You’ve just spent the last six hours grinding through a dungeon.  Your potions and magic points are depleted.  You approach the door, your party haggard and tired, all manner of ailment symbols over their heads, your magic completely drained.

Through this door is either a ginormous, screen-filling boss with wings, or a save point.

Fear in your breast, a quiver in your hands, you push up on the joypad, and enter.

There, glowing before you is the floating orb of a Save Point.

You touch it, save all of your experience, and that big shiny sword you stole from a rare enemy.  All of your ailments melt away, all health and magic points are restored.

I wish real life had save points.

I would use one right now.

I would preserve this moment as my dad returns to coherency and shows signs of getting better.   There are still battles to fight, chasms to cross, and mysteries to solve, but, today, Dad is better.

I’d keep this save slot, just in case we need to come back and reset.

We’re still within the darkness, with a long journey to go.

Along the way, we’ve had a bounty of support from medical staff, co-workers, friends, and family.  Meals and offers of help have poured in.  Our fantastic next door neighbors are ecstatic to bring in food, and offered assistance when we’re able to bring Dad home.

Everyday, we take turns visiting Dad, attempting not to overwhelm him while also showing support.  We’ve read light books like Winnie The Pooh and A Long Way From Chicago to him.

At home, ice cream and chocolate have been in rich supply.  My sister Natalie is coping by petting the dog and watching Winnie The Pooh (2011) with French dubbing.  (If you have the DVD or Blu-ray, I highly recommend watching it in French.  Somehow, it’s even more sweet and adorable.)  My siblings and I have gathered together to support Mom, and help buoy her as she keeps on going, finding the strength to do what needs to be done in face of crisis.

We believe the worst is over,, but now have to wait for things to get better.  Dad’s health is still far more tenuous than we’d like.

As a quick note, Dad was diagnosed with Serotonin Syndrome, which means his body was producing far more serotonin than it can handle and it begins to shut down.  It takes between 1-5 days to detox, and then the body has to recover.  When he was awake on Wednesday and Thursday, he was coherent, joking, and laughing despite how uncomfortable he is.

Thank you everyone for your support and sympathy.  I’ll update when I know more.

And thanks for hanging out in the safety of the ‘save’ room.  Now, I’ve got to go through the next door and see what happens.