“I don’t want you to pamper me!” Dad barked.  I thought I was just being courteous, delivering his dinner, carting off his dirty dishes.  “I can do it myself.”  Watching him do it himself is painful for me because it is painful for him.  The effort to do the simplest things is enormous and exhausting.  But I respect his desire to not want paternalistic pampering.  I respect that he does not want to feel old and feeble, that he does want to feel strong and capable, despite knowing that “I’m going downhill fast, Rog.”  My opportunity is to affirm him discreetly, to help him with subtlety, to step quietly in without implying my help is needed.  So, when Dad is ready for seconds, I get up from the dinner table for an ice cube or the salt, and say with nonchalance, “I’m already up, so can I bring you something?”