My boss is on vacation for three weeks, so, yeah, I'm stressed and overworked. Just like everyone.

However, I'm in the process of downloading the new Old 97s CD! Yay!

My brother is doing much better. In fact, they're transferring him up to the rehabilitation center in Boston. This is fantastic news. Bad, because I can't see him for a little while longer (I was going home this weekend) but good because he's improving. I haven't seen him awake yet, and it makes me cry. I know that my family is telling him I was there, but I have been the odd man out on getting back there. My timing sucks.

I just want tell my brother I love him face to face.

Chester Copperpot
Last night, The Boyfriend and I celebrated a year together. He took me to a wonderful restaurant and we hard one of the best meals and wine I have ever had.

Okay, now to the interesting stuff.

The restaurant is in an old store front in the historic part of town. If people come and go, you have to move out of the way or hold the door. Someone from the window seat got up to take a phone call. We couldn't see who it was, the window seats jut out past the door. I held the front door open so this person, being polite, could speak freely outside.

It was Rudy. Sam, Frodo's friend. Mikey Walsh, the leader of the Goonies.

That's right, Sean Astin. And man is he a wee guy.

(By the way, looking at his IMDB profile there, his first acting gig is "Please Don't Hit Me, Mom." I know the subject matter isn't funny, but I can't help but giggle. How about "Please don't exploit my talents for money, mom." Ah, child actors.

Rudy was in town stumping for Hillary. He had been making appearances and working the phone banks with Mary Steenburgen and Ted Danson.

The Boyfriend, who loves to stir the pot and watch me squirm, wanted to lead the restaurant in chanting "RUDY! RUDY! RUDY!" We did keep a constant hiss of "Chester Copperpot" back and forth between us. Although The Boyfriend did constantly talk like Sloth from that movie, which did not go unnoticed by other patrons.

Wanting to actually see him, The Boyfriend went out to smoke and peer in the windows. So I take the moment to call my mom and get an update on my brother.

My baby brother is waving at people as they come to see him.

I started crying I was so happy. This is huge, this is monumental, and I've now turned into a blubbering mess in a very nice restaurant. The Boyfriend rushes back in, and I tell him. And, if you know me, if I fall apart, whether good or bad, I lose all control over any coordination. I was spilling water, food, oh and my wine. Which I did in front of Sean Astin as he came over to ask if I was ok.

Well, he came over because The Boyfriend engaged him about appearances around town. I wasn't really overjoyed about that because I slowly turning into the late Tammy Faye. They chatted, Rudy asked if I was ok. All I said is that I just got some really good news. The Boyfriend explained. And Rudy moved in for the hug.

First off, I don't hug. I don't like my personal space to be violated, but he was trying to be so nice. But then he kissed my shoulder. So. Weird. And I was trying not to crack up and I could tell The Boyfriend was too.

And to make it weirder, he started his talking points about benefits for wounded Veterans and why Hillary was the one for the job. Urgh. He's a nice guy, but he can't stray from his script, he's not good at improv.

Rudy then gave us VIP passes to the Hillary / Mellencamp appearance in Indianapolis tonight, which we can't go, so we gave them away.

But as he left the restaurant, both of his hissed, "CHESTER COPPERPOT" one more time.

I'm off tomorrow to go back home to see my brother. My sister-in-law called tonight with good news. He responded to commands, was trying so hard with the physical therapist to move his arm and legs. He's been yawning and even managed a smile at one point. His last four bacteria cultures have been negative.

Long road ahead. Very, very long road ahead. My sister-in-law sounded relieved, and that is good.

Turns out, it wasn't an IED that hit him it was EFP, which stands for Explosively Formed Projectile, compliments of Iran and favored weapon according to Shiite militias, according to the boyfriend. Whose job it is to report this shiznit.

I'd describe how an EFP works, but google it. I'm sure those descriptions would do a much better job. It's scary.

So, David gave me a little grief about not posting about the earthquake. But in a circular reasoning way, it's his fault.

Wednesday afternoon, just after I sent him a "Happy Birthday" e-mail, knowing that it was already "tomorrow" in Ukraine, my heart, to put it as Doogie Howser would, freaked out.

