Oh, God. I seriously just typed, "Hi, we're all still alive" without thinking about it, because I wonder if some of you are expecting someone to NOT still be alive, which is like, heavy and bleak and depressing, especially since we are all MOST EMPHATICALLY ALL STILL ALIVE.
In fact, as evidence for the "I am perhaps made of magic after all" theory, I think my father has improved dramatically since I got here on Monday night, when he was thin and frail and shaking and I honestly didn't recognize the little old man wearing my dad's glasses. Then I made spaghetti and meatballs and he ate two helpings and I figured out how to TiVo the Phillies game even though the guide wasn't showing that there even WAS a Phillies game (leave it to my dad, though, to still know exactly when the Phillies are playing despite being bedridden since January), and today I brought him a terribly unhealthy lunch of a bacon cheeseburger, like do I know how to help a cardiac patient or what, and he ate that too and played lots of peekaboo with Ezra and declared him "human cuteness personified," which is English professor speak for NOM NOM NOM ON TEH BAYBEE.
On Tuesday his pulmonologist told us there was essentially nothing more anybody could do: it was up to my dad now. The body vs. the spirit. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I'm so glad I brought along these two handy dandy reminders that life is worth living.