Even at 93, my dad is enduring more pain than anyone should have to bear. His body is tired, worn down by time and illness, and every movement seems to come with a wince, a sigh, or a quiet groan. It’s heartbreaking to watch. There are moments when he just closes his eyes and silently grips the edge of the bed, trying to breathe through the discomfort. As his child, standing by and watching this unfold day after day is its own kind of suffering.
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I try everything I can to help him—adjusting his pillows, holding his hand, making sure his medications are given on time, talking to doctors, gently wiping his face when he sweats from the pain. But no matter what I do, it never feels like enough. It’s so hard to see the strongest man I’ve ever known—the man who once carried me on his shoulders—now barely able to lift his own arms.
Sometimes I see flashes of the old him. A brief smile. A soft “thank you.” A whispered memory. And it reminds me of the love, the life, the dignity he still carries, even through the agony. I know his spirit is still fighting, even when his body is frail. But I won’t lie—this is the hardest thing I’ve ever witnessed.
All I can do now is stay beside him, love him fiercely, and pray to God to ease his suffering. I pray not just for healing, but for comfort—for peace to come to his tired body, and for strength to carry us through these days. 🙏💔😢
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