Rhythm by Kathleen J. Harris Department of Psychiatry           I don’t ever remember being able to hear noises from my parents’ room, even though it was located just below mine, until my father was confined to it. Then all sounds related to him became magnified, amplified somehow.           I could hear his breath as he worked at forcing the air out of his lungs, the soft bubbling of the oxygen machine in the background. These sounds became a part of the rhythm of the house, comforting and reassuring.           Sometimes in the dark and quiet hollow of the night, I would suddenly awaken, my ears immediately atuned to the sound of his breathing. All other sounds were subordinated. If the regular breathing pattern was unbroken, this awakening would be no more than a rollover in the night. But if the breathing lagged, even momentarily as it sometimes did, the seconds lapsed were an eternity to me. I would frantically search the night air for the awful, but soothing, rasp of his breath.           My concentration was focused on identifying that sound as if somehow my efforts would stabilize his breathing. Once the rhythm of the house was reestablished, merciful sleep and its temporary escape would return, until the next time.           Over and over again it would happen:                 the stark awakening…the intense listening…the hearing, the relief. Then one night the breathing stopped.         But over and over again it would happen:                 the awakening, the listening…the eternal silence…the blessed relief.