So I'm finally getting over what I thought was the plague but turned out to be a throat infection and pink eye. Yes, pink eye. A really mild case, though, because I got it the morning I was going to the doctor anyway to find out why my throat felt like I had been doing double shots of that evil goo from Ghostbusters II — evil goo and broken glass. I'm not sure why I said "broken glass." It's not like swallowing intact glass would be more pleasant.
This meant I couldn't go check on Dad, who is in rehab now and fell because he overestimated his ability to get out of bed on his own, which should indicate to the rehab staff that he is not ready to leave fucking rehab. But my sister saw him and tells me he is OK.
Dad will be 89 on Friday, and there will be cake.