For more than five minutes, my heart was beating so fast, no one trained in first aid could count the pulse. After two minutes, an ambulance was called. My heart then tried to regulate itself, speeding up and slowing down drastically, causing severe chest pains.

Now it wasn't a panic attack because I didn't have any other symptoms, no sweating, no thinking I was going to die. I was more calm than the people around me. What was annoying was feeling like an animal in a zoo. I hissed at the crowd, "Please back off, this is embarrassing as it is."

In the ambulance, the EMT's gave me two nitroglycerin pills because they could not get my heart rate under control.

"Are you under any stress?"

Ha.

The other favorite question of the day, asked by throngs of nurses and doctors at the hospital was, "Are you taking any illicit street drugs?" Even on morphine, I'm told I giggled endlessly.

In the emergency room, The Boyfriend cheered me up, cracking jokes. Poor guy returns from Iraq himself and a couple of days later he's sitting in an emergency room with his girlfriend. A young woman who was the victim of a hit-and-run that I sent someone to shoot was next to me in the hall. The woman who came from the paper made the joke that The Boyfriend could be the ultimate community journalist and go take a picture of her with his cell phone.

I was admitted overnight where I was poked and prodded. I had to do a cardio stress test at the crack of dawn. So, on Thursday, when I was released from the hospital with my heart monitor that looks like an iPod, I slept most of the day away.

So, at 4 a.m. on Friday morning, I got up to use the loo. I got back in bed, not sleepy, so I picked up the seventh Harry Potter book. Right at a part where Lord Voldemort is doing some evil, the room starts shaking. For a long time. My heart went a little a wacky, had to call it in.

"What were you doing when you pressed your heart monitor?"
"We had an earthquake."
Pause. "Seriously?"

And about 40 minutes after midnight last night, we had another quake. And tonight, Obama is in town. Sigh. I was supposed to be avoiding too much stress.

Best. Phone call. EVER.

I have received a lot of sympathy in the past couple of weeks via e-mail, snail mail and phone. But the one that cheered me up the most, was the one that I received earlier this evening. It has cheered me up so much, I can't sleep because of the happiness.

At 11:30 Central Time, a friend of mine from college called to see how I was doing in light of my brother's tragedy. I was surprised by the call because it was so late at night, and she lives on the East Coast. It became apparent that my dear friend, who I e-mail with but haven't seen or spoken to in four years, was drunk dialing me. On a Monday night.

May I just say what I said to her when she admitted her condition: FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC.

Like most drunken dials, she said, "I want you to know, I love you" about fifty times. She giggled, made me laugh. She was on a work trip and they had gone out. I want to work where she does.

I said, "I wish I could have recorded this."
She responded, "Yeah, but then I would know how stupid I sound. I've repeated myself over and over."

No, not stupid. Best phone call I've gotten in years. It's the most I've laughed or smiled in weeks.

I look forward to returning the call in kind.

(My brother is doing much better. The doctor's seem to have his infection under control. We're peeking around the corner, not quite turning it yet.)

My brother is stable. Doctors are still injecting antibiotics directly into his brain.

That's how sick he is.

I was running errands today (I'm back at my home) and would randomly start crying. This time of year is always bad for me anyway. Brent, both my grandparents, a friend from high school, died all around this time.

My brother came close. My cousin, who is an ER doctor, was allowed to look at his charts as a professional courtesy. He confirmed that he was as sick as he could get without dying.

I feel so utterly helpless and useless and so angry at the same time.

He's trapped in his head right now because of the sedation, probably reliving the blast. We can't talk to him because his heart rate and his blood pressure shoots up when we do so, and that's dangerous.

I just want him to know we love him. It's gut wrenching to know that trying to tell someone you love them could give them more damage from a useless war.

Well, good vibes seem to be working. My brother still very very very critical. However, he's breathing above the ventilator. That means he's breathing on his own, but he uses the ventilator to get oxygen in his lungs - for pressure. It's kind of a back up.

It's not much, but with all the bad news we've had, it's something. He could backslide, but at least we're in a holding pattern.