Living in the House of Disease & Plague

It’s been pretty clear for a while now that my mom’s health is failing. God knows we’ve spent the last year preparing ourselves for the long goodbye. We’ve been so focused on mom that it’s doubly shocking when my dad gets sick.

And is he ever.

His normal smoker’s cough is bubbling. Yes, lovely mental image. Bubbling. His head sounds like it’s full of wet concrete. And he will not go to the doctor. Will. Not. I’m counting it as a major victory that he came home early today (for probably what was the first time in 50 years) and allowed me to drug him into unconsciousness. Of course the fact that I leapt upon him like a starving cheetah on a wounded gazelle probably had something to do with that. I even went to the Chicken King and bought the gourmet chicken soup for when he crawls out of his cave.

This is my dad’s lungs:

This is the wonder drug that I’m counting on to fix him:

I don’t like it when Daddy’s sick. He’s supposed to be indestructible, like Superman, only crankier.

So, I’ll hover and pick and he’ll be pissy and crabby, and hopefully by the weekend he’ll be on the mend. Hopefully.

This is the doctor I’d like to see make a house call (preferably fully clothed while examining my dad, then not so fully clothed once Daddy’s drugged back into his coma).

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