I’m tired.

I am no longer active. I am no longer talkative. I am no longer young.

My hands are old and worn; my fingers slowly harden into one position and struggle to grasp things. They have lost their strength.

My limbs grow weak and walking is no longer an easy task. My feet have settled for short, slow shuffling and lost feeling for the ground below them.

My muscles and bone leave me to struggle to perform the simplest of tasks. Standing up and pulling my legs into vehicles now require the help of others.

My hair has grown thin, and dark deformed spots cover the thin skin that shows. An ugly purple and blue bruise paints itself across my temple for others to see.

My weakness shows. That bruise is proof of my failing physical state.

Pity has now taken over my independence.

I’m told I have to leave my home. I have to live with others that can help me.

I don’t want help.

I don’t want to take these pills.

I don’t want to use this walker.

I don’t want to hear the cancer physicians tell me why I hurt.

I don’t want to listen to the cardiologists tell me I have to ‘take it easy.’

I don’t want to leave.

Accepting help would confirm it.

Getting help would confirm that… I am falling. I am no longer a man.

I have grown old… Elderly.

It takes the little pride I have left.

--

My family has come to my house to help me move to “Assisted Living.”

I’m supposed to get physical therapy there and the help I need to be strong again.

But I know that won’t happen… I can’t get stronger. I know that.

But…

I’ll go. I’ll go for them. If it will ease their minds, then I will leave.

…

All the commotion is stressful.

“Where are your clothes?”

“I’ll need to take your sleep number bed apart to bring it to the manor. What’s the company’s number?”

“Do you need to bring this there?”

I’m getting tired, trying to shuffle my way into each room. Watching my home flip upside down as everything is moved around and put into the moving trailer.

My eldest granddaughter drove down from college for the weekend to see me.

She asked me if I would like to bring my books to the home. I pause a moment.

I nearly forgot about them. I tell her where they are in the basement, but to my surprise, she brings up the wrong box.

A box of … his books.

My voice cracks as I tell her that she was mistaken. She apologizes and quickly returns them downstairs.

She quickly runs up and hands me a box, asking me if it’s the right one. I thank her as she tapes the box up and sets it aside. My daughter then walks in, asking all sorts of confusing questions about things. I can’t quite hear her… My hearing aids must be going dead.

--

My daughter and her family along with my son have packed up almost everything into the trailer.

My home looks lonely. It doesn’t look like… my home. It’s empty.

The others are outside, packing up my bed.

It’s so heavy… I’m causing them such trouble.

My granddaughter asks me if I want to bring any pictures with. She says it will brighten the room up a bit.

She helps me into the living room and tells me to point to which ones I would like so I don’t have to struggle with getting around the boxes covering the floor.

Looking around, I have her pick up images of my other grandkids, her siblings, a graduation picture with her, and my kids and their families.

My eyes fall on a certain picture. My eyes start to fill with tears but I try to fight the urge to cry. My voice cracks and is a bit incomprehensible but thankfully she understands me.

She picks up our 40^th anniversary picture and a picture of us when we were young and sets them carefully in a box.

I miss him.

--

I was in the bathroom but I heard it.

My daughter was in the other room, folding my clothes and packing them into a suitcase.

She was unusually quiet compared to the loud commands she was making earlier. I heard my granddaughter ask her quietly if she was okay.

It was quiet again.

Sniffling.

Opening the door, I saw my granddaughter holding my daughter in a hug, gently rubbing her back.

Just like before.

When we moved him into a home.

I cause them so much pain…

--

So here I am.

My last night in my house before I move into the manor tomorrow.

I wonder how Taemin felt… his last night here.

I’m not sure if he thought anything… He forgot about me well before he moved into the nursing home. Sitting in his chair… asking me who I was… where he was… then, nothing.

He just sat there.

For years… nothing. Then leaving me here…alone.

You loved me, right Tae? You didn’t mean to forget about me.

It was the disease. Every hug, every kiss… you knew I loved you, right?

It was the disease…

Will I get stronger there?

Or will I join you in time? I miss you so much…

You left me long before you died… It was easy for you to go.

You didn’t know that you wouldn’t get better.

You didn’t know that you forgot about everyone close to you.

You didn’t know that you forgot about me…

All of these memories are in this house… I don’t want to leave them.

All the years we shared together before the disease… Raising our family. Holidays. Growing old together.

I don’t want to leave this house. I don’t want to leave our home. If I do…

…I’d leave you.

You cared for it so… It would grow dusty. Dark. Forgotten.

I hate that word. Forgotten.

I know you didn’t mean to.

I know you didn’t want to.

…

But I’m leaving… just like you did.

Is it possible… for me to get better there?

Is it, Taemin? Can I get better?

… Or should I give up?

I’d see you again. You’d be healthy again.

I’d get to see that beautiful smile again.

I’d hear that laugh that I missed so much.

I’d embrace you and you would return it.

You’d rub the hurt away from these old hands of mine.

That soft angelic voice would soothe my aching head.

I’ll try to get better, Tae. I’ll try not to give up yet.

You always looked up to me for that.

I’ll try…

Have you been watching our family from up there, Tae?

… They have been doing well.

We raised them well.

-04/12/13 This story is now in memory of both of my grandparents. My grandpa was reunited with my grandma on the 12th of April 2013. They are together again and I dedicate this story to them.