Hope for Both of Us

Hope for Both of Us

By Annette Camp 

November 22, 2025 

My dad’s body is learning

how to rise again—

his taste buds savoring food again

his kidneys remembering their work,

speech settling into a steadier rhythm.

He is getting stronger.

I see it.

I hold on to the phrase "One to two years."

Those words at the forefront of my mind.

However, it is a heavy thing,

to be a daughter watching her dad’s mind

bend under the weight of uncertainty,

to see hope loosen its grip in his eyes

even as his body grows stronger.

When he cries now,

it isn’t his body failing—

it’s the ache of wanting more time,

the longing to stay in the world

as it keeps moving around him.

He hungers for life with a 

tenderness that breaks me open,

reaching for every moment

as if it might slip away

before he can hold it.

He is not ready for an ending.

He wants to live.

He says it out loud,

as if the words themselves

could anchor him to the earth.

And each time his tears fall,

something inside me tightens—

a towel twisted in two strong hands,

pulled until water streams out.

That is how my heart feels—

wrung,

not by despair,

but by the helplessness 

of watching him sob louder

than anything in the room.

I tell him he is getting better.

I tell him he is still here.

I tell him he is not done.

I tell him I am here to see

him get healthier not to die.

But the towel keeps twisting

every time pain touches my thoughts.

Still—

I gather what pours out of me,

sit beside him,

and hold the shape of hope

for both of us.