I had a free hour on Tuesday, around lunchtime, so I decided to visit my father in his nursing home. My father’s facility is within walking distance of the hospital that I work in. The proximity of the nursing home to my work, to me, is both a blessing and a curse. Some days I can’t decide which it is.

I stopped by my hospital’s gift shop on my way to visit Dad. I planned to bring him a gift, maybe some candy or a muffin. In years past, I might have selected a paperback, a newspaper, or a book of crossword puzzles and brainteasers. He still has his vision – with the help of bifocals – but he can no longer process the words that he reads. The man who once devoured several books a week – especially anything written by Ken Follett, John Jakes, or Louis L’Amour — can’t comprehend a restaurant menu, much less a newspaper or magazine. After searching the shelves in the small gift shop filled with flowers and balloons and knickknacks, I selected a stuffed animal – a cuddly spotted leopard — and a bag of salted peanuts.

When I entered his darkened room on the second floor of the nursing home, he was lying flat in his bed, wearing a hospital gown. His eyes were closed, and he wore a pained expression. He either sensed my presence or heard me pull up a chair, and he opened his eyes. He looked startled and panicked.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” he said. There was urgency in his voice and he reached a hand out to grab mine. I raised the head of his bed some, so he could be closer to me.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “What do you think has happened?”

“I was in an accident, a head on collision with someone,” he said. “But I don’t know what’s wrong. They won’t tell me. Something is wrong here.” He touched the right side of his forehead with his hand.

I reassured him that he was okay, that he had not been in an accident. That he must have been dreaming about an accident from the past or something he’d seen on television. He looked at me, then beyond me, and finally he shook his head as if to shake off the cobwebs coating his memories.

“Here, Dad, I’ve brought you a gift,” I showed him the stuffed animal and the peanuts. He took the leopard from me and hugged it, his eyes bright. I placed the peanuts on his tray table, but within his reach.

He petted the soft toy, running his fingers over the pink nose and glass eyes. He hugged it again, then set it next to the bag of peanuts. He turned to look at me.

“How long have I been here?” he asked.

“Almost three months, Dad.” But it seems like forever. It seems like it will be forever.

“Why? What’s wrong with me?” he asked, his voice filled with equal parts despair and confusion. “I just wish I knew what was wrong with me.”

“It’s your brain, Dad,” I explained gently. “It’s like Alzheimer’s. You have something like Alzheimer’s, like your mom had. Do you remember that she used to wander? And that’s why she was in a nursing home? It’s something like that, just like what she had.”

He looked at me in disbelief. He didn’t say anything right away. He turned away from me, and then turned back, his greenish-hazel eyes locking with mine.

“I hate that,” he said.

My eyes filled with tears. “Me too, Dad. I hate it too. We all hate it.”

We sat quietly for a few minutes. I stared at the television that sits on his dresser. The television is eternally tuned to the same channel since his remote control went missing a few weeks ago. I can’t tell you how many old reruns of Friends I have watched since May. That day it was on a cartoon – maybe King of the Hill or Family Guy? It was obnoxious and not something he ever would have watched.

“How old am I?” he asked.

This was the first he’d ever asked me that. Normally his memory for the past is very strong, even now. I told him that he was seventy-seven. That he will be seventy-eight in December.

“I’m not done yet,” he said, his voice cracking, full of emotion. He broke down in tears.

“I know, Dad,” I said. “I know you’re not.”

We held hands for a while. I watched the scenes from Family Guy – or maybe King of the Hill – scroll across the television screen. He didn’t say anything for a while, just stared at the television and at the open door to his room. I don’t think he was seeing either. He was in his head, remembering…or maybe forgetting.

He gave my hand a squeeze and then let go. He took the stuffed leopard in his hands and hugged it to his chest, stroking the animal’s back. He reached for the bag of peanuts.

“Let’s have a snack,” he said, a smile lighting up his face. “Want some?”

I nearly died yesterday.

That sounds melodramatic, doesn’t it? I know. I think so too. And gosh, I hate drama. For the past 24 hours, I’ve struggled with what happened yesterday, and I’ve worried that I was being overemotional for no good reason, that I was being histrionic.

The answer is no. I could have died, but I didn’t.

Last night, to calm myself, I made homemade ricotta cheese. I felt the need to create something. I couldn’t create the words yet – the writer inside my head was mostly a crazed, screaming fool last night – so I stood at the stovetop and stirred milk and cream.

But I’ll get to the ricotta in a bit. Let me tell you what happened.

Yesterday morning, I met a woman from my work, Karen, at a local Starbucks. We had an appointment to visit a medical practice in a town about 40 minutes from here. I left my minivan in the parking lot and we climbed into her car, a company car. The morning’s appointment went well – I love getting to know the other physicians in our community – and we headed back before 11 o’clock. Clouds were gathering, and I told Karen I hoped we made it back before the rain let loose.

Every one of us has a story to tell. Some of us share stories in writing, either on blogs or in spiral-bound journals or in published, hold-in-your-hand memoirs. Others share stories through photography or through the spoken word. Some simply share stories around the dinner table, with family and friends. Others enjoy telling their story to their seat mate in the economy cabin of that Delta flight home.

I’m at the BlogHer Food conference in Austin, Texas, this weekend, and yesterday, I had the pleasure of serving on a panel called Principles of Storytelling. My co-panelists were women I’ve admired for their writing, both online and in print. Jenny Rosenstrach is the author of Dinner: A Love Story and the blog by the same name. Molly Wizenberg wrote A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table, is working on a second book now, and she’s the woman behind Orangette. Rachel Matthews is a native Texan who writes the wonderful blog, A Southern Fairytale.

And then there was me.

I confess, it still feels like I was the odd one out on that panel. The impostor.  Like maybe the conference organizers picked the wrong blogger by mistake and then felt bad telling me. I had a lot of fun, though, despite my awkwardness. There was a lot of good advice passed around and the questions from the audience were wonderful.