Bad news, good news, bad drive

I went to the hospital today. What a crap drive. It was pouring rain and the only two types of people on the motorway were the 'hell-I-can-drive-in-this-stuff' types in their fullsized trucks, Hummers, and Chevrolet Compensators flying by me in a swirl of water and the timid, fearful types who, instead of just getting the hell off the road, drive 25 in the fast lane.

Oh, and me. I was on the road. Angry and on the road.

Dad looked a bit better. They had him sitting up a bit and had cleaned the last of the dried blood from his nose and mouth. The breathing tube is also now in a different position. He no longer has that horrible Two Face lopsided scowl from the tube dragging down the right side of his mouth. It looks more like he's just holding it between his lips like a large straw and that little change makes him look more comfortable.

He's been spiking a temperature. He did it night before last and last night. They took blood cultures and lung cultures and decided that he is developing pneumonia. They have him on a broad-spectrum antibiotic until the cultures come back. Obviously, the next few days will be critical.

On a good note, his leg looks great. They are having him back in surgery Thursday and will also be fixing his left thumb (which I didn't know was broken) at the same time.

I always spend a while just chattering at him. I have to stop frequently since I tend to get verklemt, but I try to come up with non-sensitive subjects: interesting stuff I saw on the way up, the weird noise my van makes, cool things I found on Snopes.com ... the stuff he and I normally talk about. I avoid talking about the accident, or Kimberly, of course, since I don't know exactly what he can hear or understand and I don't want to upset him.

He's no more responsive. When I speak or touch him he might move his head slightly, move his lips, open his eyes slightly, but it seems more like a reaction to the stimulus than a purposeful thing. He drifts off to sleep easily - a good thing and not surprising considering his morphine load.

I wonder if he dreams? I wonder if they're filled with breaking glass and crumpling sheetmetal?

I hope not. I hope he's having his regular brand of dreams. (He's always dreaming about chasing bad guys and shooting at them. What's up with this? Is this a guy thing or what? I mean, my Dad's a gun owner, so it makes sense, but, I'm a gun owner and *I* never have this dream. My mild mannered disguised-as-a-school-teacher Evil Genius Husband who has never, that I know of, even held a real gun has this dream. This has gotta be a guy thing!)

Anyway, I had some, longer, more coherent convos with colleagues and friends of dad as well as with Kimberly's dad (v. v. hard to even converse with him. We both get choked up) today. It's nice to hear from everyone. I hope I'm not sounding too strung out when I talk to people.

They are having a Memorial Service for Kimberly on Sunday in Statesville. If you're friend or family and would like to attend, please email me or ring me for details.

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Sorry this is so brief and rambly.

(Note: edited this morning to correct the stunning array of typos ... Jeez.)