Shut Down

We are surrounded by foreclosures. The house behind The Pink House sits abandoned, its stucco face cracked with age lines, its wooden front steps broken and leading to a drooping porch on which a bloated and long ago delivered telephone book lies. On the other side of us is an empty duplex, its aluminum eaves, pealed back like a sardine can, clank when the wind rises. Next to that, the melted facade of a long forgotten house, its vinyl siding liquified in a fire set by vandals, window glass all broken out.  Across the street, a For Sale sign has sprouted in the lawn and next door to that another foreclosure, though that neighbor is hanging in there until, she says, they drag her out kicking and screaming.

A few years ago, during the big real estate boom, we were the next "up and coming" neighborhood. Ripe for revitalization, conveniently located with many fine historic bungalows ready to restore....

And now, it seems like this neighborhood has shut down.

These past few days, our DIY rehab center at The Pink House has been shut down, too. Because I've been ill. Me. The strong one. The one whose always healthy as a horse. Lately, it takes everything out of me just to get Bob's bedbath, meds, tube feedings done and then, I am down for the count. Crashed on the couch. Feeling as dismal and miserable as this neighborhood. And guilty as all get-out....

Which brings up another dilemma, the first time we are dealing with this, which is: Who takes care of the caregiver when the caregiver needs care?