It's 1:30 AM in mid-July, and for the third time my father has rearranged the bedsheets, stretched diagonally across the bed, sighed, and begun again to mumble what sounds like “Oh, my Lord!” followed by “It's all wrong.” Since 10 PM last night, he and I have been maneuvering around this bed and unsuccessfully negotiating with sleep. The air is hot and sticky. Just as I notice his breathing has descended to a quiet, regular pace, he moans and begins a monologue about ancient Cincinnati Reds baseball heroes while I keep glancing at the bright orange numbers on the bedside clock, hoping the hour reads 5 or 6, instead of 2.
Ballard JO. To Bed With Dad. JAMA. 2010;303(12):1125–1126. doi:10.1001/jama.2010.318
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