Quotes of Insight... and humor

car ride home today, 4:34pm: "I want to think like an adult again."

yesterday, lying in bed next to my mom:  "I'm sorry for ruining your life."

attempting to get in the shower, crying: "I can't, I'm gonna melt!" 

(it's so precious it hurts)

yesterday, in a fit of tears: "help me, Robin, help me - just tell me the truth!"

me: "okay Dad, it's okay.  remember you had the heart attack, and it damaged your memory."

Dad: "my memory's fine!"  me: "well... that's why you always call me Robin, but I know you know I'm Annie."  Dad: "ohhh... I'm sorry." :(

(I'll keep updating this as more verbal insights arise...)

Love

Family and friends are everything.  Without them, we'd live in a land of wonder and worry.  A day of just Dad, my Mom and me -- is full of whining and pain, anger and submission.  Then a few hours with friends or family turns this baby fifty-nine year-old into an adult with just a minor ailment again.  (But the ailment is acceptable, and there.)  Not only is the presence of close family or a dear friend a comfort and relation for my father -- but a true release for my Mom and me.  The eggshells disappear, a calmness is created, and for a moment all is normal again.  In short -- company brings out the best in my Dad, it's the best therapy he can have.  I'm almost tempted to invite Hilda (CNS case manager) and Robin (CNS counselor) over for dinner one night when Dad is in his element amongst friends.  They'd never believe this was the same human being they insist needs to be admitted into a psychiatric facility for observation.  No no. True to life is the best therapy.  This evening, my Uncle Bob bravely asked my Dad, "so how does it feel to be back from Bakersfield?"  and Dad replied in a moment of clarity, "I never should have gone there."   

There will be a day when enough is enough with the therapy, but for now we'll stick with the attempt to make more cognitive gains.  It will end when insurance wears out, or most hopefully, when real life catches up to him.  And to get there -- Dad needs love, he needs to feel he's back in the community he can trust and believe in, the community that holds his friendships and shares his interests, wants, and needs.  Some friends have left him... hell, some friends have left me -- we all have our own lives, I very much understand -- but those who prevail and believe are critical in the healing.  And now is the time we need you more than ever.  AND -- now is the time I THANK YOU more than ever.  To those who've joined us at our table, or have invited us to yours, or who have made visits, calls, outreaches of companionship, every little bit counts enormously -- and you know who you are.  And I love you.  You have no idea -- NO IDEA -- the pathways of progress, faith, and comfort you shape in my Dad's brain and in our new life.  And I thank you, and love you.    

What a Week

I have to say, I definitely prefer being called "Robin" to "Bitch."  Throughout this week both names were used interchangeably pending my Dad's bi-polar perspective at the time.  This morning when Dad was whining around the house, "help me... pleeeeeease, somebody help me!!!"  He took comfort in hearing me shuffling about in my room, "Robin?? is that you?  help me PLEEEEEASE..."  yes Dad, I hug him, pat his shoulder, "what can I do dad."  "Nevermind!  none of you want to help me, fuck all of you!!! get out of my room!"  bam!! - it switches just like that.  The mornings are the worst.  The trauma and pain of the unknown torments my poor Dad, he has to trust us, but he's not sure if he can.  Somehow, miraculously, and through a Buddah-like patience we achieve getting him to therapy for the day.  The afternoon is a solid hour and a half of nausea-inducing nerves at the thought of Dad leaping out of the car on the freeway in a random fit of anger -- luckily, sweet Jenny is our hero on car rides.  And most of the time comfortably sits on Dad's lap and keeps him in place.  However... if the preceeding moment before loading into the car has been particularly tumultuous, Jenny senses his anger and fear and leaps in the backseat.  After arriving home and commencing in dinner preparations and relaxation -- you could at times blink and think you were observing a slice of the Nemer-nightly ritual a year ago.  Everyone's calm, engaged, laughing, relaxing, eating, conversing, and overall pleasant.  You'd never know this was the same raving brain injured man from a few hours before.  

It's a delicate dance we're living in right now.  I don't know quite how to explain it -- it's nothing anyone could ever imagine or ever experience in quite the same way.  It's horrible at times, reassuring at others, comfortable and sometimes almost complete -- yet there will always be a missing piece.  It's been exactly 9 months since that piece went missing... perhaps another 9 more and we'll find it.

Transitioning

Dad replaced the hardwood floors in our house with eggshells.  And if we step on one he gets reeeeeal angry.  More unfortunately, they are invisible and extremely sporadic.  So there's no way to walk around them -- you never know when one's going to crack.  When it happens you just get out of the way, and you can't take it personally.  

