It's hard watching your father struggle to get out of his bed without help knowing that 70-odd years ago he was always the first one up, making coffee and reading the paper while you slept the morning away.
It's hard hearing your father labor to find the right words to describe his day knowing full well he had no trouble finding them when you were 8 years old and broke the back window trying to throw a rock over the roof.
It's hard seeing your father relegated to wheelchairs and walkers knowing that this same man used to play catcher on the church's softball team, once breaking his collarbone while defending home plate.
It's hard knowing your father will never again climb a mountain, fix scrambled eggs, ride a bicycle around the block, drive his car to the gas station, chop wood to put in the fireplace, or play Santa Claus for needy children.
But he's in therapy, trying to learn how to walk again.
Yesterday he took 50 steps.
It was a good day.
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