Do not look a gift horse in the hole in the throat

It is done.

And it is good.

You look infinitely more comfortable, Dad. I thought I would be really ooged out about seeing the tracheostomy and the tube going into it, the whole bit.

But, instead, I saw your face without all the straps and tape digging into your cheeks and the corners of your mouth. I saw your lips, without gauze on them to ease the bleeding from the blisters caused by the rubbing of the tube.

I saw you. And not the apparatus.

And it is good.

They've been taking chest X-rays every night since the pneumonia reared its ugly head. And guess what? Last night's film, for the first time ever, showed enough progress that Dr. Esterhoff felt it worthy of mentioning. Apparently, there was a teeny bit of progress the night before, but they must be cautious, I imagine, about telling families of improvement until it seems like a real trend. So, today, we got to hear the good news: your lungs definitely show receding gunk.

And it is good.

Also, we've been told that sometimes, some fire smoke inhalation patients, for reasons they cannot quite explain, improve at an accelerated rate after undergoing a tracheotomy and then getting to breathe through the tracheostomy. (Do you like my context clues? I, too was confused about the difference between the two words.) The doctor told us about this phenomenon, because apparently, loved ones, after consenting to a hole in the throat because they've been told it's necessary for lengthy ventilation, tend to question having given their green light for the surgery when suddenly, the patient is off the vent in days instead of weeks.

And Dixie, Mom (Liz) and I all looked at each other and I said, "Well, you will never hear us complain that Dad got better faster!" Later, when relaying the day's conversations to Asia, I joked, "We will not look a gift horse in the hole in the throat."

She laughed.

It is good, Dad. Today is a good day.