The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 86

The COVID-19 is REAL

Symptoms of COVID 19: 

Puffy face. Puffy upper arms. Puffy ankles. Puffy knees. Puffiness.

Distended midsection.

Generalized Sweating.

Shortness of breath, especially while climbing stairs.

Uncontrolled outbursts of cursing while putting on a bra.

Loss of manual dexterity resulting in inability to button pants.

Continuous urge to consume alcohol.

Overwhelming sense of ennui.

Photo by Jen Theodore on Unsplash

Available Treatments

Mirror removal and disposal.

Bra removal and disposal.

Old Navy pajama pants.

Boxed wine.

Kaftans.

Elastic.

Ranch housing. (Do not confuse with Ranch dressing.)

Clothing sizes with "X" prefixes.

Online shopping. Free returns.

Low lighting. Maybe even darkness.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 85

Home

3600+ miles.

11 days.

14 meals eaten while driving the car. 10 meals from McDonald's. 1 meal from Culver's. 1 "meal" from Dairy Queen.

2 family style meals eaten on a hotel bed from O'Charley's. 

6 cafeteria meals eaten in a hospital room.

2 nights in a hotel. 8 nights at my Dad's house.

2 boxes of wine. 1 case of beer. An undisclosed quantity of bourbon.

1 dinner out. 

5 days of driving through torrential rainstorms.

4 times someone merged into our lane and we had to slam on the brakes, lay on the horn, and swerve, hard.

1 time we accidentally did that to someone else.

100's of text messages.

2 bottles of hand sanitizer.

11 tanks of gas.

20 hours of SiriusXM radio.

4 tired and cranky people.

1 new pet.

Dad is home.

And we are home.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 84

Photo by Ian Schneider on Unsplash

Posting From Somewhere in Tennessee...Let's Talk About Life Goals 

Tom Morello's mom is 96 years old. If you know anything about Tom Morello, founding member of Rage Against the Machine, Prophets of Rage, and Audioslave, you know that he says what he means and he means what he says. And Morello clearly gets it from his mom, Mary. His "One Man Revolution" show on Lithium (SiriusXM) is my favorite thing, ever. Tom Morello gives no fucks about what you think. He plays whatever he wants, he talks about whatever he wants, and I always learn something new. Ask Michael: Tom Morello is my free pass. Today, on One Man Revolution, Tom had his mom on the show. They talked about police violence in the United States. They talked about what we have to say to our Black children. They talked about Cuba. They talked about the perpetual violence against Black bodies that is a very foundation of our country. They played some amazing, obscure music, some stuff that I knew and loved, and some stuff that I'd never heard before. It is clear that Tom Morello loves his mama. And I do, too. She is my idol.

Tom Morello's mom, a single white woman, raised him, her Black son, on her own. As someone with more street cred than me proclaimed, "Tom Morello is cool, but his mom, Mary Morello, is cooler." She has her own Wikipedia page. She has taught English in Germany, Peru, Japan, and on an international freighter. She married Tom's dad, Ngethe Njoroge, when she was living in Kenya. They moved to Harlem, and then divorced when Tom was 1. Mary then moved Tom to Libertyville, Illinois, an incredibly white town, and taught African history there for 22 years. After Tom went to Harvard, Mary quit her job to found "Parents for Rock and Rap," a response to Tipper Gore's PRMC. (Fuck the PMRC. Amirite, Gen X?) Mary then taught adult literacy at the Salvation Army, and has worked for years to lift the embargo against Cuba. Throughout her life, she's been heavily involved with the Civil Rights Movement, and with the NAACP. She's been to Russia three times. She's been to Cuba six times. She's been all over the world, constantly advocating for change.

So, when we choose to say nothing because we claim that we don't know what to say, let's take a look at fucking Mary Morello. She has traveled all over the world. She has worked in so many countries. She has taught so many students of all races and nationalities throughout the years. She has been an activist her entire life. She raised, on her own, one of the most amazing activists and voices we have today. She was --is-- a white woman, a single mom, a high school teacher. She is 96 years old and still making waves.

I want to be Mary Morello when I grow up.

No excuses.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 83

Photo by Niilo Isotalo on Unsplash

Watching the Storms from a Distance

Today, after 11 weeks of no eating in restaurants, we took the plunge and went out. Dad had been insisting that we should all week, as Don Jose's has a huge outdoor covered patio. And then Justin wouldn't take no for an answer. After all, Florida is completely open; it seems strange, to us, since Michigan was still very much closed when we left. And so, after much debate and deciding that we would only be comfortable sitting on the patio, we went out to eat.

