These past few months have been an emotional roller coaster: Calls from my father at odd times in the day of panic and confusion. "What will I wear?" "I can't seem to get out of bed. How will I get to breakfast?" "I'm at the bus station in Concord, coming to see you." "I'm so sorry to keep calling you, but I don't understand what's going on." His once powerful, deep voice is raspy and, at times, barely audible. I try to reassure him. I tell him it's OK to call - anytime. I say, "Take some deep breaths, Dad. Look at the birds out your window. I'll be by this afternoon, and we'll sort through things then." I hang up, take my own deep breaths and try to believe the words of a good friend. "It's not something you can fix. You need to let go."