Non-fiction / Journal Entry
May 28, 2005
It’s a dream I will never openly admit to having very often…ok, rewind.. I have to be honest when in recovery.. Okay..it’s a dream I have too fucking often..there, I said it. It’s the dream that I’ve had for a little over a year..the same dream, that wakes me up in a sweat…the same dream that I would pay good money to never have again. The same dream, that paralyzes me in fear…the same dream but it’s not the true version of the facts. It’s a gross interpretation of how my subconscious assumed it should have happened.
It’s always confused me how or why we dream..and why is the dream never exactly the way we remember? It’s never exact or precise really…our dreams are usually a misinterpretation…the outcome, most times…isn’t how we perceived it at all..but instead how we hoped it would end…
The elevator doors open…and I step out onto the 12th floor, the ICU unit. I can hear the phones ringing…the nurses attending other patients.. I know I’m in a hospital…I know where I am, and I know what’s about to happen, but I keep walking…past the sliding doors that lead me into the lobby, where the same couple is waiting to find out about their son. Seven years old…and his parents are anticipating surgery will be the answer to their prayers…seven years old, with a brain tumor the size of a small orange… I can hear the mother as she cries, and the father consoling her. As I walk past, I make eye contact with him…and just like all the other dreams, he smiles at me…he has this look of remorse, a look of regret possibly, I’m not sure.
I walk past the nurses station….and the same nurse greets me..tells me there still isn’t any change, and the doctor wishes to speak with me…..again….
I ignore her, of course..it’s my fucking dream….and right now, she can piss off.
What strikes me as unusual about my dream, is I am always alone.. where are the girls..they were with me, through all of this.. but not this time.
I keep walking..toward his room…toward the sound of that relentless beeping, the sound of air being pushed in and out of his lungs…
Walk past the other nurses who look at me with such pity..I almost want to smack ‘em… but my heart is breaking..so, no time to be vexatious or my usual self.
Almost to the door entry, I pause for a brief moment… As I walk in, to my left..two chairs, cabinets with a double sink..paper towel dispenser…a crucifix on the wall…a wreath hanging above it. A huge window, with a breathtaking view.. Vertical blinds that cover the window, mint green…I can see the color, vividly..it’s soothing, a calming effect almost. The curtains or valance…hangs half way..pistachio colored with a Celtic motif. Outside the window, you can look down and see the garden in the courtyard..it looks like a jumbo four leaf clover from the 12th floor. I stood many hours by that window, looking down…many hours listening..watching..hoping.
To my right….it’s almost like an amusement park at night…the lights, and sounds…the flashing red neon signs, with beeps for every win…or loss.. Ventilator, heart monitor, respiratory monitor, IV with three different bags, monitor to regulate body temperature, a monitor that shows brain wave activity…monitors to monitor the monitors.. And beep, beep, beep…beep… his heart.
In that brief instant…I wonder if I made the right decision, allowing Jim to donate his organs…we had to keep him on life support for three days, just to wait for the surgery. But I try to put that thought of my mind…. it’s time…
Time to grab my chair; pull it over to the right side of the bed…sit…
This is what I would do…lie my head on his leg…place his hand on my face..
It was the one part about him, that still felt alive to me…his hands.. they were warm..and still smelled like him. He still had dirt under his nails from working the morning he collapsed. Scar on his thumb from trying to be too frisky with Colt…
I sit, and breathe in the smell of his hand…watch the rise and fall of his chest.. listen to the beep, as his heart still beats..
This confuses me too…they’ve told me he’s dead, he’s no longer here, he’s not conscious of anything here..he’s brain dead. He will not wake up, he will not regain any consciousness what so ever.
But his hand moves, I can feel his fingers as they jerk..and the muscles in his hand slightly tense up..then relax again…
So if he’s dead, how does he move? Just a reflex they say..
How can he be dead, if his heart still beats? How can any person be dead…yet pump blood from heart to lungs …and back again…how can they be dead?
I know the answers to these questions..I know why..
But still I stay seated, my hand over his hand..my head on his leg..his hand on my face…
In my dream..he wakes up..and looks at me..with that cute little snicker he has..and says.. “I’m hungry..”
Not very romantic..no, but if you knew us…then you’d know that Jim, Robbie and food…went hand in hand.
And I wake up, heart beating like a wild animal…my hair wringing wet..sweat pouring down ..from my face..my chest..
And all I can do is cry.. I can’t go back to sleep..I can’t pray to God for any more relief..
As terrible as it is for me to admit it.. God can’t help me anymore..
I’m too angry at Him right now.. and He knows it.
I just wish the dream would go away..
I wish the fear would go away..
I’m tired of grieving over something that is finished..
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this is good, but i think you talk too much about the dream before you actually say much about it, besides how often you have it. besides that, i like it, it is very good. :)
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October 20, 2005
Deleted User
I like this story. The last quarter of it kind of falls apart a bit, though. I would tighten it and make it harder hitting. I would use more complete sentences and stay away from all the darned ellipses. They make for very difficult reading. Try other forms of pauses, like commas, semicolons, parentheses, and dashes.
Bless your heart! I am truly empathetic to your story. I keep having the same recurring dream about my own brother’s passing. I wish I could say that the grieving gets easier, but I think you know that I would be preaching to the choir. I wish I could say something to you to make the pain go away. This was a beautiful piece.
Wow. I was lost in your words reading this one…the description was captivating, holding me from the beginning to the end. You can read a fiction novel, and it might make you cry, might make you want the people in it to last longer than the pages let…but non-fiction…like this…does so much more. Impact, lasting impact, and overall emotional awe, makes me just want to say I’m sorry. If most anyone had told me this story in their words I would probably say, “I can’t even imagine”...but your words do enough to paint this terribly blue picture…thanks. I really mean it.
Wow. I really doubt you made this up; it’s so detailed. Excellent dream recall, but the way.
This has the beginnings of something more, a poem, maybe, but more likely a work of creative non-fiction.
If you did do that, though, the ending lacks something intangible. It’s real, very real, but lacks power.
The last few lines are incredible, remind me vaguely of some of the writing in Douglas Coupland’s Hey Nostradamus, which is a great book.
The writing itself is so honest, it’s heartbreaking. The only thing I would get rid of is the multiple ellipses. (...) After about the third time you use them they lose their effect completely.
October 18, 2005
Deleted User
I know that this is just a dream and all but why all the hostility towards the nurses? Just kidding. I was trying to cover up the awkward silence because I don’t know what to write. I don’t know what is going on in this dream Who’s Jim?
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