My blog needs a new tagline. It should be, "Nesting Ground: Where Never The Day Is Dull." Or something like that. Some of you know that my crazy father recently experienced yet another one of his dramatic health episodes. A few people have asked me to blog about it, but I shan't do it full-out. For although he is crazy, I need to preserve the man's privacy. A little.
Last week, when I brought my mom home from having an MRI that lasted something like 79 hours, my dad was in bed with the covers pulled up to his chin. "I have a cold," he said. "Call 911." And we all laughed and I went home and the next day was a normal day.
Two days later, though, my crazy father collapsed and my calm mother DID call 911, and the next thing I knew we were living an episode of that insipid show, Grey's Anatomy. Flash forward six days, and everyone is home where they are supposed to be, and doing what they are supposed to be doing which is basically eating no salt and making sure their blood sugar never again takes a deep-sea dive to...hello?...THIRTY-SEVEN. And we will be partaking on new adventures: physical therapy for my mom (as I believe I mentioned earlier) and dialysis for dad.
All the same, we are counting several lucky stars. One of said lucky stars is my dad's generally perky little take on life. For a couple of days, he had the world's most miserable roommate at the hospital. We'd draw the curtains completely and just listen with saucer-eyes as the guy went on and on about how he was just going to "end it" and nobody could stop him and how he was a "World War II vet and can use a gun; you figure it out," and how everything was shot to hell because he couldn't eat apple pie anymore. After listening to that poor man, I realized that maybe my crazy father is not so crazy; maybe he's a peach.
But I have to tell you, I'm not looking forward to the salt arguments that are about to ensue. In fact, I'm just going to refer to 2009 as the year of The Salt Wars.