**If I’m related to you, and you’re not my mom, aunt, or sister. Don’t read this. Call my mom instead.
I started this post once already, some 14 hours ago. I was sitting at my desk, listening to my phone beep and vibrate as last night Twitter conversations came through after a night of having the phone turned off. I hit an all-time high-low this morning, with 45 tweets flooding in while I drank coffee and started a Caturday Catch Up. I flipped through tweets about Japan, boys, and booze and came to one from that morning. From my sister:
Dad is in the hospital. You need to get to Lexington.
And so I type to you, 14 hours later, from my parents’ house in Lexington. Let’s back up.
Dad went in on Friday to have a feeding tube put in (see last Saturday’s post about him needing a feeding tube). The tube went in and he was waking up from surgery when he crashed. (I just looked down at something on the desk in a very shaky hand. No wonder mom had written the address on the birth certificate they mailed me for my passport.) Anyway, the Rapid Response team was called in, they got him stabilized, but still didn’t know what was wrong. Until late this morning.
I shut down the computer, took a shower, packed a week’s worth of clothes (including, per the sister, funeral attire) and ran out to the hardware store to get a key made so Jrob can feed Murphy for however long I’m gone. Hoping I didn’t forget anyone, hoping that freelance work, world domination, and tiny cartoon pants can all wait, I started driving. I picked up sis at the Lexington airport and we went to the house to find out what was really going on.
It’s a lot of crazy medical words, but basically being on hard-core pain meds for the last three years had caused part of his digestive system to die. Lactic acid was building up in his lungs, making him feel (if he were awake) as though he was drowning. The doctors have said that there are things that they could do, but none of them are pleasant, painless, or permanent. Stage IV cancer is still stage IV cancer. Right now, he’s in a comfy unconscious state, and they’re sucking the liquid out of his lungs at regular intervals. While the next step is mom’s decision, all us gals talked and we all agree. This is better than waiting for brain tumors to make him blind or incoherent. This is better than having to move a hospital bed into the house. Tomorrow will be unpleasant. Tonight, I’m hearing my sister sing in the bathroom because she and mom polished off two bottles of wine. (I have Nytol in the party mix I keep in my purse.) Oh, and she just interrupted my typing with this:
“Amy, I need you to help me!”
“I’m just saying that tomorrow morning Anderson Cooper’s going to be like ‘Ashley Judd!’ And I just need you to assimilate.”
“Brush your teeth with me.”
“Dude, I already brushed my teeth. Go to bed, or I’m going to video tape you some more.”
“All I’m saying is that Anderson Cooper is on youTube is this bitch.”
She’s in the bathroom singing along with her iPod, wearing a wife beater and a gigantic turquoise necklace, trying to get a toothbrush out of a cellophane wrapper and yelling at it. “For fuck’s sake! Just brush me! Do you know what I’m saying?”
That’s all for now.