The man was nearing 90, losing his sight and showing signs of early dementia. After examining his abdomen, I fumbled trying to help him get his shirt and pants back on. After an awkward few seconds, the patient’s middle-aged son sprang forward from his seat near the door and began working through the buttons, zipper and belt with a practiced deftness.

“Daddy,” he murmured softly as his fingers nimbly pushed each pearly button through its hole, “you can usually do this yourself, can’t you?” He continued cajoling his father, as he cinched the old man’s belt and patted the haphazard pleating that appeared around his waistline. “You can even feed yourself if I help get your food on the spoon, can’t you?”

My patient nodded absentmindedly, smiling at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling and tapping his fingers against his drooping mouth.

I felt as if I had just witnessed a scene that played itself over and over again every morning.

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