Forty-seven years ago the world was filled with promise. My wife and I had become parents for the first time and I was on a high. When I looked out into the vast unpredictable future I had no inkling of what life can hand you, and the beliefs as simple as they were would tear me apart someday.
My daughter was a beautiful child at birth, pink round head,
and beautiful features and I was in love for the second time in my life. Loving
a child is certainly different than anything else I ever experienced and it hit
me hard. I was happy.
Today, forty-seven and a half years later I sit next to her
bed in the Medford Multicare watching her cry silently, her face contorted by
the pain that pervades her body and spirit. Her life is reduced to trying to
eat three meals a day and getting medications through a line. She withers in
pain and looks toward me confused, a helpless look for help is etched in her
brow. It is like the etching that is slowly gnawing away in my stomach as I
look on helplessly with guilt.
I spend the mornings at her bedside, I try to talk to her,
assure her and try to make her laugh. I take out my I-pad and play music from
YouTube and hope it makes her feel happy. She no longer motions to me that she
is happy, the joy of life has escaped her lips, deserted her eyes and seems so
long ago.
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