Leave home. I don't care if you borrow a friend's empty kitchen while she's away for the weekend, sign up for a writing retreat, or rent a motel room, but find a way to get out of your house. Your family will survive and you will come to embrace this time, making the almighty leap between caretaker and woman writer easier.
I open the door to step back into the room, and he is already asleep again. Sitting in the chair by his bed. The effort to get dressed and move to the chair was too much. He is spent. His lungs are filled with fluid, and he no longer has the physical strength to cough it up. They are giving him medicine designed to help, and he tries, but he just can't get it out anymore.
I've given my strange proclivities a lot of thought, and the only source of blame I can point to is my dad, Dr. Robert M. Miller, aka RMM, Bob, or "Doc." Most people assume that being the child of a veterinarian (a large and exotic vet, at that) isn't all that different from having a parent who's an MD, if they think about it at all.