AUSTIN, Texas, Apr. 12, 2005 — At least we know. That's the theme for the day. I called Dad about seven. He's in bed and says he isn't doing well but he's been getting to the bathroom, had his meds and says if I want to have a workout he can hang on. I feel awful. I want to get a workout because I know it will help me face the day. I go to the gym, ride the bike for an hour and get a good sweat. I do a couple of sets of leg extensions, rush home, shower.

I go to Dad's. I assess. He's in terrible shape. He can stand and transfer himself from wheelchair to toilet or easy chair or bed and such but he hurts too bad to take a single step. Tomorrow he is supposed to have a procedure the urologist scheduled to deal with the blood in his urine. The out patient

surgery center is calling with instructions. No way, I think. I start calling the urologist scheduling person. No answer. I also call the GP to report that he's still declining. The GP calls back and says he thinks an MRI of the lumbar is in order. He will try to get us in for an appointment. I tell him to make the appointment at the radiology office we are all too familiar with. I continue trying to cancel tomorrow's procedure. I skip the person I'm supposed to call whose extension is still an answering machine and go back to the receptionist. On hold for the receptionist to answer I listen to ads for treatments for kidney stones, incontinence and erectile disfunction. Geez. Finally I get a nurse who promises to contact the doctor about canceling.

I get Dad's lunch. All he will eat is soup and a few crackers. I buzz around cleaning stuff up or I sit and read old papers and watch junk off the TV with him. I get a call that we have a 5:45 appointment for the MRI and need to be there by 5:25. Great...at least it feels like we are doing something about a diagnosis. I tell Dad we have to get ready to leave by a little before five. He manages to get dressed and he gets in the travel wheelchair. We wait some more.

I push Dad out to the van and he manages to get into the seat. We are way early for the appointment. I fill out his info for the umpteenth time for this place. They take him back about 5:45.

"Can you walk with the cane?" the burly technician asks.

"Oh, no," Dad says. I sit and read. It takes a long time and then they want to have us wait because the doctor has put a stat on it and the radiologist will read it. Then they say we can go, that it's read and our doctor will call us.

The technician helps Dad into the car and I get him home and inside. I buzz around, getting out his garbage and recycling, offering him food he doesn't want. The doctor calls my cell phone. The connection isn't good. But he says soemthing about the third lumbar disc being eight to ninety percent compressed. Is he incontinent? No. Does he need stronger pain meds? No, he doesn't want to take stronger ones although he may need them. The doctor says he will call me tomorrow with treatment options.

It is late now, after eight. Dad says I should go, that he can manage. At home I feel better. Bad diagnosis but at least we know why he is in so much pain. I tell everyone, calling people, sending e-mail. I worry about him. But I sleep a little better, knowing.