As a child, my father taught me to play baseball. I played shortstop and third base in a little league in Beirut, Lebanon, where we lived before moving back to Saudi Arabia. He never missed a match. He taught me to ride a horse. The first horse we bought was named Princess. Riding in front of him on the western-style leather saddle, he let me steer with the frayed rawhide reins. He also taught me to dance the waltz. I'm still not very good at keeping up, but I remember him always saying I needed to know because that day I'm getting married; he will demand the first dance! I watched him play ball with his friends. He seemed like such a strong and athletic man. But now I am his strength. Today I have to put on his socks… slowly so as not to hurt his ankles. I have to tie his shoes, then help him up. I make him breakfast and accompany him to his dreaded doctor's appointments. I need to massage his weakened legs and feet to improve his circulation and stop the pain. Hearing him scream in pain or knowing that he will never again be able to do the things he loves, like sports, horseback riding and dancing, is heartbreaking. These days I play alone; He can't throw the ball. I ride alone; he can't sit on the horse. I dance alone; he can't even walk. My father has suffered from a chronic illness for sixteen years now. He suffers from rheumatoid arthritis and type B diabetes. A stroke caused the loss of vision in one eye, and because of the medications he took, he now suffers from high blood pressure, weakened immune system and 70% of his kidneys are gone. I've seen him suffer all my life. Sometimes I felt numb to my father's cries. I try to chase away the discomfort. But what always torments me is this fear because when I leave home, I may never see him again. It's a whole different vision of life. However, regretting my illness is something I try to avoid. I love my father very much. People say, about the way I talk about fathers, that I must have good relationships with my fathers..