We adults ordered a pitcher of margaritas, while the kids explored the deck and the long dock that stretched out into the waves of Lake Jackson.

As we were sitting there talking about the lake and the shoreline, a storm blew in. It was sudden and dark. The wind picked up; the rain blew in sideways; we all moved our tables away from the wall of screens and closer to the wall of the restaurant. The power flickered; the tvs went black. It was raining so hard, you couldn't see more than a few feet out into the water. The end of the dock that the kids had been on just moments before was completely obscured. The storm was so close that you couldn't even say "one" after the lightning crashed before the thunder clapped, deafening, shaking the water in the glasses and the ground under our feet. It was awesome and electric.

But we didn't get wet. We didn't even have a break in our service. We sat and we watched and we talked in awe about the power of the storm, the suddenness of it, the fact that we knew it was probably coming but we'd gone out to eat anyway.

And then, just as suddenly, the sky cleared. The shoreline reappeared. Our food came. We'd witnessed something spectacular, and then it moved on, leaving us amused and unscathed.

And now as I sit here on my Dad's patio, drinking a cheap glass of wine, watching the little lizards run around and do little lizard push-ups, I realize the metaphor that has just played out.

Through all the driving rain that I've been driving through this last week, throughout all of Dad's ordeal, throughout the hours of NPR and BBC that I've been listening to, I've thought a lot about what I can do, how I can be a part of the fight, when I can't be on the front lines right now.

As so many towns are in upheaval from violent encounters with police, as black men and women are continually losing their lives, as people are tear-gassed and worse, as the pundits continue to pundit their political playbooks, as photo-ops continue to occur, as people continue to die from the seemingly forgotten Coronavirus, I and my family casually went out to dinner.

This is privilege. And it's up to me to use my privilege for good. It's not enough to be an ally, if I'm not also fighting on the front lines. And if I can't physically fight today, then I can use what I am good at --writing-- to continue to fight for those just causes that are so important for the humanity of us all, for the very humanity of our country.

It's not enough to recognize the storm, be awed by it, and sit a safe distance away from it, whilst claiming to be an ally. It's not enough to tweet, or post a meme, or repost an article, and then go on with our day.

It's up to us to use our privilege --the audiences we have, the safety we have-- to get in there and fight with the tools that we have: with our words, with our dollars, in our communities, with our bodies.

Otherwise, we're just taking and reposting videos of the power of the storm, but doing nothing to actually aid those who are constantly out in it.

It's up to us. We have to be the change. We can't just watch from a distance.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 82

Thankful

I have so much to be thankful for.

I am so thankful that Dad went to the doctor when he did. Another hour, another day...the outcome might have been very, very different. Instead, 11 days after he was diagnosed with stroke-like symptoms and admitted, I just dropped him off at the residential rehab facility; they said he is doing so well, that they don't expect him to be there for long at all. There are no visitors allowed there, so I hugged him goodbye. Tomorrow, I'll drive over there with the kids and take him some clean clothes; we can wave to him through the window, make heart hands, and let him know how very much he is loved. I am so thankful.

I am thankful for my partner who held down the fort here at "home," dealing with sheltering-in-place in a "foreign land," and figuring out how to work from "home" so that I could stay with Dad until he was discharged.

I am so thankful that, even though my kids are often emotional roller coasters and have not been on their best behavior, they are mostly self-sufficient. Some eye-rolling, a curse-word or four, and a door slam here or there. Otherwise, they are mostly fine. And I am so thankful for second daughter, who stayed home and took care of the house and the dog and the cats. Knowing that we didn't have to worry or make arrangements, that everything back home would be fine for as long as we needed to stay...that was an amazing gift.

I am thankful that Dad's house was available, so that my family wasn't bouncing off the walls of a hotel room this whole time. Instead, they could spread out, each person claiming a room, while the new kitty pounced from person to person, eating their hair.

I am so thankful that I have a car that is reliable, comfortable, and fun to drive. Dorothy has been amazing during the 2000+ miles I've put on her in the last week. She handles the driving rain; she passes semis like a champ, she holds to the road, and she gets good gas mileage. This trip wouldn't have been possible with a lesser car. Dorothy is a champ.

