I leave for Phoenix tomorrow morning to somehow or another make a difference in my parents' lives.  My mother is in the hospital with a fractured pelvis and ongoing pulminary problems; my father has macular degeneration and is legally blind.  At 91 and 87, when they're in their usual health, they have about three-quarters of a body between them.

Certainly I can chauffer my father to the hospital.  But he's a singularly self-possessed, stoic man who retreats into his Library for the Blind tapes on Roman history quite happily.  He's an accomplished cook and does the laundry. Mom, of course, is taken care of.

I dread the trip.  I picked up my 90-day coin in my 12-step program on May 23rd.  I've weighed and measured my meals, given up sugar, flous and snacking.  My parents' house, however, is my private hell.

When I got up this morning, on my 101st morning of no regrets, instead of the usual list of things I want God to do for me, I began to think about the last several months.  I got abstinent after a good crash-and-burn, and in the midst of a terrible depression that had been ebbing and flowing for five months.  I survived my rage that I'd let mysel go out of control -- I've even managed to take in that it's not my place to judge myself in such large matters.  I clawed my way out of that depression, did a decent revision of my book, survived a march fracture in my right foot.  I lost a friend who was the delight of my days but with whom it was time to sever the connection.  I've reconnected with a number of old acquaintances and some family members through Facebook.  I've begun to make peace with some of what went wrong six years ago.  I've lost 42 pounds.