Monday, November 21, 2011


I am reading The Ogre of Oglefort by the late and very great Eva Ibbotson.  It is delightfully Ibbotson, with an orphan and a misfit princess and a whiny, sulky ogre, a hag a troll and talking animals.  Not one of these characters acts the way they would in a traditional fantasy - except for the orphan, of course.  Orphans have to be kind and clever and very brave in an Ibbotson novel.  As much fun as reading this novel is, it is sad as well because there will be no more crackpot fantasies from Ibbotson, or luminous hopeful adventures either.  Sigh. 

About my Dad.  They sent him home yesterday, not only because his fever had broken, but because his white blood cell count is very low.  I guess they think he won't see as many people at home as at the hospital.  The family has been warned off and we will keep our distance until his white blood cells rally.  Still, I heave another deep deep sigh.  Welcome me, world of people who have struggled with ill and aging parents.  I have joined your ranks. 

I am so grateful for the whiny ogre and his lumpy, misshapen friends.  A good book is as wonderful as a vacation.

Dad Update:  Well, well, well, it appears as if the discharging nurse was a little pessimistic.  My Brother the Doctor checked this morning and Dad's white blood cell count is fine for a man who is undergoing chemotherapy.  YAY!  Thanksgiving can go forth!

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