The Secret Life of a Teenage Caregiver

The keys of my computer made a series of muted clicks as I typed, the computer screen giving off a soft glow in my small bedroom. At 15 years old I should have gone to bed long ago, but no one was there to reprimand me. My father had passed out on the couch hours before from a mix of painkillers and exhaustion. Perhaps it had been an accident, perhaps he had taken one too many pills on purpose to help him slip from consciousness and the cold reality of life. Hours ago I screamed at him as he lay passed out, yelling angrily for him to get off the couch and go to bed. My curses turned into sobs, begging him not to do this again. Not to leave me alone while he slipped into a prescription drug induced sleep that cut off all connection with the man that had once been my hero. Not once did he stir -- the pills had done their job. The tears subsided, like they always did, and I turned off the TV and resigned myself to another night like so many others. My father was not an alcoholic, was not an illegal drug user, was not a bad man. He was torn apart by a disease that crippled him and stole his ability to be the father I remembered. Peripheral Neuropathy was slowly killing my father by stealing his ability to function, and the prescription drugs that were meant to manage his pain were slowly stripping away what little dignity he had left. Hours passed, and it was now 1:00 a.m. on a school night. Through my closed door I heard movement, and then a loud bang in our small apartment as...
Source: Healthy Living - The Huffington Post - Category: Consumer Health News Source Type: news