'Cause God knows we're not driving - the car broke down this morning.
Tomorrow is a day for finding out things. In the morning our neighbor will take a look at the car and see if it's worth fixing (at 223,000 miles, it may just be a lost cause). In the afternoon, we have Dad W's first appointment with an oncologist, assuming I can fill in the somewhat sketchy information I have about who he's supposed to be seeing, where and when. Somewhere in the middle, Rob should get some information as to whether they're still looking for someone to fill an open technical position at the Louisville plant. Because today they asked him to stay in Brazil through Christmas - he's said no so far, but if his bosses insist it may become a case of stay or quit.
We finally got Dad W a local PCP this last week. He's a quiet sort, doesn't give you a lot of idea about what's going on in his head, but I think I like him. He seems to ask the right sort of questions, and he certainly moved fast enough on the oncology referral. His nurse was calling the clinic before we got out of the office, and they called us back to give us an appointment before dinnertime. Unfortunately it was Dad W who took the call, and he got a time and some confusing directions about getting paperwork from the PCP without getting a doctor's name, the address, or even the name of the place we were to go. All I got was "The Cancer Clinic, 1:45 Monday - oh and we should stop by the PCP half an hour earlier to fill out paperwork." So the first thing tomorrow is to get on the phone and get things straight.
The pathology report from Tennessee says metastasis, but just to be extra confusing it appears to be gall bladder or pancreas, not prostate. Nobody's seen any sign of a tumor on the pancreas, and Dad W hasn't had a gall bladder in about 12 years. My crystal ball says we're in for some more tests before the oncologist settles on a course of treatment.
Rascal the dachshund is pretty much as he was, except for the addition of dragging, licking and nibbling sores all over his rear. These have started to improve though, since we realized that it wasn't Rascal that was the problem, but rather that the other dachshund was gnawing on him when nobody was looking. Once we started keeping them separated the sore started to heal up. Poor dog, he's 14 - mostly deaf, mostly blind, arthritic and paralyzed with a heart murmur. He's not having a fun time of it. My choice would be euthanasia, but he's not my dog, so it's not my call to make. Though it is apparently my pee and poop to clean up, and for one little dog he can sure produce amazing quantities.
In some happier thoughts, I took some time Saturday to set myself up for the waiting room time I see in my future. I hit my favorite yarn store and bought yarn for five different projects: Some gorgeous stuff called Mesmerize for a Christmas top; lilac cotton for a summer T, cotton/linen for a knitted oxford shirt, black/gray merino for a hat for Robbie, and some really lovely garnet laceweight lambswool that I don't have a plan for yet - but I'll think of something. *rubs hands* Oh yes, my precious I'll think of something.