If reports are accurate, he’s getting better, not worse.
He’s able to eat soft foods. He responds appropriately to phone conversations, usually with grunts, but sometimes with an intelligible “OK” or “Sure”.
He’s alert, giving kisses to his wife, and apparently mumbling words from time to time even without being prompted.
I’d love to have him get another MRI, another blood test for the suite of detectible infections, and another EKG. I’d love to put hom through another lumbar puncture, too. Some of these things are easier than others to acquire in Freeport, and I’m not sure my dad is yet stable enough to travel.
I was sleeping, and dreaming of playing hockey. I was a winger, battling for position in front of the net with a defenseman. The guy grabbed my stick and pulled it out of my hands, so I reared back to punch him.
Before my anti-depressants, I might have actually done that, by the way.
I let loose with the punch. Outside the dream, in real life, I also let loose with a punch. I hit Elvi in her left shoulder. She woke and woke me to ask, “Why did you hit me?” I told her it wasn’t her but this guy who wouldn’t let go of my stick.
When we woke up in the morning, I asked Elvi whether I had dreamed that I hit her or I really did. She told me I did.