johnsicat

He remains on his bed without a word uttered. "Get well, sir," my mother says as tears fall from her begging eyes. Oxygen mask covering his face, intravenous tube in his arm and a world of hurt filling his heart, he fights. He fights to survive. His intent is not to die but to live.       To live until       he knows that his family is going to be all right. As I watch him determined to fight for survival, breath after breath, I pray that he will get better. But he won't. He's 90 years old and has fought many good fights in his life, winning each and every one of them. But this one cannot be won. One can only adm