Every time I say anything about Dad making progress, something horrible happens. So you didn't hear me say anything yesterday about the previous day going well. Similarly, I'm not saying a word about yesterday going well also. Mum's the word about him getting up three times during physical therapy, marching in place for a while, then taking four steps forward and four back, and doing 20 leg lifts and 20 kicks. (Sitting, but still.) Nope, you'll have to torture me first.
I think I can safely mention that Margaret leaves the hospital today. She might have to go slow with visiting for a while, but they can always stay in touch by phone. And I bet she comes visiting sooner rather than later (most probably immediately; she's already in the hospital after all). This would be great for both of them.
Also, I got to talk to another dietitian and I think we have his meals squared away. Double portions on either meats or milk should be sufficient; the problem was that his albumen levels were low. Room service is really bending over backwards to please both him and me. As we're both highly irascible, this is very difficult. They are to be commended.
Of course, you'll know Dad's really doing better when I start posting godawful poetry again. Hey, where'd everybody go?
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