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.