I am thankful for Sirius Radio. Without it, I might have lost my mind. The radio station choices down here are...not good. I can't find an npr station to save my life. If I manage to find classic rock, the announcer then comes on and spouts some right-wing rhetoric and I shudder in horror. There are a lot of country stations, but they all play country music. And the pop stuff coming out of Orlando is just way too pop for me. Thank you, Sirius Radio, for keeping me sane. (And thank you, Michael, for gifting it to me.)

I am weirdly, selfishly thankful for the shutdowns that gave me the opportunity to come down here. In a normal year at this time, I'd be knee-keep in final exams, dealing with student drama, and trying to keep my head above water. Instead, I could just work on my Chromebook from Dad's hospital room, answering emails and grading papers and entering grades. In a normal year, an emergency trip to Florida during finals week would be an insane idea. This year, it was nbd. It's strange to say, but if this had to happen to Dad, this was the right time for it to happen.

And, finally, I am so thankful to the entire AdventHealth system down here in Florida. They immediately knew something was wrong when he went to the doctor in Sebring. They immediately transported him to Tampa. The Sebring staff drove his car back to his house and kept the keys safe. They called me to check on him. The doctors in Tampa were incredibly skilled, thoughtful, and kind. They took the time to call us, to let us know what was going on. The nursing staff and support staff were amazing. Always there, always willing to crack a joke, bring us a cup of coffee, bring Dad a charger for his phone, give Dad a fist-bump. They took care of "Mr. Kim" like he was their dad. They hung out with him after their shifts were over. They were incredible, and it was clear that they loved their jobs.

And I am so very thankful for all of you, who have been reading along and rooting for us during this entire time.

Tomorrow, we will drive over to see Dad, we will wave through the window, and we will say goodbye. We will stop by the liquor store and re-stock his Bourbon supply. And then, on Sunday, we will head home.

For all of this and more, I am so very thankful.  

Photo by Courtney Hedger on Unsplash

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 81

Photo by Aw Creative on Unsplash

All Things Winding Down Into Their Last Days... 

Things are winding down. Dad should be transferred out of the hospital tomorrow and into rehab, if his COVID results ever come through. He is walking laps around the hospital floor, cracking jokes with all of the nurses, and trying to not be bored out of his mind. When the occupational therapist comes, Dad always announces that he's retired and doesn't want an occupation. When the nutrition aide comes and asks what he wants for lunch, Dad always requests scotch. He's got a wisecrack for everyone, and he is so, so bored. He's also in awe --we all are-- at how close this whole event was to something truly catastrophic. A few more hours, a few more days...he could have had a full-on stroke and be paralyzed or worse. Instead, he's got a bad-ass scar and a few bruises, and a whole new understanding of the last few months. His last few days have opened up a whole new chapter for him --and for us, as his family.

The last day of Bath High School is tomorrow. It's been a strange year, a year of rebuilding, but also a year of loss. I'm not sad to be finished. I'm not sad to be done with the "fully remote" teaching. I have my doctorate in educational technology, and I can tell you that I absolutely do not believe that fully online courses are good for our students or good for our teachers. I can create thoughtful lessons for students, but when I'm not there to tease or nag or encourage or just stand next to them, it's incredibly difficult to motivate and engage. I hope that we can somehow get back to some sort of face-to-face in the fall. Whatever it looks like, for the mental health and physical health of us all, we need to be back in a classroom. These last few days have been a slog of grading and emails and phone calls and text messages and just hoping --hoping-- that students will come through and earn credit. This school year needs to be over.

My last day as union secretary might very well be Monday. Out of the blue, someone is running against me for my position. I've never been challenged; no one wants the mundane task of sorting through the contract language year after year, and spending hours negotiating for benefits and working conditions for our staff members. But now, someone wants my position. It might be the end of an era, of 10+ years working for and with staff members, mentoring them and sitting in meetings with administration, and fighting for what is best for students and staff. I hope that I don't lose my position. I don't want these to be my last days on the team. But I have to acknowledge the very real possibility that I might be written out of the leadership team, and that the staff might want different representation. These last few days have been soul-searchingly hard.

These last few days have been hard on my family, too. They are displaced and out of sorts. They are sick of pasta and sick of each other. Since Dad is on the mend, we plan to head home from Florida in just a couple of days. Driving back home, after being down here for a lot longer than we'd planned, will be a celebration, of sorts. We desperately wanted to leave Michigan a week ago. Now, we are ready to go home, to get back to our beds and our pets and our familiar routines.

