Thursday, February 8, 2007: "Super-Chain" or "Wow. That's a lot of Nickels."

My Dear Fellow Blog Readers,

I have been writing lately about the Super-Powers of Super-Dad and Super-E. I wrote about their ability to summon a legion of clerks to the check out counter of a drugstore. I wrote about their ability to endure the seemingly capricious twists and turns of their medical adventure with grace. I have been doing so under the assumption that no one else on this wild ride had any such powers to wield.

Well.

LPCTC, you certainly showed me, didn't you?

I called the cell phone today around noon, expecting to get E, or the voice mail, and maybe get an update on how many more days and hours they'd be expected to wait for the wrangle to be over so they could go home. Here's what happened instead, in somewhat dramatized form:

*ring, ring*

(pause)

*ring, ring*

(me, waiting. picking cuticles. thinking of cheerful things to say.)

*click*...

DAD says: "Hi, Jen."

Me: "Hi, Dad. I, uh. Well. How are you today?"

Dad: "Doing great. Eileen and I are in the car on our way home. The got us our supplies, and ---"

Me: "WHAT? They did what? They....?"

Dad: "Yeah, they said we could go home. The skin thing is under control and I don't have a fever and we have everything we need, so ---"

Me: "You feel ok and everything?, No fever, no itching? And you have all the stuff you need?"

Dad: "Yeah. I feel almost like my old self. And I look pretty normal too. Oh, yeah, and uh, The biopsy report came back early. I AM STILL IN REMISSON."

*long pause so I can collect myself*

Me: "Wow."

Dad: "Yeah. Wow."

Me: "So, it's perfect?"

Dad: "Yes, perfect."

Me: "What are you going to do when you get home?"

Dad: "Eileen and I are going to put our bags down and take a nice long nap. After that we might have toast. Unless we want another nap.

Me, sniffling: "More napping, probably."

Dad: "Probably."

Me: "Wow."

Dad: "We are going to do whatever we want, basically."

*long pause so I can collect myself. Again.*

Me: "Let me make sure I get it. Your rash is gone. Your fever is gone. There is no paperwork wrangle. And before they put you in the car they told you that the biopsy report showed a full and total remission. Correct?"

Dad: "Totally correct."

Me: "Wow. And when you get home, you are going to do---"

Dad: "Whatever we want."

Me: "And your next medical chore is....?"

Dad: "Not for three weeks."

Me, sniffling: "So, basically, 'perfect' describes how this day is going?"

Dad: "Precisely."

You know how when you have known someone your whole life, you can "hear" the person smiling, even though you are on the phone? I could go on and on, LPCTC, but it would be just be more of me sniffling and muttering the word "perfect" while Dad tried to get off the phone so he could GET ON WITH HIS LIFE. It was about the happiest phone call I've had in... at least four months.

LPCTC, that's a whole lot of nickels you pushed our way. You sure showed me. Dad and E had a perfect day, when all we were really daring to hope for was a day free of "goo" and further medical indignity. I'll never give short shrift to YOUR Super-Powers*** again, I can promise you.


Jen (for Dad and E, who are sleeping in their own bed tonight)

***Lest I fall into the appearance of heresy, I'll come right out and say what this entry implies: God apparently has the patience and free time to answers all sorts of prayer, and apparently spent the better part of last night listening to a bunch of people offering up pennies and nickels - and harmonizing the universe to give us this day. How blessed we are to be "in" on THAT deal. :)