Nervously, I approached the back of the recliner. I could see a head resting on it, but this head was practically bald. There were only patches of hair, and that hair was gray. Walking closer, I could see the man's hand. There were dark spots, and his skin was tightening around his veins, making them stick out. His arms and chest were the same, but over his heart, were plastic tubes that led into a bag I would never dare look in. His legs were about as thin as his arms(which were very skinny). I tried to look at his eyes, but couldn't see anything, because he couldn't keep his eyelids open. His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling in unnatural, slow breaths. I reached out and touched his hand. He felt fragile, like glass. As if the slightest touch would break him. I felt something wet on my cheek, and realized I was crying. If you would've shown me this man one year ago, I would've recoiled in horror. But now, I'm fighting for this man's life, because this man is my father.