The GREAT news is that my mom doesn’t have the flu or pneumonia or even anything contagious; after a barrage of tests involving radiation and discreet little plastic cups, it turns out she has what we will politely call Something Feverish But Still Fixable With Lots Of Thumb-Size Antibiotic Pills.
The GOOD news is that my dad is stable and slowly improving, and he’ll continue to be under the incredible care of the incredible St. Luke’s medical staff for at least another day as he improves even further. But he’s still gold-medaling in Olympic Hacking Coughing.
The WHO THE HELL CARES? news is Bitch Kitty is noticeably lonely without my dad—the only person worthy of her fickle attempts at kindness—here. I laugh at her emotional pain.
The PROFOUNDLY EMBARRASSING news is that I’ve shuttled Mom around town today while she’s been mortifyingly bundled up in the ugliest, pilliest, polyeresterist, garish1970scolorsiest blanket we shamefully own. And since my parents’ health is unquestionably all about me, I. AM. DYING. INSIDE.
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