My father was slowly dying. He was in his own bed at home and I had been at his side for a number of long days. As time passed, he became more withdrawn—I hoped my presence was helping him. One day, his caregiver had put an old dog blanket on him without thinking. I could not bear to see him covered in a tattered blanket so I found this pretty newer blanket for him. I am crying now thinking about his compromised dignity which I tried to recover in a small way.