As I stand on the doorstep, awaiting the answer to my knocking, the fall leaves rush across my feet, swirling and crunching as the wind picks up. This typical fall day in South Weymouth brings a sense of nostalgia, visiting my grandparents. I hear creaking as my little, Italian grandmother walks through the old hallway, nearing the doorway. She opens the door and greets me with a huge hug and kiss, just as always, and I start taking in my senses. The absent smell of home cooked food that usually rolled through the house like a delightful fog catches my attention. I walk further into the house noticing everything is in its exact same place, the house hasn’t changed one bit, aside from the one, major difference. We walk through the old swinging doors and into the kitchen; I turn and see my grandfather, who is standing in the living room in front of “his chair.” I am taken back at first by how fragile and thin he looks, but then I am quickly taken over by the warmth of his smile instead. He is standing sideways as if he had just stood up from the chair and was trying to turn around all by himself. He gives me the biggest grin he could muster, like, “look what I can do, look what I just did, so glad to see you,” all-in-one type look. His hands are steady on his walker, he is wearing a blue-green, soft, plaid, button down shirt tucked in, a belt with black slacks and sneakers. His white and gray, curly hair is combed back. He looks as handsome as ever. “Hello, so nice to see you,” he said in a slow, but understandable manner. “Hi, Grampy! You look so great. I’m so glad I could come visit you today,” I said. Grampy puts himself in his wheelchair, unlocks the wheel restraints and moves himself to the head of the kitchen table as I prepare coffee and tea. We converse over cookies and tea to catch up. His speech isn’t too stuttered, but saliva builds up in his mouth, which sometimes makes it difficult to understand what he says. When we are all done with our drinks he looks at me, smiles and says, “ I already put my swimsuit on, I have the Y today. Tuesday and Wednesdays.” “Oh, great! You really like pool therapy at the Y don’t you? Does it help you”? I ask. “Yes, I like the Y, nice people, it helps me,” he said as he nods his head in agreement. “Well, I would like to go over some questions for my school paper if you are up to it now before we head out to your class, is that ok”? I ask, as my heart suddenly starts pounding. He nods, but he is looking down so I know to tread lightly and to keep it short. “I know it has been about three years now since you had all three of your strokes, and you have come a long way, out of everything you’ve endured, what has been or what continues to be your biggest struggle?” I ask, hoping it isn’t too deep of a question. He takes a moment to think, chokes back his words a little and says, “Hardest thing to accept help from others, I’m very independent person and now I have to depend on everybody else.” There is a pause as he looks away, saddened, and then with a shift of tone in his voice, he looks me in the eye and continues more sternly, “I can’t see worth a damn! My mouth feels like I left the dentist, my mouth, lips, I spit when I talk, my balance is off.” As he expressed this, his hand was in front of his lips, strained and trembling showing his frustration. “Even to this day I try to do things on my own,” he states. At this moment, his eyes began to water for a split second and I realized this was his true battle. He looked at me as I wrote notes and