A Little Added Salt for My Crab Rangoon

My dad is back in the hospital. After almost a year of fair recovery and health, his duct taped heart appears to be failing again. We were just talking last week about how great it will be this Spring, he was feeling fine, the doctor had given him a good report, and he was finally starting to realize the benefits of this cursed heart surgery that I, as he tells it, goaded him into. Then, it started with a cough. Then another cough. Then another. Next thing I know, he is laid up in the hospital chuckling about dog heads coming out of the pipes on the wall. Why can't his hallucinations be pleasant? Daffodils. Stacks of money. Rainbows. No, he sees facking canines being squeezed through pipes (if any sick bastard ever googles that phrase, I bet my blog is the first thing that pops up...sweet!)

Something about the hospital makes him crazy. It starts with slight confusion (Where have you been? I've been over here for a week!....day 1), then progresses into hallucinations (tee hee tee hee dog heads.), then explodes into full blown paranoia (three doctors came in [ed note. right there I knew THAT was a hallucination] and now they are all in the bathroom listening to my phone calls). The prognosis is cloudy. No one is sure of when he might be discharged. Of course, history has shown, the longer he stays, the worse he gets. The only consolation here is that he is in a hospital on the north side of town, so my commute is shorter.

Monday, a dietitian visited the room and "educated" my dad on his new low salt diet. My dad still had the mental fortitude to listen politely and then, after she left, to advise me to toss the handout into the trash. Perfect. No, really, perfect. That's great, dad. Just go ahead and pop a top on those viennas (vienners) and I will plan to take a month out of my life each year and come up here and sit with you. It's just...you know...why I'm here, since I missed the birthing babies boat.

Last night, I went to see him, and hopefully catch the lightening fast doctor on his rounds. No luck there. Dr. Flash was in and out just before I got there. But, the pipe dogs were there. The cotton bales. My great grandfather. The money that I stole. The eavesdropping doctors. All present. I was more than a little relieved when my Memphis dwelling boyfriend offered to take me to dinner after my visit.

We dined at my former favorite Chinese restaurant from back in the day. What I knew as Formosa is now Panda Garden, but the hot tea is still there, Thank God. Sweet boyfriend is dealing with his own family drama and so we took turns lamenting over non-involved siblings, demented parents, and the like, all over a delicious sampling of crab rangoon, sesame chicken and spring rolls.

Suddenly, something broke loose. I was talking about how scared my dad was just before the surgery and...wait...what's this?...my eyes are wet. I am not an emotional person. I am certainly not a publicly emotional person. I looked down. I looked out the window. I took a sip of tea. Nothing worked. I was going to add a little salt to my meal whether I wanted to or not. So, I wept. This was my first crying episode in front of Boyfriend. I felt foolish. He was fine, asking if I was ok, telling me I was ok, etc. The added salt was actually a welcome addition, in that I felt a little better afterwards. It was nice to step out of the expectation for a bit. By the time the fortune cookies arrived (Put an end to impediments and get the real work done...wtf?), I was laughing and had a plan in place to cope.

Today, I am going back to work. I am not going to the hospital. Dad is in good hands and it is out of my control. And, if I feel a little salt coming on, I'm just going to go with it. No sense in limiting. Might as well pour it on. After all, just like the Morton's Salt box says...

When it rains, it pours.