At 85, my father wasn't the man I remembered from my childhood. The strong hands that once built our family deck now struggled to open a jar of pickles. The legs that carried him through decades of hard work could barely make it up the stairs without wincing in pain.

For ten years, I watched helplessly as joint pain and stiffness gradually stole his mobility, and with it, his independence.

"I'll be fine," he'd insist whenever I expressed concern. But the truth was obvious. In every grimace he tried to hide when standing up from his favorite chair. In every activity he quietly gave up as the years passed.

The worst part? Seeing him withdraw from the life he loved. He stopped joining his friends for morning coffee. He quit tending to his beloved garden. He even gave up his woodworking hobby.

His doctors prescribed medications that either didn't work or left him feeling drowsy and unlike himself. At night, he relied on sleeping pills, having gone more than a decade without restful sleep because of his discomfort.

I refused to accept that this was just "part of aging." My father deserved better.