“Freeze them all!” Dad commanded. “They don’t belong on my body.”  Indeed, all the moles and tags and bumps offended his dignity and threatened his pride.  Kirk the PA said he would be happy to freeze Dad’s little lesions to the extend he could tolerate the pain.  “Freeze them all!” Dad repeated, grimacing at each squirt of the liquid nitrogen.  Thirty minutes later I wheeled Dad out of the dermatologist’s office with his chest, neck, face, and head boasting more thirty red polka dots.  Back at the car, he realized all the freezing and pain had triggered a bladder response, so back into the building we went to look for a bathroom, a building with no automatic doors for the disabled.  The men’s room at least was ostensibly wheelchair friendly, but we soon entered into pathetic gymnastics with doors and wheelchair and multi-point k-turns and misplaced grab bars—this bathroom might be legal, but it definitely was not wheelchair friendly, in fact it was wheelchair nearly-impossible.  We barely managed, as a team.  Having visited the restroom, the drive home was much more comfortable, despite his painful polka dots.  Two incognito spots had hidden in the wrinkles above his mouth, one on each side of his face, symmetrical.  “A little poke,” lied the friendly Kirk, injecting lidocaine in each spot ahead of the biopsy.  Dad fretted immediately about the possibility of two surgeries on his face, above his lips, a horrifying prospect.  I could not help thinking briefly of the Joker, but banished the thought unuttered.  With dinner Dad had Coke Zero in one glass and apple juice in another, and drank neither.  I cannot get him to drink during the day, and I am tempted to remonstrate.  But then I remember that each trip to the bathroom is a life-or-death struggle, and, as he tells me frequently, his paralysis worsens every day.  No wonder he avoids hydrating.  On the front porch lay a package decorated in floral wrapping.  I had ordered the needlepoints in November last year for Mom’s Christmas gift, but they never came.  I entered into the longest email string of my life: can you check on my order? one item is out of stock, we can’t order the other item in, no that replacement choice is also out of stock, can you check my order? yes we have that one, they will be mailed soon, can you check my order? so sorry, we’ll get right on it, can you check my order? and they never came.  Exasperated, I mailed a letter to the owner about my terrible customer service experience, adding that they had my money, inviting them to make things right, and then I let the issue go, certain I would never see my order.  But today, August 28, against the odds, the package finally came: “Merry Christmas, Mom!” I finally got to say.