And finally, with the shelter-in-place being lifted, the Coronacation Diaries are in their last few days. When I started this journey, I naively thought that it would be just a few weeks. A nanowrimo of sorts, blogging throughout the pandemic, trying to entertain the masses with the annoyances of it all. Instead, it became something bigger, a force that has driven me throughout these past 12 weeks, forcing me to reflect and to put into words what it all has meant to me and to those I love.

None of these stories are over, yet. But they are all winding down into their last few days.

And I am looking forward to new chapters, whatever they might hold.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 80

Travelogue #ILostCount. Florida.

Although there is so much I could write --and maybe should write-- about what is going on in our country today, I also don't know what, exactly, to write. I keep pushing back at the "all lives matter" people on Facebook. But that's not a story. That's just a fight that I choose to fight. And I realized that, once again,  my own #blacklivesmatter hashtag was ill-timed, and that I was trying to elevate my own voice instead of listening to black voices. Every day is a learning moment, a time for reflection, a time to do it better. I still have so much to learn.

My own kids are not dealing well with being stuck in a house all day while it rains outside. The glow of the road-trip has worn off, and they are spending way too much time on electronics, sniping at each other, and existing on a diet of hot dogs and pop tarts. It's not going well. It needs to quit raining so they can get outside and get some fresh air, get away from each other. But it's also Florida, so it feels like an armpit out there.

I did finally get Helena to tell me what was wrong, and she announced that she hates that she can't do anything, that she can't be out protesting, and that she just wants to "burn shit down." Well, at least she's not depressed.

Sam, on the other hand, spends his day fighting with his homework and watching youtubers. The end result is a lot of pent up frustration and rage.

Michael is trying to re-install Windows on the little laptop he brought so that he can work from here for a couple of days. It's not going well. We already drank all of Dad's Bourbon. Please sent more.

I spend each day driving across the State of Florida to hang out with my Dad in his hospital room while he waits to be released to in-patient rehab. He is cleared to be released as of today, but they can't transfer him without a clean COVID test in the last week. He has been tested 3x in the last two weeks, but the last test was last Wednesday...which is now 8 days ago. So, he got another test and we get to wait another 24 to 48 hours for the results, so that he can finally go to in-patient PT. It's frustrating, to say the least.

It's a 97 mile commute from here to Tampa, one-way. And those 97 miles drive through Florida farm country and ranch country. "Eat More Beef!" is proclaimed next to the field of 100's of calves, roaming adorably and aimlessly. Spanish moss hangs eerily from every scrubby tree like cobwebs. Phosphate mines are abundant; eerie cranes like dinosaur skeletons dot the landscape. Tiny trailers surrounded by cars and buses and kiddie pools and lawn chairs line the road. Migrant housing is everywhere, and all the signage is in Spanish. Trump 2020 flags are sporadic, but a constant reminder. Every town has several taco trucks, a Dollar General, a gun store, an auto-parts store, and more boarded-up buildings than open signs. It is confusing and desolate and beautiful and eerie and sad. It feels like I'm trespassing.

Photo by Jessica Furtney on Unsplash

My GPS can't decide which way to Tampa is the shortest, so every trip is a new adventure down side roads where the posted speeds are ignored by everyone. I have mastered beating the Google Maps arrival time by 20 minutes on average. I have mastered passing a semi in the pouring rain on a two-lane road. I have mastered going through the checkpoints at the hospital. I have mastered sitting with my Dad, grading papers, making absent-minded small talk, keeping an earbud in during Zoom staff meetings while taking with the occupational therapist, and waiting, waiting, for the paperwork to come through so that he can get out of here. I have mastered coming back to the house, throwing a weird meal on the table from what I bought in a panic at the grocery store. I have clearly mastered drinking Dad's Bourbon.

But I have not mastered this unease of guilt, being where I need to be (with my Dad), while ignoring where I feel like I should be.

I have not mastered how to mom and daughter and partner and #blacklivesmatter and teacher and MEA and CRWP and writer. And I have definitely not mastered how to #Florida.

I'm not sure I ever will.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 79

The Privilege of Not Having to Listen

On Dad's floor at the hospital, there is a guy who sings. Often. Randomly, all day long, singing guy starts humming loudly, wordless and out of tune. The lady next door chimes in. "Help me!" she wails. "Help! Help!" Every 3 minutes, for hours on end. "Help!" She sound pitiful, terrified. But she's fine. She just doesn't like the wall she is facing. She wants to look the other way. She doesn't like the view. Her cup of water is warm. She wants to go home. "Help me! Now!" she calls. "N. O. W. Now! Get me out of here now!"

