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.