Dreams

For years I never had dreams worth remembering. Oh, the occasional nightmare as a child about "strangers," of which I had been well drilled in the dangers by my parents. But my sleep was easy and undisturbed. Patterns changed my last year of college. Suddenly I was waking constantly from dreams filled with unease and anxiety.

I had two recurring themes amid mostly unpleasant dreams.

One, where my teeth would fall our of my mouth in chunks. I could feel them crumbling before I spit them into my hand. This would usually occur in a social setting, like work or school.

Two, I discovered quite casually that I could breath underwater. I suppose this is a variation of the flying theme. These dreams were thrilling.

Chase family lore had several dream tales, most of which I've forgotten. But I remember my dad talking about seeing his grandmother by her bed the night before she passed. He woke up, saw her, and went back to bed. When she was discovered in her home, she was wearing the dress he saw.

I dreamt the night before my dad died. I knew he was getting sicker. I did not expect him to survive, although how long it would take was unknown. David was flying out to be with him. In my dream, Dad looked young and healthy, like I remember from childhood. My dad at his very best, before disease and addiction took over his body. His hair was dark. He wore a black t-shirt and khaki pants. We were talking. People were going to come over to talk about him.

"They need to figure out what to do. I don't know what to do."

I walked over to my dad and wrapped my arms around him. Dad was sitting, and I stood over him with my arms around his shoulders. I rested my chin on his head.

"It's OK Dad. I love you. You can go."

I woke sitting straight up in bed. David called me 20 minutes later, to say Dad was on life support in the ICU and the family was talking about what to do. He died later that afternoon.

I still dream about my dad. I like to think he's visiting me. In my dreams, we both know he's dead, but we rarely say anything about it.

Jerry sent us a letter by Jeff, who just lost his wife, Sarah. He shares with her the last moments of her life. In this fashion, he generously allows her friends and family to share in that as well.

The morning before you died I had a dream. You were in a new body and you were on a green hillside in the sunshine. You were marveling at the beauty of your new hand. Then you just laughed and started dancing. You finally got the new body you so longed for in this life. It is a beautiful, whole body and it is eternal.

Perhaps he was visited as well. I like to think so. Maybe he does, too.