Visitation

 Every day is so different, nothing I say is going to stick.  Two weeks ago I was crying all the time. One week ago Mike was clearly depressed. This weekend his parents were here and that was okay. This evening was actually nice.

When we can flirt with each other, everything is fine, really.

When there are signs that his eyesight is getting better, things are great.

That might only last a little while, though.

On Friday, the speech therapist asked him to describe a perfect day, as an exercise in storytelling. He could barely get two sentences in, because once we went to Davis Square to look at comic books, he started to cry. His comic books. His art. 

But then yesterday, he read me part of a license plate from a car in the parking lot, through the window. And today he was able to name the playing cards I held up, though it took a moment or two.

During his nap, Adam and I left his parents here while we went to meet the kittens our friends are fostering, to help socialize them. It was nice, and normal, and a good way to spend an hour usefully and soothingly. I wish he could come, though. He can't. It's a third floor walk up.

Later, he said that even though he'd gone to the bathroom, he was worried that he had to go again after I left. I'm glad he told me. He's trying so hard, and it is so hard. He's helpless, and I am his help. "You can't just stay here forever and take care of me always?" I wish I could. Do I? 

We will find our balance. Things are moving and changing. We just have to remember that, and feel the push through.

Believe.