Mom greeted me as I walked through the door, anxious because the stair lift would not work. She checked the chair and receiver power chords, replaced the remote batteries, and still the chair would not move for her.  As I suspected, my curious grandchildren had pushed the red power button to the off position during our Thanksgiving festivities.  Turning the power button to the on position brought the lift back to life, and embarrassed Mom a bit.  “I’m so dense,” she whispered.  I reassured her she was not at all dense.  We grabbed our coats and keys and left for the rehabilitation center.  She had promised to give Dad a break from rehab food with a “treat,” code for a combo meal of hamburger, large fries, and Diet Coke.  Indeed, he was pleased, though still full from his rehab dinner.  For our big family Thanksgiving turkey and smoked ham dinner, Sarah was allowed to bring Dad home for three hours—the most United Health Care would allow without jeopardizing his coverage (i.e., if UHC thought he were well enough to be home all day, UHC might think he didn’t need in-patient rehab).  He sat hunched in his wheelchair, smiling weakly, introducing his old standard stories with, “That reminds me…,” and sad for the too-short stay.  At three hours’ end, he again had to leave his wife and family and home and comfort and return to his hated rehab room.  Seeing that he was still unable to care for himself, I shuddered with terror at the thought of him returning home in just one week.  I hoped he would be strong enough, but knew that if he were not strong enough, the burden would fall to Mom and me to make up the difference, to fetch this and that, to launder and mop and shampoo, to winch him up with a gate belt, to sit stiffly on my mental seat’s anxious edge.  Where is this big bitterness of anger coming from? I quizzed myself, and quickly perceived that the anger did not mean I did not love him and admire him and want to care for him.  Instead, my anger derived from my fear of the coming all-but-certain burdens, and of wishing they were not mine to carry.  With this realization, I turned to face my realities, and the anger left.  But the anxiety and the fear did not.  They remained, obstinately entrenched.  Time for more diaphragmatic breathing.