Mother says he has been doing better, but better than what? Better than yesterday, when he refused food again, for the fifth day straight? Better than the day before that, when he struggled to get out of the bed, tried to go to the bathroom like a man would, like my Dad did for 63 years, and now, now he is resigned to crossing one leg over another, pitifully trying to hold his urine while a bevy of nurses, doctors, his wife, his daughter pretend that everything is fine and that he is not dying.

Sickness reduces all great men to children again.

He came home that night, home from the hospital, home finally. His eyes were as bright as a child on Christmas, gazing adoringly, in fascination at his house, his living room, his favorite recliner, his scratchy green blanket and his gray lap cat, Charlie, as if seeing everything for the first and last time.

Sickness reduces all great men to children again.

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