It's not West Nile Virus.

Which would be a relief, except it's not.

In other words, if it's not WNV, what the hell is it? He has crushing headaches and muscle pain, especially in the neck area. They have him drugged to the gills on vicodan and other goodies, any one of which should send him straight to the Valley of the Dolls. In my sister's words, they're "making him Loo-oopy."

Dad, of course, denies this. However, again quoting my sister, "What would he know? He's Loo-oopy."

And I'll have what he's having, because I am very, very worried. I'm thinking brain tumor or worse. Or I was, until Jane told me about her brother, who had the same symptoms, and which turned out to be melanoma. Malignant melanoma, of course, very malignant.

Skin cancer. My dad had that earlier this year. But they cut it out, they caught it early, Dad has always been one for regular trips to the dermatologist. Or at least Mom is, which amounts to the same thing. Especially since she has had skin cancer herself, although I must say she earned it.

So I tell Jane this, and she says that's exactly what happened to my younger brother.

He died two years ago.

That would have made him somewhere in his early to mid forties. My dad is in his mid to late sixties. Closer to mid, I suppose. He's in good shape, my dad. No fat on him. He gets plenty of exercise, golfs almost daily. Mom has always made him watch what he eats and so forth.

I remember when I was a teenager, and severely anemic. Mom would make me crispy bacon and two eggs basted in bacon fat for breakfast. Dad would get Eggbeaters (overcooked) and Sanka. (Both "tm", but my html book is hanging out with all my myriad other books in a huge pile in the corner of the room, and I hate to disturb the lovefest, so please visualize it for me, if you don't mind.) Anyway, I've never been much of one for rolling straight out of bed to the breakfast table, so I just wasn't interested in eating anything, no matter how lovingly prepared. Dad, on the other hand, faced with fake coffee and rubbery, barely yellow, fake eggs cooked beyond the point where they'd actually bounce, would look longingly at my plate.

Dad was all for a bit of a trade. So was I. Fried eggs, dead not-really-eggs-- it was all the same to me because I didn't want either. Plus, there were less fake eggs to choke down. And lack of any taste whatsoever might have been a bonus. But Dad was afraid we'd get caught, so we never did.

I wish we had. Although I suppose I'd feel terribly guilty if it was a heart attack he had, instead of something so apparently random and faceless. Dad's too young to die. Hells bells, he only just retired, and bought his dreamhouse in the midst of a swarm of golf courses in Florida.

Maybe it's just the flu.

In any case, I'm too young to be fatherless, much less my little sister and brother.

Although they're not little anymore. Even though my sister is nothing but skin and bones, achieved through having a type A-plus-plus personality and genuinely not liking anything remotely fattening. Like cheese, or sour cream, or salad dressing, or chocolate.

Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you: Who in the world doesn't like chocolate?

Aside from my sister, of course.

Today's her birthday. I sent her an e-card shamelessly lambasting Martha Stewart.

We don't like her much.

And I hope it cheers her up. Aside from the whole business of Dad's sickness, she hates her job. She worked her ass off to get it, too. But there was a merger or something, and they've changed management, and the new management is on a quest to rid themselves of the pre-existing staff and fill their positions with their people.

Sis is pre-existing. Just barely, but there it is.

Not that I get the feeling things were just hunky-dory before. When I was home for my brother's wedding, she had-- or had the threatening symptoms of-- five migraines in ten days. I think she went into full-blown migraines three times, although it might have been four. Which is not good.

So I was worrying about her already. Too much stress, on top of an overwhelming Type Capital A personality is not a good thing.

Either that, or it's a brain tumor.

I seem to have brain tumors on my mind.

And I'm not joking. This is really the way I've been thinking lately. Me, the mellow, "it'll work out and if it doesn't we'll deal with it, worrying won't accomplish anything anyway" kind of girl.

Which makes me worry about myself, as well. I mean, it's completely out of character, but I can't seem to help doing it.

Although, on the bright side, I haven't given myself a brain tumor yet.

Ha ha ha.