Return of the P-word

Oh, the things we get used to, but hate all the same.

Traffic. Bills. Taxes.

Pneumonia.

Yep. Here we go again, Daddio. But this time, that bacteria's not kicking a man when he's down. You've been rising from the mat for some time now. And though it still doesn't feel fair that you should have this weight added back to your shoulders, you know what? Screw it. That bacteria's just been floating around in that hospital, getting used to antibiotics, building tolerances to it's powers. It thinks it's so hot.

But it hasn't met you yet. And it hasn't met us.

Your PEEP is still holding at 5. Your O2 assistance is at 40% still. You're not losing ground and that is key. And Dixie's probably blogging right now about the signs of fight and light in your spirit that you've been showing these last couple of days.

I just had to post this because, as I've been sitting here with the news, stuck in my cubicle, in my office park, in a city hundreds of miles away from you, I just feel the need to re-assert: You are getting better. Every day, dammit. I wish I could squeeze your hand and kiss your face and sing you a song and read your book to you. But I know that Asia and Dixie and Forrest are doing those things. I want you to go ahead and feel your power and vitality. And even though you are tethered to save you from drugged-up dummy decisions like yanking on IV lines, Dad, feel free to get better and get the heck outta there.

I love you.