My foot, #*@*&!.

You've begun to really try to talk. But between the trach and the sedative, it's very hard for you. I so wish I could read lips, Daddio. The only thing harder than watching your face as you're trying to make yourself understood is watching your face turn to defeat when we don't get it. It won't always be like this. But right now, it really sucks. You can't tell us, simply, "I love you." Or, "My lower back hurts, help me shift positions."

But sometimes we understand you. Earlier this morning, I managed to understand the words, "Help me. My foot." Aha! Which one? You shook your left foot. Even the nurse saw that. Aha! Great! Um, what do you want me to do, though? I rubbed it, scratched it, and then finally decided to follow your example. When you move your feet around, you lift your leg high off the bed, so I held it at that height a while. I thought maybe you wanted some relief on your lower back. It wouldn't surprise me, lying there for 23 days straight. I couldn't tell if this was what you really wanted of if you were just ready to give up on trying so you wouldn't have to watch me hold your limbs in the air for no apparent reason anymore.

Tonight, Asia and I saw you say the same thing, and so I lifted your foot up, then propped it up, then we put a pillow under your knee. That seemed to comfort you quite a bit, as you didn't mention it again, really.

We think we saw you mouth a few other things today: "Brother," which we took to mean "Where's your brother?" I explained that he'd been there to see you, but wasn't there now. Then we think you said "pick up" and "airport." We recalled that it had been you who was to have picked Forrest up upon his return from Italy. And we assured you that he was fine, he's back, and he's got stories for you. Then you seemed to be worried about the house. This was something we really didn't want you worrying about, and you were starting to get pretty upset, so we headed out.

But somewhere in there, when the nurse was cleaning out the IV line in your foot (or doing something that stings or bugs you) he told you to relax your foot, and you, being agitated as you were starting to get, didn't want any part of it right then. And when he squeezed his syringe, you made a face and Asia and I will swear that you were aggravated enough by the sting to say, "motherf*cker." Asia and I had been in the process of speaking out loud to each other whatever word we thought your lips were forming, so we both said it. We gasped when we realized what we'd said and looked at each other and then laughed. The nurse laughed, too. And you smiled.

We all needed that.

Update: Your PEEP is back to 10, but your O2 assistance is still on the lower setting of 50%. You get breathing therapies every four hours and you are coughing that stuff out of there regularly. You're making progress, Dad. Little by little. Bit by bit.