The Fat Lady Is In the Wings

I spent the last two nights at the hospital with Dad, and each night he has been less OK than the night before. Last night he never woke up to look at me at all, and so I didn't even have an opportunity to have him suck water off of the Sponge Tool. I was hoping I could feed him some Carnation VHC Drink, which seemed to give him some energy the last time he had some. Three days ago when he had a can of the VHC Drink, he opened his eyes, laughed, and talked a little. Last night, all he did was cough. Alot. All night.

The VHC in Carnation VHC Drink stands for Very High Calorie. It has 560 calories per 8 oz. serving, and is what they give people who can't or don't eat. I like that the name of the product is also the description of the product, because it just makes things easier. One of my pet peeves is going to a Mexican restaurant, and having to read the fine print to find out what the difference is between the Vera Cruz, the Acapulco, the Tampico, and the Guadalajara. The one with one beef enchilada and one cheese enchilada should be called "Enchilada Dinner" and the one with puffed tacos should be called "Puffed Taco Dinner." The fine print below the menu category and above the actual items is OK. This is where it usually says, "All combination platters are served with Spanish rice and refried beans. Burracho or black beans are available upon request."

As I was leaving the hospital tonight, Dad's nurse, Gayle, said that she wouldn't be surprised if we weren't able to transport Dad to Arlington for hospice care. Meaning, that he probably is not going to get better enough to transport, and this may all go down right here in Houston. I think she's right, and it makes me sad because I really would like for Jerry to see Sterling and Silver again. It would be good for Jerry, and it would be good for Sterling and Silver. I would hate for the dogs to think that Daddy just up and left. I have told them in recent weeks that Daddy has cancer, and also that he wouldn't have it if they were better dogs. (Note to my cousin Beth: Don't worry, they aren't that fluent in English. All they heard was, "blah, blah, blah, Daddy, blah, blah.) Gayle's opinion was solicited by the way, she wasn't just yaking. I respect her opinion because she really does seem to care, and because she has worked for M. D. Anderson since 1975. I mentioned that her picure on her ID card looked "youthful" but it didn't come out as I intended. I really need to clip my toenails if I'm going to be sticking my foot into my mouth like that. At least I stopped talking before I mentioned that in 1975 I was in second grade.

It is 1:07 a.m. as I type this post in the Gatehouse of the RIBM, and I haven't heard from Nolie tonight, which is a good sign, for now. I know she'll call if she needs me, and I finally assigned her her own ringtone so I'll know it's her.