It's hard to not feel uncomfortable at her insistence. She seems miserable. She seems so sad, so pitiful. But the nurses are there for her, constantly. They can only do so much. They can't change the color of her walls. They can't release her to go home. All they can do is ignore her. And in the end, we helplessly giggle at her insistence. At her spelling. At her senseless, relentless demands.

Finally, we shut Dad's door. Singing guy and wailing lady are muffled, calling out in the distance. Inside his room, we have some reprieve. We don't have to listen to their demands any longer.

Photo by Megan Markham on Unsplash

I haven't checked CNN or Fox News since we've been down here. My news is being filtered by Facebook, a steady stream of riots and unrest and police violence and asshole moves by our poser president. At any time, I can close that tab and turn it all off. I can shut the door and get some reprieve.

I asked my Dad if he knew what was going on in our country. He didn't. We talked about it for a bit. He wasn't surprised. He has no love for Trump, for the hatred he spews and the harm that he causes. He has no love for a militarized police force. But he's been in the hospital for a week now, away from social media, away from the news. Inadvertently, he shut the door. He got some reprieve.

It's amazing how easy it is for us to block it all out. We can turn off the violence against people of color as easily as we can muffle the sounds of the lady in the next room. We don't have to live in it, day after day. We can take a break whenever we want. All we have to do is close the tab. Shut the door.

We are not in the communities that cannot escape it. We are not fearing for our lives because of the color of our skin. We are not afraid to be pulled over; we're just annoyed because we don't want those points on our license. But we are never in danger. We can probably talk our way out of it.

It's so easy to forget how privileged we are. We can just turn it all off whenever we want to. We are sheltered from the senseless violence. We can choose to go out in it. We can choose to protest. Or we can choose to change the channel. We can just "like' that social media post and then feel good about ourselves. We can share a particularly well-written post, a clever meme, and then believe we have somehow made a difference. We can even write "THIS!" in all caps as we share a post. That's taking a stand. We can turn our profile picture to black.

And then we can get some reprieve. Close the tab. Shut the door.

Because we don't have to live in it, day after day after day. We don't have to fear for our lives.

We don't even have to listen.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 78

We Must Briefly Suspend the Travelogue for this Public Service Announcement:

But--

Oh, Karen. No.

If you are still insisting that "all lives matter," PLEASE stop talking for just a moment and listen. REALLY LISTEN. Don't cry. Just listen.

When Black and Brown people and their allies and accomplices pronounce that Black Lives Matter, they are pointing out that Black lives SHOULD matter; that Black lives matter TOO. The foundation of our country is built on the backs of Black lives. We enslaved them. We lynched them. We redlined their neighborhoods. We put our freeways right down the centers of their communities. We segregated them from our schools, from our drinking fountains, from our grocery stores. And, in 2020, our police murder them simply for sitting in a car, for sitting on a swingset, for selling a cigarette, for buying cigarettes with a fake $20. Black lives SHOULD matter, but they clearly still don't. And that is why we have to insist that Black Lives Matter.

When you "All Lives Matter" at them, you are purposefully, ignorantly missing the point. No one has EVER told you that white lives don't matter, not in their words and not in their actions. No one has murdered you for driving while white; no one has murdered you for jogging while white, buying a gun while white, or walking in the road while white. BLACK LIVES MATTER IS NOT ABOUT YOU, KAREN. It is, in fact, BECAUSE of you, because of your institutional racism, because of your implicit bias, because of your need to center every damn conversation around yourself.

Your insistence that you are just being nice and you are being attacked for being nice is precisely what is wrong with your argument. You aren't being nice when you are trying to overwrite the message that people of color are desperately trying to get you to hear. You are, instead, ignoring what they are saying. You are telling them they are wrong, selfish even, to want to be able to live in this country without being murdered by the police, because they aren't including you in their "lives matter" message. By attempting to usurp their message and center yourself in it, you are just continuing the long --mind-numbingly long-- history in our country of making everything all about the white people. Your self-righteous indignation that you "can't even post something nice!" is textbook white fragility, the inability to actually confront our own implicit biases and the benefits we receive because of racist infrastructure without crying big white women tears.

