BAY CITY — My 91-year-old father was curled in the fetal position, grabbing the metal railing with his left hand in a bed brought in by hospice.
The blanket tangled around his feet and I looked at his legs. Like skin and bones. He wasn’t wearing his hearing aids or his glasses.
This wasn't my dad.
Tears welled in my eyes and I turned my head so he couldn’t see. I took deep breaths, blinking hard, trying to stay composed. I handed him his glasses and found his hearing aids.
One had a red mark.