Night Terror

Uncomfortable thoughts on aging in North America

Photo by Doug Maloney on Unsplash

At night, I would often be woken by a train’s whistle, drifting up from the flatlands of Oakland. Gradually, the sound of metal wheels on the track would also make their way to me, a lulling, whispering, rhythmic click-click-clack, click-click-clack.

Once the train had passed, and the night once more settled, I’d remain awake, my eyes fastened to a ceiling I couldn’t see. As the sleeping city murmured and rustled, my mind would grow noisome with thoughts. Concerns. Regrets. Questions. These questions were not gentle. They were sharp, peppery. Sometimes pain would accompany them. Sometimes, that pain took my breath away.

I’d remember my father, in the early days of his confinement in the nursing home, suggesting, gently, it was time to go home. It was time to leave this place, whatever it was, that we found ourselves in. Sticking close by my side, so he’d be sure to get home, to not miss his ride, not understanding that home in the sense he meant no longer existed. He’d sold his home decades before. And my home? There was no bedroom available for him there.

And then, the castigation would begin. The lamentation. Why hadn’t I fought harder to bring my dad home to our house, home to family, home to the only people who would care about him, not just care for him in a…