I returned home from Colorado to a sickhouse. Beth was languishing in bed in what seemed a near coma, Zoe had become some sort of wheezing snot-producing monstrosity, my mother was deep in the throes of a viral onslaught (not so uncommon for her, actually, but I'm working on a theme here), and both of Zoe's nannies have caught whatever bug has invaded my home. And I'm still sick, too.

As if that's not bad enough, I called my dad this evening to check up on him and he sounded terrible. When I left Colorado he was strong enough to walk the length of the house without getting too winded, but tonight he was gasping for breath from just crawling across the living room to get to the phone. That's right: crawling. But will he listen to me when I tell him that this means he's getting worse, not better? Will he call the hospital to tell them what's going on? Will he agree to go to the hospital after I call them and they say he should come in? Will he go after a nurse comes to check him out and says he should go? No, no, no, and no. He's fine, he'll go tomorrow if his doctor can fit him in.

Who knows, he might live yet if his pigheadedness doesn't kill him, but I think there's a very real possibility I will get very bad news when I call him tomorrow. I'm powerless from 800 miles away, and I'm pissed.