Some days I just wish I could run away from home. And live in a clean, peaceful, quiet house or apartment or tent.

I called when I left work. No excuse for what greeted me at the door: the TV on as loud as it could go with Larry King Live excrement pounding on the airwaves as I was halfway up the walk.

The kitchen was filthified, but he had fixed the doorbell. Yes, yes, I know. Parkinson's patients are handicapped in the area of setting priorities and managing tasks. I don't even want to describe the rest of the house.

If he weren't old and sick, we could go our separate ways. Or I would go mine, at least. Don't know what he would do; don't care. But that is all moot. He IS sick. He IS old (much older than his chronological age) and I would never desert him.

Still, I fantasize about coming home to a house no worse than I left it (or better, even, but I can no longer even imagine that possibility). I fantasize about being able to make dinner without tripping over walker, wheelchair and stool in the middle of the kitchen floor with some concoction being prepared on the prep part of the counter. I'm exhausted to the point of falling down, but I have to wait until I can get at the refrigerator and stove. Can't take a nap (remember the TV blasting away).

I like to imagine the kitchen table cleared enough that my 1/4 of it can enjoy a placemat, knife and fork, and glass, rather than having to push dirty dishes, checkbooks, printouts, medicines, etc., out of the way, just to have a place to lay my dish down.

I am so sick of living this way. And angry. Sometimes I can feel the anger boiling up, and I go outside and meditate on the tomatoes and squash, say hello to a cat, breathe the fresh air and calm down.

I resent nearly every moment I'm here. Work is not wonderful, but at least I can create an environment I can live in. And the trip to and from work gives me the solitude and peace I need to make it through the next few hours, the next day. Which is why I resent having to chauffeur him from the VA to home after work every week on Wednesday. There's a day when there is NO quiet alone time.

I don't want to retire. I'll have to live here full-time. I wonder if I can pitch a tent in the back yard?