those before the coffee maker beeps. Take my blood vitality supplement so I can breathe. The blood tonic that helps me live and makes one of my friends jokingly call me a vampire. Wait an hour before I suck down the piping hot coffee and get started on the rest of my day.

I could use a nap. Too early.

Do I have any jobs to apply for? Not today. Any interview offers? No. Hot job market, huh? Sure.

Take the pupper out.

Help Mom out of the shower, clip her toenails because she can’t bend so well. Make sure she has her glasses on before she heads downstairs. Help her down the steps so she doesn’t trip. Get her breakfast and coffee. Take care of my ablutions, gotta squeeze those in.

I need a nap. No time.

Take the pupper out.

Make lunch for my brother so he can squeeze a power nap in before he has to get back to his remote job. See if Mom wants to eat. Give options until she picks one. Make sure she drinks enough. Better start dinner before I do the grocery shopping. Sure, I can run up the stairs to get your book even though it means my heart will race and I’ll lose my breathe for five minutes. Better mow the lawn and do some weeding, even though my body protests from the lack of blood pumping through my erratically beating heart. Watch my pupper roll around in the grass. Breathe.

Oh, I’m bleeding again, great.

I need a nap. No time.

Serve dinner and pretend the complaints don’t bother me. Stack the dishes in the sink. Put away the leftovers. Brush the pupper’s teeth. Did I brush my own teeth today? Right, yeah, I did.

Give the pupper his nightly treat after his walk.

Veg on the couch to some inane TV show Mom wants to watch. Can’t focus to read so I may as well watch. Is it bedtime yet? Nah, too early, won’t be able to sleep. Use my tablet, pretend to be productive so I won’t be called lazy tonight. Can’t focus, another idiotic Medicare commercial grates at my nerves. My eyes burn. My muscles ache. My breath seems to catch in my chest, choking me, better move around. Help Mom up the stairs and back to bed. Four more trips up and down the stairs, barely able to breathe, because Mom hears something.

Last trip out for the pupper. Bedtime. Finally.

Awoken by an anxiety attack. Feels like death sitting on my chest and mocking me with all of my failures. Count… four… five. Touch… pupper’s silky ears… warm flannel bed sheet. Breathe. Move. Breathe. Sleep.