Welcome back Dad. Per report of my sisterbaby, he didn't take a pain pill today. That is so me. I don't like how those make me feel... neither does he. All wacky and fuzzy. I talked to him a bit ago as well. Said he's drinking Diet 7 up?! That's creepy. First of all, of all the bevs on this planet, Diet 7 up? I'm not knockin' it... I guess I should try it... but just a little odd. AND... he said he drank a cup of coffee with mom the other day. NOT A DAY IN MY LIFE HAVE I SEEN MY DAD DRINK SOME COFFEE... and I'm going to be 32 this fall.
I suppose with a diagnosis like this, one may retreat to the antithesis of the sequalae.
I will enjoy enjoying a cup of coffee with dad.

A little politico... funny how you see things you never did before... would I have ever clicked on this New York Times link a month ago?? Um, moment of clarity.. I won't post the link, because it would send mom into some sort of grand mal seizuresque fire spitting skin peeling episode, but it was all about how health care companies should ration, what drug? Sutent. Is it worth it this Sutent? Should our premiums go up so some dude can extend his life with Sutent?
Suddenly, this dude happens to be Dad, so yes, it is worth it. Keep payin' your premiums and I will too. Worth it.

I have been urged to post by the patriarch via the matriarch. It is, afterall, my blog, and they are looking for any changes in perspective.
Perspective 1: Dad didn't die during surgery. This is good.
Perspective 2: Was worried he would be really creepy sick during recovery, alas, he was only wacky that one day, but slept it off and got back to normal. This is good.
P3: Perspective is a long word to type over and over, so i'm going to abbreviate (another long word).
P4: I'm envisioning some sort of scar busting incision bursting splatter of ooze if one of the grandkids (my Ethan I speak of specifically) forgets that PawPaw is not their usual trampoline o' fun. I got the big truck stuck in the sand once at the beach, and that had exponential consequences. I was pregnant and so obscenely chubby elsewhere, that the family took pity on me and didn't scold me so hard for having to get wenched out of a sand ditch.... Anyway... I'm worried the scar busting gut ooze would be all my fault, and that would be bad.
P5: Dad's not dead. I know many people in my circle who can't say the same thing, and for this, my perspective remains the same.
P6: Luckily, for us kids of D&B, I don't perceive this diagnosis bringing anything to the table that wasn't here before. We love eachother, we show up on eachothers doorsteps, we tell eachother that we need eachother. We go to the beach. We call just to say hey. If that bumper sticker is true, and in case of rapture my car is suddenly unoccupied (mom got a kick out of expalining that one to us in the back of a doo-doo brown VW Rabbit in the early 80s), then there woulnd't be anything left unsaid.

Perspective complete. Must leave my life as writer, and return to life as Mother of Two Trying To Pack In One Suitcase Because I'm Also Married To An Accountant And That $25 Extra Baggage Fee that American Airlines has Started Could Better Be Spent Towards An IRA or A Savings Account so We Can Retire Someday Fund so We Hope There's A Washer and Dryer There Because Everybody Only Gets Three Pairs of Undies.

Lervy Dervy (hang around with us enough, and you'll learn our Byrd-speak)

Lervy Dervy, Meaur.
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