Dear readers,
I'm sure you'll be surprised to know that I've had very few dreams of my late husband. To be fair, I've had very few dreams that I remember at all, so maybe I've had more dreams of him than I realize.
I wish very much that I would dream of earlier, healthier days, or even later days but healthy, or perhaps have visions of him enjoying life in Heaven; however, that just hasn't been the case so far. Perhaps that is because the disease process took a long time and stole such a large chunk of our lives.
Early this morning, I dreamed that he was still at home, and I was caregiving. Our daughter was here with us, helping me care for him as she did regularly, God bless her! I was being patient, understanding, gentle, kind. But he was angry, confused, agitated, mean, sundowning. Because this was a dream, I was able to see the situation through the eyes of retrospect and remained calm; whereas, in real life, the situation would have been very upsetting to me.
He turned and raged at our daughter, and I could see how incredibly hurt she was as she turned away from him and muttered, "Go to h*ll." Those words felt like an icy knife to my heart. I know that she would never, ever say such a thing in reality, but I can completely understand why she might have wanted to sometimes. It was a very difficult thing for the children to go through, too, and they each had to deal with it in their own way.
Needless to say, I awoke in tears. Obviously, the stress and trauma of the caregiving years is still being processed in my subconscious, and I am working out the stages of grief. I go back and forth with those, as most people do, one moment accepting, the next moment disbelieving, or angry, then accepting again, then regretting something, missing him, crying. It's one thing to know he's gone; it's another to really believe it. One day, I will have a beautiful dream of camping with my beloved beside a quiet lake in the mountains, gazing at the night sky full of stars together.
But, apparently, not yet.
- Me
