Every day around here is another misadventure in wonderland. Today was worse than most days. Early this morning I awoke from a sound sleep, not sure why, couldn’t tell what woke me, but then I heard Dear Hubby call my name. When I got downstairs the first thing I saw was blood. It was running down the side of his head. I helped him to his chair. I ran to the kitchen, grabbed a clean towel from the drawer, and had him hold it in place. Then I grabbed a bunch of wet and dry paper towels to clean the blood off his head and hand and find out where it was coming from—fortunately, he had only three small cuts on his scalp. The fact that he had wet hair had made the blood run faster. I’m not squeamish, I don’t have the nurse gene, but I know first aid.

    I assessed his damage and made sure he was okay by asking him all the concussion questions. Then I asked him if he wanted me to run him to our doctor’s emergency center. He told me no, he didn’t need to go there. Once I him settled, and was certain he was doing fine, I poured myself a cup of coffee, sat down, and began to shake. Having had only about two hours of sleep my body rebelled at the shot of adrenaline his fall had given me.

    Right now, now that he’s safely in bed and asleep for the night, I’m angry, angry that there’s no real treatment out there for him. I’m angry that the research being done is spotty at best. I’m angry that although I do daily searches for any new drugs or clinical trials to help him nothing is out there except the same old same old.

    I love him dearly and it pains me to see him fall further and further down the rabbit hole. I’m not Alice, and even though I wish I could with all my heart, I can’t rescue him.