AUSTIN, Texas, Apr. 13, 2005 — When I wake up all I can think about is 'treatment options.' We aren't walking and can barely (well not really, not completely) take care of ourselves. The royal we. I'm the only caregiver unless I hire someone or put him somewhere. Treatment. Options. But we all know the sad story of compressed discs from stories we've heard. What are the options? Pain killer abuse? A complicated neuro-surgery. I call Dad and tell him I'm going to wait around at home with the internet available to research stuff until I hear the options. The GP calls back in a more than timely fashion. He has called a neurosurgeon and another guy, an invasive radiologist. Sounds sinister. Supposedly, though, they can do a CT-guided surgery with micro-tools to widen the space for the disc. Or something.

Armed with my referral, I call this new kind of specialist. He doesn't have an appointment until a week from Friday. Then how long would one wait to get the procedure?? So I beg. The receptionist says the doctor has an associate with an appointment on Friday. Two days. Yes, I'll take it.

I get myself together and go to Dad's. I explain about the procedure and the appointment. I clean up a broken glass and coaster that he's knocked off. It is 10:30 and he says he had a banana and coffee but he'd like some eggs. I make scrambled eggs, bacon and toast. Dad has this clever way of microwaving the bacon a bit and then putting in the frig and then when he's ready to eat it he browns it in a countertop oven. I try it and the bacon is delicious (I make a couple of pieces for myself). He actually eats all this. Better appetite. That something.

I settle in doing simple chores like getting in the garbage can and recycling container I put out last night and making a list and going to the store and getting him coffee and some fruit and such. He had some chicken legs in the freezer that I thawed yesterday and I cook those in the oven with some cream of mushroom soup. (His way of doing them he informs me.) He eats some soup, apple and crackers later. I keep busy cleaning up and picking up and picking weird stuff to watch on TV and reading newspapers. A friend drops by to see him and bring him some homemade bread and spaghetti.

Around seven I leave him. He says he'll be OK. I worry but I do go. FFP comes home from an event (I would have normally gone with him) and we have these fish cakes from Central Market with steamed zuchinni and a bottle of wine. We have crackers and Boursin for dessert. We watch some TV, I read the day's Wall Street Journal and The New York Times and soon there is sleep.