The breaks. We cannot has them.
Since I posted on Friday, things went from Fine to Not Fine. "Kaflooey," is my mom's technical term for it. My dad's lung collapsed, his blood sugar went through the roof, he developed an arrhythmia and most likely pneumonia. He's had his lung drained of fluid and several panic attacks because he simply can't breathe. He's been on and off oxygen treatments for days, constantly dancing around the edge of ventilator territory -- improving a little but not quite enough, remaining solidly in the high-level cardiac care unit, which we keep telling him is actually a million-dollar spa getaway when the nurse comes to thump away on his back. I'm sure his insurance company would find us HYSTERICAL.
On the other end of the whining spectrum, I woke up on Sunday with another cold. Meaning I could do nothing more for my dad than miserably wave at him from the doorway while covering my mouth and nose, and could do nothing more for my mom than drape myself over the chairs in the waiting room and pretend that I was still awake. My body just plumb gave out, so I came home.
And yet I will be dragging my feverish ass out of bed this afternoon to take Noah to a speech evaluation -- a private one, which I suppose our insurance may also find rather amusing. Also, I think I will bet myself 10 bucks that I can get him to say "kaflooey" to the speech therapist. It's good to have goals, people.