Every so often it hurts again. Like it did in the beginning. The beginning back when the doctors first told me he was going to die. The beginning when I had to put him in daycare while I worked. The beginning when I had to put him in a nursing home. The beginning when he couldn’t walk anymore or see or follow even the simplest conversation. The day I came to visit and they had moved him to the dining area where the other people who couldn’t feed themselves sat. The day I couldn’t understand what he was saying anymore even though I knew what he was saying because it was the same thing he’d been saying over and over. “When can I come home?” Read Full Article