<p class="ql-block">In the cruel calculus of time, I'm grappling with a prognosis that reads like a death sentence scribbled in invisible ink: my father, a once indomitable force of nature, has less than a year left to live. It's a Kafkaesque nightmare—he weathered the tempest of COVID-19, only to be ensnared in a labyrinth of health issues that seem to multiply like Hydra heads with each passing day. White lungs, tuberculous pleurisy, and now the insidious interstitial pneumonia, a silent assassin that's slowly turning his lungs into a battlefield of scar tissue, like a once-thriving forest reduced to charred stumps after a wildfire.</p><p class="ql-block"> </p><p class="ql-block">Throw in diabetes, anemia, and dementia, and it's a perfect storm of medical maladies that would break the spirit of even the bravest souls. As the saying goes, "when it rains, it pours," and right now, it feels like a monsoon is raging through our lives. The doctors say there's no silver bullet, no magic cure to halt the progress of his pulmonary fibrosis. We're left with the Sisyphean task of managing his symptoms, like bailing out a sinking ship with a teaspoon. Every night is a high-stakes battle against suffocation, as we try to clear the mucus that threatens to drown him, a viscous enemy that lurks in the shadows of his respiratory system.</p><p class="ql-block"> </p><p class="ql-block">But in the midst of this darkness, there's a glimmer of hope, a chink in the armor of this seemingly invincible foe. Against all odds, his liver, gallbladder, kidneys, and heart are still holding their ground, like loyal soldiers坚守阵地 in a war they never asked to fight. It's a small mercy, a reminder that even in the face of overwhelming adversity, there's always a sliver of light at the end of the tunnel.</p><p class="ql-block"> </p><p class="ql-block">Yet, despite this glimmer of hope, I'm haunted by a sense of impending loss, a grief that simmers just beneath the surface, waiting to boil over. I find myself constantly vacillating between denial and acceptance, desperately clinging to the memories of the man my father used to be, while trying to come to terms with the frail shadow of his former self that now lies in the hospital bed. It's a painful dichotomy, a constant tug-of-war between the past and the present, between the man I knew and the man he's become.</p><p class="ql-block"> </p><p class="ql-block">As I sit by his bedside, watching the rise and fall of his chest with bated breath, I can't help but think of Dylan Thomas' famous words: "Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light." I want to shake my father awake, to tell him to fight, to not give in to the darkness that threatens to consume him. But at the same time, I know that sometimes, the bravest thing we can do is to let go, to accept the inevitable with grace and dignity.</p><p class="ql-block"> </p><p class="ql-block">In the end, all we can do is cherish the time we have left, to hold on to the memories and the love that will outlast this mortal coil. As the great Maya Angelou once said, "People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." And though the road ahead is filled with pain and heartbreak, I'm determined to make every moment count, to create a legacy of love and laughter that will live on long after my father has taken his final breath.</p>