Earlier today, I was thinking that I would drive Skylar to San Diego -- well, Solana Beach -- to visit with my sister, her eighteen-month-old son, and my parents. The idea of a father-daughter excursion had appeal, although there were some mental blocks for both of us to hurdle before we actually got out on the highway as a twosome. In keeping with this sense of freedom, I also planned to go see a movie tonight. But a lot can change in a few hours. My father-in-law fell and required assistance getting back in his chair. He's fine, aside from the cut he incurred on his super-sensitive skin. I, however, am clearly still overcome by a world-obscuring cloud of remembered trauma. You see, when my mother-in-law called, I felt the surge of fear that I didn't feel that day, just returned from his first hospitalization, when he called me in the morning for help. Even though the crisis this time wasn't that big a deal, I soon found myself thinking that the only way I could spend my evening would be to put on my headphones and sit in the folding black chair watching the first season of The Wire on DVD and eating whatever chocolates I could find. That's how I attempted to unwind when he was in intensive care last month. Since he started getting demonstrably better, I haven't had the desire to continue my viewing, even though I was loving the series. Now, though, it seems like precisely the right thing to do. I should be writing tonight, but I'm not sure I can resist the compulsion to repeat.