AUSTIN, Texas, Apr. 14, 2005 — What am I waiting for? I'm waiting for Dad to feel more like walking in spite of his disc problem. Maybe the anti-inflammatories will get him back to that point. He's been taking about half as much pain med as the bottle says he can. Would he be better off with more? Less? Tomorrow we have the appointment with the invasive radiology guy. A video game surgeon type. But I know that we will merely, if we are lucky (lucky?) get scheduled for a procedure to actually help the problem.

I talk to Dad and get the doctor's office (GP) on the phone to report on the scheduled appointment with the radiologist and the need for another pain med prescription.

I go to the club for a thirty minute plus ride on the exercise bike. I feel guilty but I can't spend one hundred percent of my time with Dad. He can get along. But I worry.

I get home, shower, go over there. I get his paper and go in. He's having some bread and water. (Not as bad as it sounds. Some homemade bread his friend made.) He's had coffee and maybe a banana. He says he wants the spaghetti his friend brought. He didn't eat anything last night. I heat it up. I slice up an apple.

He doesn't seem better. He isn't taking steps just going around in the wheelchair and moving from it to bed, toilet, easy chair with a painful-looking stand and lunge. I call a friend and suggest we meet nearby for lunch (cheap Mexican). Dad says he'll be fine.

I go to Antonio's and meet my friend. We order food, I discuss my frustration. As with all my friends we compare it with her parental unit experience. Like writing here, talking to friends is a way to blow off some steam. I'm not frustrated with my dad, of course. Only for him. I feel like I should know how to make him feel better.

I go back to Dad's. I'm not really needed but I do need to get the pain meds because he is down to only a couple of tabs. I wait and wait for the doctor to call. Finally I call and they call back a couple of times and it's called in. I get a couple of calls from the doctor's office for tomorrow. One confirming our 8:30 and another changing it to 10:30. "Be here at 10:15. Thanks for being flexible." What real choice do I have?

Dad won't eat anything else. He reads the paper, a book on Texas Geology. He comments that we are saving money since he is "able to take care of himself." Well, sort of. He hasn't felt pain-free enough to shower but he has sponged off and managed to shave and such. I think what a blessing the accessible house is but feel very sorry that he's having to take advantage of it.

I go get some gas in my car at Costco. Then I pick up the prescription. I take it back to Dad's and try to get him to let me fix something for him to eat. I watch Jeopardy with him thinking he will eat something if I wait a while. He refuses, he professes there is nothing I can do for him. So finally I go home.

There are things I should do at home. But I don't do them. FFP makes some chicken and we have that with salad. I clean up. I have some other snacks: a granola bar, a little cheese and some carrots. I drink a beer. None of it does the trick. I'm depressed. I want my dad to walk. To not hurt. We watch mindless TV shows. I even submit to Survivor. We watch CSI and Without a Trace and Northern Exposure episodes we've recorded off the Hallmark Channel. Finally we sleep.