As I walked down the long corridor in my dad’s nursing home, I wondered which Dad I would find. Would he be happy to see me? Would he smile or crack a joke? Would he engage me in conversation, ask me questions like how Mom is doing or if it’s rained lately? Or would he sit in his chair unresponsive?

Dad was in bed, lying on one side asleep when I found him. The TV was on but not turned to the Dallas Cowboys game as would have been the case during Dad’s healthier days.

The sight of him in bed startled me. Dad is never in bed, except when he’s asleep at night. At home, even on days when he didn’t feel well, Dad always preferred to sit in his chair.

Dad woke up and saw me, but didn’t say much. I asked him if he wasn’t feeling well. He shook his head no. I learned later that his lower back was bothering him. I called my brother and told him. He sounded concerned, too. A few days before he’d found him in a similar state.

I asked an aide if someone could help me get him out of bed. He needs to get outside, feel the fresh air and the sun, I thought. After a couple of the aides transferred him to his wheelchair, I took him outside. He stared at the cars that passed by on the highway. Two other residents were sitting out there, too. One was asleep in her wheelchair. The other one mentioned she was hoping someone would come by to pick her up.

As I sometimes did when Dad was home, I instructed him to raise and lower his arms, to lift and lower his legs, to open and close his hands. A little exercise, I thought, could only help.

I told him to make fists and hit the palms of my hands, to pretend he was a boxer like he did during his younger days. As a little girl, I’d often watch him shadow boxing or hitting the cords dangling from a ceiling fan. I’d get a kick watching him and sometimes tease him about it. Now, I yearn for any glimmer of that Dad.

Yesterday, when I popped in for another visit, Dad was sitting at the dining room table, a plate of food in front him. He was having trouble eating. I stood next to him and suggested he try using a fork to eat what looked like a Philly cheesesteak. He had some tomatoes on the side, so I cut those up into smaller pieces and helped wrap his hand around the fork. He struggled but eventually raised the fork to his mouth. I didn’t bother trying to get him to hold his glass of tea for fear he would spill it all over himself.  So, after every few bites, I’d raise the cup to his mouth and have him take a few sips.

After each bite, I’d encourage him.

“That’s great, Dad.”

“See, you can do this.”

Dad’s dining room buddies got their meals after him but finished eating before him. Neil offered me his chair. Ira called over an aide and explained, “This girl’s father needs helping eating.” I thanked him and told him he was sweet for thinking of my dad but that I had it covered.

Little by little the things you took for granted begin to fade as your loved ones age and their health declines. And you find yourself longing for the simple things: their ability to hold a fork or to smile.