No one ever said that white lives didn't matter. But our country has proved time and time again that we don't value Black lives. And until we are willing to shut up and listen, and then act swiftly and forcefully to ensure that Black lives actually do matter, we can never --ever-- truly claim that all lives matter. 

#SAYTHEIRNAME

Image from npr.org.
https://www.npr.org/2020/05/29/865261916/a-decade-of-watching-black-people-die

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 77

Road Trip Edition #3: The Reason We're Here

I know a lot of you have been thinking of me and my family as we traveled, and sending good vibes and prayers our way. I know you've also been wondering about my dad --about what's going on, and how he is doing.

So, here is the whole story, posted with permission from my Dad. Almost two months ago, Dad got out of bed in the middle of the night to check on his terror cat (that I talked him into getting...I'm always going to feel a little bit guilty about all of this), and promptly passed out. He hit his head HARD on the door frame when he fell.

He went to the doctor in the morning, and was diagnosed with orthostatic hypotension, a condition that causes a drop in blood pressure when you stand up, resulting in dizziness or even fainting. The doctor checked him and cleared him for a concussion, reduced his blood pressure medication dosage, and sent him home. Dad learned to get up more slowly to allow the dizziness to pass, and although he still felt kind of off, he went on with his life, as much as he could under the Florida lock-down conditions.

But he was really struggling, more and more, with depression and anxiety, both from all of the losses and adjustments he's had to make in the last 10 years, and also from the incredible loneliness and stress of dealing with lock-down and shelter-in-place orders. He just couldn't emotionally feel okay, and he finally went to the doctor to start on some meds to help. But instead of feeling better, he was just feeling worse and worse. He was jittery, shaky, clumsy, and exhausted. He sounded horrible, like he was so tired he could barely speak. He decided to stop taking the meds and go in for an evaluation the day after Memorial Day because he just felt awful.

As soon as he walked into the doctor's office and explained his symptoms, they admitted him with suspicion of a stroke. He was transported to Advent Health in Tampa for testing and surgery. He had a fist-sized subdural hematoma (between the membrane and the brain), caused by the impact of hitting his head back in early April. The impact of the fall had caused a bleed that initially clotted, but then continued to bleed, putting pressure on his brain and causing a shift, which was causing the confusion, clumsiness, a lot of emotional distress, and extreme shakiness. The surgery was successful and a drain continued to drain the buildup of blood.

Unfortunately, because of the vacuum that was caused by the surgery and removal of the initial clot, a secondary bleed started and he had to go in for a second surgery two days later. That surgery found that the second bleed was an extradural hematoma, a bleed above the membrane. His surgeon cleaned out the second clot and said it looked great and there was no need for an additional drain.

Throughout it all, the nursing staff here at Advent Health has been amazing, fielding phone calls from all of us kids, as we checked in on Dad and demanded updates since we couldn't be here in person. My brother Justin drove over from Orlando for the first few horrible days to sit with Dad. My sister-in-law Kayla, a neuro nurse in Oklahoma, kept asking questions so that we could get answers and know what was going on. My sister Stephanie offered to drive down immediately. The nurses and the surgeon were incredibly patient with me as I called every morning and every night, asking for answers and updates and for them to hold the phone so that I could talk to Dad.


Today, I'm sitting here in ICU with my Dad, waiting for his transfer to a regular room to be complete. The surgeon came in and told him that his slight left-side weakness will go away with time and possibly some physical therapy, and that he is going to be back to normal very soon. His sense of humor is back; he insists they had to drill three holes in his skull because they couldn't find his brain the first time. He insists that scotch would be a much better beverage than Ensure, and that if they really want him to pee, they're going to have to bring him a pitcher of Bud Light. All of his lady friends have been texting him like crazy, and he can finally answer back. He kind of looks like Gerald McRaney with his head shaved, all dapper and grinning impishly.

Gerald McRaney

He will be here at the hospital in Tampa for a few more days, as they continue to monitor his progress. But we are going to get him back home very soon, and lecture him about trying to tough it out instead of getting medical help when he feels like crap. And after my brother and Michael and I get Dad settled back in his house, my carload will head back up North. The other siblings will come in from Oklahoma and Kentucky in shifts, to lecture Dad some more, and surround him with all of the love in the world. He is going to be so sick of family, he'll be begging for some alone time when we're all done with him. 
And to all of you who have held us and him in your thoughts, thank you so much for going on this journey with us and keeping us safe. You are loved.

TL;DR: Dad is transferring out of ICU and demanding some scotch. He's gonna be just fine.