My dad called to tell me he is sick and has to see the doctor, which means delaying – if not canceling – the visit to Chico. When my dad gets sick it can turn ugly fast, and his hospitalization last summer (aka The Time Dad Had All the Unexplained Internal Bleeding) helped me make the swift transition from “appropriately concerned child” to “neurotic goddamn mess” overnight. Dad, bless him, seems more worried about ruining Easter plans than he is about his fever. While I am disappointed they will likely not make it up here, I am worried beyond belief and kicking myself for ever moving away from them and not being there to help out right now.
Or at the very least, I could have driven down there instead of pitching hissy fits about all the time I spend on the road. Hey Moron, your parents gave you life. Get off your ass and drive down to see them and quit your bitching. Because you know what good kids do? They go see their family for Easter instead of expecting their quadriplegic dad who has a toddler to pack up and drive three hours. In the rain. On a holiday weekend. I mean, REALLY.
I feel like shit. And I want my daddy. The irony.
UPDATED: Dad went to the doc, got some meds. He sounds chipper as can be and is getting in the car as I type this. Evan is excessively excited to see me (damn straight, kid) and Judy asked about bars withing walking distance of their hotel. All is right in the world. Also, I do not win the award for “Worst Child” this time. Apparently Evan suggested Dad stay home with the dog since his illness was slowing things down.