Dad's so traumatized he doesn't know who to trust.  And attempting to immerse him back into the clinic routine was a nice idea... but think about it, why on earth would it be easy?  Dad's learned now that when he puts himself in the trust of others he ends up in scary places like bullshit Bakersfield.  So today, after my mom seemed to step on about 2 dozen eggshells, and the two "helpers" from CNS were pretty much picking them up and throwing them at Dad as far as he could tell, the wrath incurred, and Dad found trust in me.  So I calmly took him out for some pancakes -- which was slightly terrifying at times and filled with tears and panic on his part.  But I calmly looked at the LA Times and sipped my coffee, and Dad would settle back down a bit.  I attempted to get on the 134 and head to the clinic... but after a fierce threatening to open the door mid-drive, my gut told me to just head home.  Today is not the day for challenges.  There's been no period of adjustment for him, everyday is a new day of realizing he's living at home again - HIS home - and he deserves some time to gain a little control.

After a nap and a stroll with the doggies, Dad took us to In-N-Out.  He asked me to drive, articulating, "I just don't feel up for it." (note: obviously, I or my mom ALWAYS drive, but for him to articulate that rather than just go with the flow is pretty insightful).  At in-n-out we ordered at the counter, and Dad paid.  He instructed me to sit outside and hold the table while he waited for our number to be called.  I did just that.  It was a really nice lunch -- worlds different from our pancakes a mere 3 hours before.  And CNS may think I took a risk, I probably did, but I know Dad well enough that he won't have an erratic eggshell break-out if he feels in charge and independent enough.  I give him space, and I let him know I trust him - and he can trust me.  

I'm not your most avid astrology follower -- and I didn't check my horoscope til just now, but eerily it states...

GEMINI:  WHEN YOU PUT YOUR MIND TO IT, YOU CAN CHANGE SOMEONE ELSE'S MIND.  OBSERVE AND STRATEGIZE.  IT'S NOT THE TIME TO WAGE YOUR ATTACK.  THERE IS A GENTLE WAY TO DO THIS, AND YOU WILL FIGURE IT OUT.

Home Forever

My bed is empty for the first time in two months.  Yes, I'm sleeping alone again.  (Not that there were any real, long stretches of time in my life that my bed was shared with someone special... but the past two months have been comfortingly cozy.)  However, tonight, Jenny snuggles under my Dad's arm, in his bed.  I didn't have to coax her there, I didn't have to urge her in knowing Dad needed a little unconditional love - no no, this snuggle bug automatically leaped into Dad's nook the moment he crawled into his big, comfy bed.  I can only imagine how wonderful that feels after two months of sleeping on a tiny ass twin mattress in a cold, secluded room far off in B.F.E Bakersfield.  I hate that town.  I hate everything about it.  It's so damn depressing.  And I'm SO glad I NEVER have to go back.  I couldn't blog last Sunday and relive the depressing experience that day was.  I could indulge on the palpable, dirty, lonely, boring, smelly, feeling that permeates through the air as you kill time in that town -- but why look back on the past?  What's done is done.  We took all the roads we thought possible were in the best interests of my father, even if that road lead to a two-month stint in hell, but it's over now -- and we can only look ahead.  

I felt calm today.  Nervous... but calm.  What else can I be?  We have to stay incredibly even-keeled and steadfast for my father.  He has been a perpetual waterfall of tears for the past week... nonstop.  My mom said the past 48 hours she was in Bakersfield - minus going to dinner where Dad always rises to the occasion for good food - were a constant sobfest.  Flowing tears, with an ongoing mantra of "help me... help me..."  We can't even tell him we are helping him anymore.  He doesn't believe it.  I don't blame him.  He trusted us -- and we allowed him to get himself into the scary situation that was Bakersfield - taken away by a team of people in starched blue blouses and forced to live in a tiny apartment with strangers.  Now he lives with fear -- his confusion was challenged and expanded.  Rather than "shocking him into sense"  which was my greatest hope for this situation... it was an overwhelming displacement out of his control.  I ache for him more.  Time will heal.  I know it will.  He'll accept our trust again.  And hopefully, in the future, he'll accept his reality.  But for now we take it day by day, we'll try and appease the tears - or at least just change the subject.  And at least there's always a nice dinner or a furry friend under his arm to bring him moments of joy and comfort.

