My dad is still in the hospital. The plan is to send him home by Friday with a PICC line, so that a home-health nurse can continue to administer IV antibiotics.
The doctors believe he may have Parkinson's disease, on top of everything else that is going on with him.
My mom is a wreck, and still won't let me come down there to help. I may just show up with food tomorrow. No one else is at the house, and I know I can't do much, and she doesn't want help, but I want to do something.
Charles has what appears to be a nasty flu, and is upstairs in my bed with chicken soup, cold compresses, and DVDs. I also wish I could help him more, but not much but time and fluids will help this. He started at a tattoo shop near hear this morning and toughed his way through the day, but was pretty done by the end of his shift.
Odds are that I'll have it within twenty four hours, but at least I have a few days off in which to be ill.
This Thanksgiving may take the cake as Worst Ever, topping the time eighteen years ago where I drove my quad off of a cliff out in the desert, breaking both of my arms, and spending Thanksgiving night in Barstow Hospital.