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He comes to me in my dreams. “Mommy.” He’ll say, and I’ll turn, surprised and happy beyond all measure to see him again. “Don’t be sad.” He’ll murmur, as I cry and try to grasp a hold of him. “I am okay; I am with God.” “But I miss you!” cry out, my heart straining to capture this moment and to make it last. “I will always be with you.” He tells me. “Don’t leave.” I manage, choking on the bitter truth that we will not be together like this until God deems it time. “I have to go.” He says, “I love you.” In an instant I flash through the years from the
moment of his birth; the joy of brining him home, the little dirty faced
boy he was, to frustrated fights over homework, mountain bike rides he
loved so much My husband dreams of my son also, and tells me that when he sees him in his dreams, they have talks and discussions. “I know he is dead,” my hubby tells me, “in my dreams, and he knows he is too.” He sighs. “I wake up really peaceful after those dreams; I really look forward to them.” The dreams, to me, amplify all that is wrong with my life. I should NOT have to go to sleep to see my children- they should be the constant source of my daily existence. I should be fussing at them to clean their rooms, do their homework, wash their hair better, or, ideally, just to hold and love. I am embittered that I have to wait for sleep to visit my son; saddened that it is all I have left of him on this earth. The therapists, when they talk to us about losing a child, tell us that it has not even yet begun; the pain, and that we are still firmly in the denial phase of the post-trauma existence that is our new, sad life. My husband and I look at each other, stunned to hear that there is more pain beyond this, that we are somehow not yet at the pinnacle of an unimaginable tower of pain. We shake our heads, no, no, no, please, we cannot take anymore, but no one offers us any other choices. So we turn to our dreams. Ironically, we cannot sleep. We have not slept a full night since the day our son died, though both of us would tell you we are tired beyond all measure. Night comes with a mixture of relief and sorrow we have made it through another day- we have lived another day without our boy. Weeping seems insufficient; not enough for the momentous agony. Dry-eyed, we fight to sleep- fail- and when exhausted, succumb and pray to see his face. When it happens, my husband is filled with momentary happiness and peace because he has reconnected with Carrick, while I, for my part can’t decide if I can bear the pain. Again, no choices are given. We either are graced with his presence, in our dreams, or we are not. We are told, by other parents who have survived (for surely that is all you can do) such tragedies as our own, that in time, the pain will be lessened and we will find a “new normal.” We greet this news with the jaded humor of one who has no control- we either will find this new normal, or we will continue in the fog-filled painful world that has become our own. For now, we have our dreams. “Don’t go.” I plead, every time he comes to me in my hard-won sleep. “Don’t go.” My arms reach for him and he slips, slips further away from my outstretched arms. “I love you.” He mouths. I roll and turn, trying to recapture the dream that will reunite us temporarily until God brings us together at last. Peace is evasive for me, but I know that one day we will be together at last and my heart will be restored when I hold him in my arms and know that this time it is not a dream.
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