Scroo-Loo's dad is still not doing well. We have been back and forth to United Hospital so many times in the last week I've lost count. Scroo-Loo has spent, I think, two nights at home out of the last seven.
How incongruous it was yesterday evening, leaving the hospital depressed and feeling hopeless, to see all those cheery Wild fans making their way to what would turn out to be a great game. (Yes, that's as close as I'm going to get to hockey blogging. Sorry.)
It seems like, when we're at the hospital, nothing happens. Of course the minute you decide to come home the calls start pouring in and everything starts happening at once.
I did get a chance to chat with Scroo-Loo's dad yesterday. It's the first time I've seen him awake since he was admitted and, for that matter, since our last social visit well before Christmas. Despite everything he is in good spirits and gave me a wonderful laugh when I told him he had to get better because the Democrats were going to need every vote they can get this fall.
He does seem determined to hang in there until Scoo-Loo's brother returns from Kosovo this summer, but I don't know. You put on the brave face, tell him you'll be back to visit in a couple of days when he's feeling better, and then you go sit alone in the bathroom and weep.
Something has to give here. When it breaks, we can only hope it breaks the right way.