Two Saturdays ago, at my little brother’s birthday party, my dad asked me to massage his back with menthol camphor oil. Giving massages to my parents and my grandfather, Tata, is kind of my thing—my not-so-hidden talent, if you will. Dad claimed he was feeling under the weather, so I dutifully obliged. The Sunday that followed, he spiked a fever. He was too weak to attend Mass and had to skip our family dinner—that hardly ever happens. Mom, ever the pragmatist, called the family doctor for a consultation and was advised to administer Paracetamol to quell Dad’s fever. Spoiler alert: the medicine did nothing.

The next day, we carted him off to St. Luke’s Medical for a proper assessment. The staff ran through their usual routine—tests, pokes, and prods. His lab results were mostly normal, or so we were led to believe. But the fever? It was stubbornly persistent, and Dad was in considerable discomfort. The doctors decided his stay would need to be upgraded to inpatient status for further observation and evaluation—because who doesn’t love a good plot twist?

They tested him for Dengue, Typhoid fever, Malaria, Leptospirosis, and a laundry list of other illnesses, considering every possible factor. They outlined his recent activities, from his last meal to his international travels, and even his lifestyle choices. Negative for everything, of course. Classic.

Days rolled on, and the fever showed no signs of retreat. Alongside oral pills, he was injected with high doses of Paracetamol, but it was like trying to extinguish a wildfire with a garden hose. Broad-spectrum antibiotics joined the party, and Dad was pricked with needles incessantly. Blood cultures, ultrasounds, urine tests, CT scans, X-rays, spinal punctures—they checked everything, from his heart to his brain. “Fever with unknown cause,” the doctors declared, as if that was supposed to be comforting. This only intensified the frustration of everyone, particularly Mom.

I’ve been camping out in the hospital for over a week now. Ed and my brothers join me some nights, but mostly it’s just me and Mom taking turns watching over Dad. The view of concrete walls and parking lots is, shall we say, less than inspiring. The smell of bleach mingles with our perpetual takeout meals, and the harsh fluorescent lights could make even the sun envious. The ambiance of dread that permeates hospitals is palpable—calling this place depressing would be a gross understatement. Thank goodness for decent internet; otherwise, I’d be left to wallow in the gloom. YouTube and Kathy Griffin’s comedy have become my savior, true friends in these dark times. Without those welcome distractions, I’d be left to bear witness to my dad’s alarming decline.

Eating? Not really his thing anymore. The doctors suggested a nasogastric tube—yes, a long tube snaking through the nostrils to deliver nutrition straight to the stomach—but Dad flat-out refused. He’s lost so much strength he can hardly stand, let alone walk. The assertiveness in his voice has faded to a whisper; now you have to lean in just to catch his words. He needs to be fed, he has a catheter, and he sleeps around the clock. We’ve resorted to adult diapers, which he loathes, and it’s painful to witness his pride take a hit. Yet, somehow, he manages to smile and crack jokes, trying to lighten the mood, which only breaks my heart further. But I must cling to hope.

My entire family is a bundle of nerves. Mom, in particular, is struggling to cope. My younger sister, Dad’s unofficial favorite (don’t tell the rest of us), had to cut her vacation in the U.S. short to be with us. We get a steady stream of visitors, all wishing for Dad’s recovery. Gifts, flowers, and well-wishes flood in, a testament to the pillar he has been for so many. It’s surreal and disconcerting to watch that image dissolve in real time. He needs to get better. We need him to get better. I need him to get better. Dad, please, just get better.