ICU

J's father is resting comfortably. He's still in ICU and not allowed to eat, but he can drink water in a gel-like consistency, and thickened apple juice. They've changed the trach collar this morning so that he now is able to speak by hold a finger over the trach opening. He's been dreaming about the war, about Laos in 1955, of his stay at the Veteran's hospital in Westwood in 1956, and about a third child I have, named David. He feels terrible about David, because he's been ignored for all those years. He'd like to take him to Europe and buy him anything he wants, he tells me. His nurse today is cute. "She's 22" he tells me. "No, I'm 30" she says, smiling at him.