My dad is stable. He's off the respirator, breathing on his own. He slept all day, except when we woke him up. He still has the tracheotomy tube, so can't talk, but he nodded that he recognized us and went back to sleep. His eyes looked sad and tired, but not mad. Thank God. He's with us, albeit tenuously.
I'm staying at my parents' house for at least the next few days. Betty just walked over to where I was sitting at the kitchen table with a yellow sticky note.
"Do you know what this says?"
I look down at the note and see a long word, written in all caps. It looks like my father's hard to decipher handwriting.
"Hmm. C-O-I-C-A-L-O-M-M. No, wait. . .Is that a K?"
"Yes, I think so."
I am thinking this is a clue. Maybe this is some medication my dad took. It's really important to figure this out.
"C-O-C-K-A-. . ."
"Oh!" Betty says with recognition, "Cockalorum!"
Thank goodness she knows!
"Cockalorum! Do you know what that is?"
Betty replies with delight, "Yes! It's a small man with a very large opinion of himself!"
Heh. Good word to know, particularly in DC. But, um?
"So, were you guys doing a crossword or do you simply know one of these men?"
"Oh, it's a new word Dad taught me the other day."
Truly. Betty will write things down just because they intrigue her. A friend of mine got a high colonic once. I told Betty about it.
Months later, I was pulling a CD out of my car, and there was a tiny yellow sliver of a sticky note stuck to it.
It said, "HIGH COLONIC?"