In 17 years of calling this house "home", nobody in my family ever called an ambulance. Oh, we went to the hospital dozens of times, but we always drove ourselves or had someone take us (um, or walked). In fact, the only two times I ever remember emergency personnel coming here were (1) a couple of firetrucks when Cynthia, mom, and I set the kitchen on fire, and (2) a police car when my truck was stolen from the driveway.

But in the last week, we've had two paramedic teams here. Two. One was on Monday, when mom began experiencing extreme tachycardia (up to 160ish!) and chest pain. She spent the night in the hospital and came home with a diagnosis of "something to do with your thyroid...?". Then today, dad couldn't get out of bed due to dizzy, whirly faintyness. Yeah, I've been there. They did a bunch of bloods and a CT, and they sent him home with "something to do with your sinuses...?".

Geez oh man. There's still some Jeni's White Trash Lemon Drop punch in the fridge which is calling my name. It's 10:20 p.m. in Edinburgh right now, so that's okay, right?