Dreams (written on Thursday, posted on Friday)

Dreams. I mean sleeping, not waking, ones. I find dreams confusing. I know that there is a whole philosophy to the interpretation of dreams, but I’ve never been that interested in determining what I can learn from dreams. Maybe I should, considering my dilemma. I think the thing that intrigues me the most is the people who make up the cast of characters that occasionally join me. People I have not seen in a long time, childhood friends for instance, suddenly and seemingly for no reason have a part in the unfolding drama. People I don’t even know—I have always called them dream extras—are there too.

Last night, my father came to me in my dream. My dad died almost two years ago, and from what I can remember, this is his third appearance. A trilogy. The last time my dad was in my dream, it was very real. I have no recollection of what our purpose was in the dream, but I clearly remember him looking at me—smiling at me—and telling me that he was okay. He was happy, he told me, and I shouldn’t worry about him. It was great seeing him that night, it really was. His image was vastly different than the last time my family and I saw him alive. He was in the hospital for six weeks for pneumonia, much of which he spent on a ventilator in a forced, sleeplike state. They paralyzed him with drugs because they were concerned that he would wake up and try to pull out the wires and tubes placed in his arms and down his throat. The machines and medicines were worse for him, in my opinion, than any other possible procedure. At least one that doesn’t result in death.

In between stints on the ventilator, my father was awake. I asked him if he remembered being asleep for ten days; if he dreamt while he was asleep. He came back to us a restless man. One would think being asleep for so long would have the opposite effect. He said he didn’t remember if he dreamt of not. He said he thought that maybe he heard us sitting with him, playing his favorite jazz tunes on my iPod. But he wasn’t sure.
The last two times my dad visited me in a dream, I immediately woke up and contemplated what happened. Contemplated, not analyzed. There’s a difference because an analysis would be too easy. Why did he tell me was okay? Simple. I was worried that he died unnecessarily and it bothered me. During the dreams, I have to keep reminding myself that what is happening is not real. In the dream, I tell myself I am dreaming. It’s a defense mechanism, I assume.

Last night, my father visited me in a dream. Why? Because it was my birthday and my mind knew, amongst all the calls, emails, ecards, and Facebook wishes, it was his words I wanted to hear.