I hate November. And Friday the 13th.

I've never made a secret over my hate for November. For the past 10 years, anything bad that was going to happen, happened in November. What's strange is that I have an entire group of friends who feel the same way.

But, I was being optimistic this month. After 10 years, certainly I was due for one good November? And it's been decent so far.

Then Friday the 13th came.

You can insert scary music here.

It started out well enough. No weight lost on the scale, after losing 8 pounds this week, but hey, that's ok. The house is a mess, but that's ok too. Dinner out, a trip to the pet store to see if Holly needs anything, and a trip to the bookstore. While on the way home, my mom called to tell me that my dad was pretty sick. I told her to keep me updated. It's not unusual for my mom to call me with their various aches and pains. It goes with the territory of basically being the last daughter left, and having elderly parents. Of course I was immediately worried, but I probably spend 95% of my life worried about them.

I get home and settle into SL. A friend of mine needed someone to talk to because she was very upset. I knew there wasn't much I could do except listen, so I was more than willing to lend an ear.

In the middle of that, Tyson logged in for the first time in a while. We talked a bit, and decided it was better if we just go our separate ways. No tears, no hard feelings. It was just time, I guess. I adore him still and wish him nothing but the best. And as far as breakups go, this was probably the most peaceful one I've ever had. We even sat around for a bit afterwards and chatted.

About 20 minutes after he logged off, my mom called again, crying and telling me that my dad was getting worse and she didn't know what to do. I told her to hang on, I'd be there as soon as I possibly could. It's about 20 miles to my parents' house, and I think I made it in record time. He was restless, he wanted to walk, he wanted some air. I called 911 because my dad is incredibly stubborn and he didn't want us to take him to the hospital. If you've ever had to call 911 for someone you love, I feel incredibly sorry for you because that may have been the hardest phone call I've ever made in my life. To their credit, the ambulance & police showed up really quickly. To my disbelief, they had the address wrong. We had to wave them down. My parents' tiny room was filled with big, tall men. Did they get him to go to the hospital? Nope. My dad kept insisting that he felt fine except for the sore throat and cough, and whatever he was spitting out. My mom went all telenovela and was shouting "You're lying! He's lying! Tell them the truth!" Finally they had to ask her to go do something else. But they checked him out, did a blood sugar test, even let my mom [who is a retired nurse, specializing mostly in cardiology] listen to his heart and lungs, and she got a chance to yell at them and tell them that they were no good.

I was pretty well freaked by this point, but I got my dad to promise me that in the morning, we'll go to the local clinic so he can have his sore throat looked at and if he has the flu, maybe he can get some meds. My mom kept yelling that he'd never make it through the night. She's ... dramatic.

[This is why the drama queens in SL really don't bother me anymore. I have enough crazy and drama in my RL, so the other stuff is truly a cakewalk at this point.]

I finally made it home after midnight, and it's 3:30am now. I should get in bed because the clinic opens at 8 and I'd like us to get there pretty early. And if you have any to spare, we could use some prayers and good thoughts.

Ali's Thanks of the Day: I'm thankful for friends who give me virtual hugs after a long day. They're felt just as much as a physical hug sometimes.