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His eyes get lighter every time I see him. Cataracts can’t be nice to live with. He grumbles to go home and frustrates the nurses with his restlessness, but still finds it in him to cheekily tell R to put her finger in the fish pond for them to eat. Walking exhausts him, but getting in and out of the wheelchair exhaust him more. The words slur and meld into one. Sometimes I just pretend to understand what he says.

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