Poor Dad.

(What you can’t tell from this photo is that Pop wore flannel pajama bottoms to the resto.)

I had only planned to make a quick visit. Instead, for 24 hours the man had me on my toes – driving from drug store to hospital to drug store to Wal-Mart to drug store; massaging his ulcerated edematous legs; getting him yoghurt in the middle of the night because he needed “protein on [his] tongue;” driving to the drug store yet again to stock up on water after learning his had been cut off; assisting with draining his peritoneal fluid; and being asked again and again to sit down and talk with him only to hear some really not-so-nice things he had to say about his children. I love the man and I was happy to help him, but four hundred dollars in pharmaceuticals and many horrific father-daughter interactions later, I was both agitated and thoroughly exhausted. I could not have been happier to embark on the three-hour journey back home.

Poor Dad, you seemed so down. I’ll come back soon. Just not too soon.

Also, could my little brother look more Russian?


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