"magic" me

It's a bi-polar world we're living in these days. That's the best way I can describe it. On my drive home yesterday after a 15 hour shoot day commencing at 4am, awash in exhaustion, bloatation, and cramps, stuck somewhere on the 5 in the middle of Newport Beach and Downtown LA, a glass of wine and my pink flannel donut pajamas as my light at the end of the traffic, I called my mom to check in on the day and see if she and Dad can hold out for me for dinner. She's crying. Anguish and stress bubbling through my blackberry. "he's just awful, Annie, he's just awful. he's so angry. he keeps yelling, 'where's Robin!?! where's Robin?!'" --- I guess now would be a good time to introduce to you all the fact that 9.99 times out of 10, my father calls me, "Robin." His sister's name. who the hell knows why. He knows I'm his daughter. Just like brushing your teeth in the morning, Dad and I have this daily routine:

Dad: "Robin..." Me: "what's my name?" Dad: "Robin." Me: "DAD. what's my name?" Dad: "ROBIN!" Me: "Dad, who am I?" Dad: "you're Robin!" Me: "no - who am I to you?" Dad: "my daughter." Me: "and what's my name?" Dad: "Robin." (i know it's exhausting right?) Me: "and what's your sister's name?" Dad: "oh. Robin." Me: "and what's my name?" Dad: ".... eh I don't know." Me: "I'm ANNIE!" (although sometimes he embellishes that last question and picks a name out of nowhere like "Hildagard" or "Gueneviere" just to make fun of the situation.)

Okay so now you're up to speed. Back to the 5 freeway. So Mom says, "he's just awful... just get home soon." I finally arrive - braced for the expected worst - and Mom's a wreck. I walk over to my Dad, who is hunched at the kitchen counter eating rainbow sherbert. "Hi Daddy..." I say calmly, putting my arm around him. "how ya doin?" he looks up a little. "fine." he says softly. His gaurd and demeanor sinking a bit. "mmm that looks good..." he offers me a bite off his spoon. "mmmm oh that tastes good." I say. "oh my god Dad, I'm so tired - I had the most stressful annoying shoot today." "really? where?" he says. and then we talk. and sit at the counter. and share some more snacks. and laugh at Seinfeld on the TV. Meanwhile, my Mom is doubling over in tears, me not knowing that 5 minutes before I walked in Dad was in such a depression and so angry with himself he uttered the words, "I want to die." "Just let me alone."

I hate seeing my Dad so miserable. It's frightening to think about how awful he must be feeling. For a man of such amazing qualities - the man who knew everything about everything - the glass 3/4 full all the time - mister social, mister optomisim, mister jeopardy, mister everything. For him to walk around daily, spitting out the wrong words in conversation, being carted to and from CNS, who can't drive his yellow vette and doesn't know why, who can't say his daughter's name and doesn't know why, how PAINFULLY excrutiating this battle in his brain must be - we just have to remind ourselves that his anger is justified - because he's working so hard to find the word, the name, to be the best David he can be again. If I really was magic - I would wave a wand and whip him back into shape so fast, these past 6 months would feel like a bad dream. But I'm not magic. And I'm certainly not Robin. But that's okay - I'll be his daughter by any name and by his side everyday if that's what it takes to wake his spirit up, just like the day it did - 12.9 days after dying.