It's a new journey.  It's not all bad, and it's much better than where we've been, but it feels more official now.  This Dad of mine is home for good, for better, for worse, and for best.   

Someone's Coming Home

Mom's on her way up the 5 and I lie here on the couch with ice on my foot, the dogs at my side - and we'll stay here and patiently await the arrival of the fifth member of our family.  I don't think Bakersfield worked out quite as well as the "experts" expected... and we're not in the place of recognition I was hoping for him when these 2 months were over.  And now they're over, and we move on.  Dad is no doubt different... but how different remains to be seen.  Having him gone has made me miss him more than ever, and pushed me to accept that he will no longer ever be the Dad I had before June 27th.  That's the hardest thing to accept.  I fear typing it because once you write something down it becomes reality in a way.  So now I know, whoever Mom brings home, is sort of a mystery, and only time will tell how close this person will become to being that remarkable father I have in my memories.  

TBI Part 2

Perhaps I speculated too late.  Rest in peace Natasha Richardson.  A devastating turn of events.  It's right to count the blessings we have and be thankful for our life and loved ones.  

Celebrity TBI

You know why there are conflicting reports of Natasha Richardson's status in the hospital right now?  Because that poor family has no fucking clue what to say.  And they shouldn't have to.  All they are concerned with is if their loved one will miraculously come back.  There is no room for any other sense in the world except to see her come back.  My understanding is she is lying there still, hooked up to the trinity of life support: breathing tube, feeding tube, IV drip.  Her eyes are closed -- her body there to touch -- her soul and thoughts, far off in another universe.  But hopefully her family is there communicating to her anyway, singing to her, talking to her, because most certainly - something in her is hearing and receiving.  It's only Day 3.  Dad opened his eyes on Day 3.  I wanted to throw a party.  And we could tell people -- "he woke up!"  Which, if the news was pounding down our door I'd probably tell them.  Then I'd get the hideous slap in the face -- ooops, no no, he didn't wake up -- there is no response to "wiggle your toes", "squeeze my hand", "blink your eyes..." therefore, no cognitive function i.e. "brain dead."  Perhaps Natasha is in this place.  Which leaves you with even less answers -- you see the body moving, perhaps there's the persistent fevers, sweating, thrashing, moaning... and this can go on for a long time -- but it's indescribable, scary, and mysterious.  Here is your loved one in a persistent vegetative state.  They are far from woken up.  And there are no answers as to when or if they will -- but their moving body and their open eyes give you more hope, you can look into them and try to communicate and penetrate the brain.  But the brain persists to not respond, and the verdict of "brain dead" is more palpable.  So when do you stop hoping?  When do you give a verdict? In this case - is it when the paparazzi hassle you until you feel forced to say something? Or more familiar, when insurance starts knocking down your door demanding the next best move -- pull "the plug" and see what happens: let body die of disease and infection, with two weeks to hope it may reeeally wake up -- OR leave in "plug," keep hoping, keep paying, and sustain the loved ones body.  It's unpredictable, it's terrible, it's life.  I know that's vague - but there are no right answers, there is NO timeline, and there should NOT be any pressure on the fragile family right now.  They'll know in their hearts what decision to make - and what if, if any action should be taken.  I never gave up on my Dad.  He told me not to.  And no doubt he would have told me if I was supposed to.  When the day for death-decisions was forced upon us by statistics, by insurance, by neurologists, by lack-of-belief, I knew when I looked in his eyes the first day he opened them, that this decision would not have to be made.  There was a knot, in my heart, pulsing to me, that no - this decision, would not have to be made.  And then he woke up.  He made me believe 9 months ago... there's reason to keep believing when he comes home on Sunday. 

My heart goes out to Natasha's family.  I feel so deeply sad for them and this wondrous pain they are suffering.  My hopes are they will give it time, ignore all the outside forces pressuring them, and listen to Natasha, and listen to their hearts.  

Perk Up

"Don't look too excited."  The funny man behind the counter at the coffee shop said to me as I waited to get a blended ice mocha to ease my aching tonsil.  It took me about 5 seconds to realize he was indeed talking to me, awaiting my coffee request.  "oh... hah, sorry I'm sick."  I say with a fake smile.  He takes four steps back in case I breath too hard on him.  I order my blended mint mocha and then step back.  And while the funny man entertained the following customers with more sarcastic coffee jabber, I think, "what I should have said was the truth - there's nothing to be excited about."  There isn't.  I'm feeling very resentful of life today, yesterday, lately.  I'm so so sick of being the Nemer family cheerleader.  I'm sick of putting on a smiley face and pretending all is okay -- and so the ONE TIME I stand there, not smiling, allowing myself to live in my own little rain cloud, I get called on it by the stupid barista.

