I stood in the tiny blue-tiled shower room as hot water trickled down my neck. The water

pressure was strong, making a conveniently loud noise. This was the only private place in

the one-room apartment that I temporarily shared with my parents. I bowed my head and

sobbed.

That day, my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease. The shower was the first

moment I had to myself since then.

I had feigned nonchalance during the diagnosis, although it struck me like a bullet train.

"Everyone over 65 has some kind of memory issues.. heck, even I have a hard time

remembering things -- it's not a big deal," I said to my dad when we came out of the

hospital. I had to act strong.

The hot water was starting to burn my back. I turned around and let the water splash on my

face. I cried harder, taking small hiccups that I hoped would be drowned out by the water

sound. I squatted and covered my face as I succumbed to emotions.

I began to think about life. What is memory, and what is consciousness? When he no longer

recognizes me - a day that will inevitably come - how will I cope? I caught myself thinking

how this would affect me rather than my father, and was immediately overcome with guilt.

I mourned for all the trips untaken and experiences not shared. The diagnosis would mean

an end to our annual tradition of taking overseas trips. Starting with Italy some ten years

ago, we picked new destinations every year to visit together, just the two of us. It was a way

for us to connect, to make up for lost times when I was little and he was away for work.

Through these excursions, I got to know my father as a human being - a flawed but a

deeply kind man.

My mental clock alerted me that I had been in the shower for over 15 minutes, which was

longer than I usually took. To avoid causing suspicion, I pulled myself together, cleared my

blocked nose and cooled my puffy eyes. I checked in the mirror to see that my eyes were

no longer red before emerging from the bathroom, smiling weakly.