Even at the age of 93, Dad is still here — still breathing, still fighting — but it hasn’t been easy. In fact, it’s been heartbreakingly hard. The body that once carried him through wars, hard labor, raising a family, and endless Sunday walks is now frail and slow. Every movement takes effort. Every morning comes with new aches. And some days, just getting out of bed feels like a battle. I see it in his eyes — the silent grimace, the tightening of his jaw, the tired sighs when he thinks I’m not looking. Pain has become a daily part of his life, and there’s no simple fix.
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Watching someone you love suffer like this is a pain of its own. There’s a helplessness that creeps in, no matter how strong you try to be. I adjust his pillows. I help him to the chair. I warm his soup. I smile when I want to cry. And still, I know that I can’t take away the hurt.
What makes it even harder is how Dad tries to hide it. He doesn’t like to complain. He’ll say, “I’m fine,” even when he’s clearly not. That old pride still lingers, the kind that kept him going through decades of hardship. But I know better. I see the winces. I hear the strained breaths at night. And I carry the weight of knowing that, for all the love and comfort I can give, I cannot make the pain stop.
And yet, through all of this, he remains remarkably dignified. There’s a quiet strength in him — a kind of grace that only comes from living long and loving deeply. He still manages a smile when I tell a joke. He still asks about my day, even when he’s barely gotten through his. He still holds my hand with purpose, and somehow, that small gesture says, I’m still here with you.
Caring for him in this season of his life is the hardest, most sacred thing I’ve ever done.
Because love doesn’t run from pain — it stays, it holds, it walks beside it.
And every moment with Dad — even the difficult ones — is a gift I will never take for granted.
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