Daily life would be a different world if I spoke the truth on my mind any minute - I guess that goes for everyone.  But seriously, if I had said - "there's nothing to be excited about" and he asked why?  Would I have to go into the whole story?  I doubt I would - I'd probably give a pissy, shortened recap of events and make him feel reeeeeal sorry for asking.  But that gets none of us anywhere - he's much better off happily frothing lattes as I observe while I type.  Another example of wanting to speak my mind occurred this weekend on our visit with Dad, he was whining and crying as we were taking a walk outside the residence, and I just couldn't take it anymore.

"Dad stop crying..."  I urge gently.  "oh shutup you don't know anything. don't you have any friends you can go bother..."  He retorts.  I walk away, thinking in my head of replying: "Wel, yeah I had a best friend once but he went and got a brain injury and now here we are."  But I didn't say that -- I just walked away, and bit my tongue and held my breath to fight a tear or irrational impulse.  Deep breath.... deep breath.

these are endless two weeks.   

Going thru the motions

It's hard to believe it's an hour til midnight on Friday night.  I just barely made it through this week.  After a week cluttered with multiple birthdays, one performance, one audition, one day of 101.9 degree fever, and two days of sore throat (not all necessarily in that order), I rewarded myself with a relaxing bubble-gum, chick flick movie by myself - while my Mom is out enjoying herself at a fun concert with girlfriends - exactly the type of fun she so well deserves.  Just before turning in I take my little loves Melvin and Jenny up the corner to do their business - and Melvin, yet again, ran into something exceedingly smelly and gross ending up on his fur.  After hustling them back in the house where I could hear the tea kettle screaming and the answering machine beeping - I look at Melvin's neck to assess the dirty damage, and there are disgusting brown gops of something stuck to his fur.  I almost vomit.  I immediately get soapy towels and start scrubbing away the grossness - Melvin stands patiently, Jenny observes from a distance, ears perked and head cocked in curiosity.  And the phone beeps on, and the kettle steams.  Finally when I think I've scrubbed sufficiently, I pick myself up off the floor, pitch the towels in the trash, throw a cookie at the dogs and a tea bag in a mug, pour the water and check the message machine...

"Hi Barbara... this is [so-and-so] from CNS residence in Bakersfield, I'm the Case Manager for David this weekend.  He was complaining of chest pain and so we took his blood pressure a few times every hour, and he took his medicine and it seemed to go down-- but just in case he's at the hospital"  the perky voice stated.

Ummm, fuck.  Okay, think, process, act.  I turn to the bulletin board and dial CNS.  Mom's still not home yet (in fact she's still not home as I write this and I'm assuming has no idea of the whole incident yet -- unless she's actually checked her cell phone messages).  I call and ask for the Case Manager.  "Tiffany"  gets on the phone and explains the whole story.  Dad complained of chest pain at 5pm. Blood pressure was taken, meds administered, it went down a touch.  6pm - they take it again, still a little high.  7pm - I talk to Dad on the phone - he sounds great, strong, content, still non-sensical but I don't hold my breath for sense anymore, but he wasn't whining or sad.  8:30pm they take him to the hospital because he screamed everytime he got up or sat down.  10:30pm they discharge him saying he simply pulled a muscle.  I talk to Sarah and to Dad -- he sounded exhausted and upset.  Sarah said he was doing okay, ready to get back to the apartment and go to sleep, and she was holding his hand all the way.  

What do we do with this information from 200 miles away?!!!! Tell me!  Can anything happen or not happen in the next two weeks he has to be there?!  It's fucking agonizing.  I know we've got a lifetime of drama in store for us when he gets home - but at least we'll be in contorl, and he'll be in control of his life again - because this is his life - here, on Royal Blvd, with his two girls and his two dogs.  

I spent the following 15 minutes after I hung up with Sarah debating how to tell my Mom.  If to tell her at all.  She'll be terrified and want to steal him away tomorrow when we're there.  I think I'll start by telling her, "Dad pulled a muscle.... in his chest... and to make sure it wasn't his heart, they took him to the hospital."  yes, that should be fine.

I'm feeling rather calm, but I think it's honestly because I know he's asleep now, and I know he's okay.  I feel he's okay.  but dear god make this be over with soon.