During my childhood, my father taught me to play baseball. I played shortstop and third base in a little league in Beirut, Lebanon, where we lived before returning to Saudi Arabia. He never missed a game. He taught me to ride a horse. The first horse we bought was called Princess. Riding ahead of him on the western-style leather saddle, he let me lead with the frayed rawhide reins. He also taught me to waltz. I'm still not very good at following, but I remember him always saying that I needed to know why I was getting married that day; will demand the first dance! I watched him play football with his friends. He looked like a strong, athletic man. But now I am his strength. Nowadays, I have to put his socks on...slowly, so his ankles don't hurt. I have to tie his shoes and then help him get up. I make him breakfast and take him to his dreaded doctor's appointments. I have to massage his weakened legs and feet to improve circulation and stop the pain. Hearing him cry in pain or knowing that he will never be able to do the things he loves again, like sports, horseback riding and dancing, is heartbreaking. These days I play alone; He can't throw the ball. I go alone; he cannot sit on the horse. I dance alone; he can't even walk. My father has been chronically ill for sixteen years now. He has rheumatoid arthritis and type B diabetes. A stroke caused him to lose vision in one eye, and because of medications, he now has high blood pressure, a weakened immune system, and 70 percent of his kidneys are gone . I have watched him in agony all my life. At times I found myself feeling numb to my father's cries. I try to banish the discomfort. But what always torments me is the fear that, when I leave home, I may never see him again. It's a completely different view of life. However, regret over his illness is something I try to prevent. I love my father very much. People say, about fathers, that I have to have a good relationship with my parents.