Nightmare

​ Last night I had a dream my son died. It was horrid. I suddenly regained full empathy for my children, on those nights when nightmares send them into crying fits.

I love my boy so much, and it ripped my heart out experiencing him suddenly being taken away from me. I know I didn't actually experience it, but in the night, in the emotional purging through imagination, I did experience it.

What's more, I hated how familiar it all felt.

I experienced (and remembered experiencing in the past) the initial onset of shock. I remembered the part where the family who was present shut down their own emotional reaction in order to aid me in mine. I remembered the steps that would need to follow: calling the mortuary (that word send me into weeping just from typing it now), alerting family, planning ways to honor him and celebrate him, even through the suffering agony of losing him.

What wasn't as familiar was the one silver-lining (if you can call it that without mocking or underestimating the utter greyness of despair; it may be better to call it a "slightly-lighter-grey lining"): in my dream, I realized that my son would be with my husband. I thought: now the boys are together on one side, and the girls are together on the other. (In the dream, I hadn't married my current, living husband yet, so I didn't have the comfort of him on this side.)

Still, I resented (resent) the veil that separates us.

It seemed so real. I felt so lost. I wanted my son so badly.

Suddenly, I was aware of my husband, Billy, moving me around in my bed. (Apparently I was asleep in a very uncomfortable looking position, and he was trying to make me more comfortable.) Instantly, I realized I had been dreaming and that I wasn't at a terrifying place, mourning the loss of my son. I was in my home, with my family. I knew exactly where my boy was and how he was doing. I didn't even feel the need to check. But I did feel the need to weep more.

My sweet, loving earthly companion held me in his arms while I cried. I told him about my dream. He had told me a few days ago when I had a hard moment that he knows and expects that October will always be hard for me. This year it marks the second anniversary of my eternal companion's passing through the veil of mortality. Brandon died October 29, 2016, on his 28th birthday. (Sometimes I just feel the need to state that fact/set of facts. I don't know why it feels so therapeutic, and I don't care to conjecture about the "why" right now, even though I know I could probably write an entire book on that alone.)

I think Billy and I both knew this dream was an October dream. We didn't say it, but we could feel it.

I was so infinitely grateful to wake up to the truth: that my son is alive and well. I was so relieved that none of the stress of losing him was needed anymore. And yet, I knew that once upon a time, I had a nightmare just as heart-wrenching, from which I never woke up. The stress and grief of losing Brandon isn't as stabbingly painful anymore. Now, the hope drowns out the hurt most days. But that dream about losing my son reminded me of how crippling, crushing, and all-consuming the initial period of loss is. I pray for relief for all those who face that pain. Ever. In any layer of experience - even in dreams! It hurts. so. badly. I pray that if they ever come your way, that the nightmares be as fleeting as possible. I pray that if you can't wake up from it yet, that the hope carry you through. And I pray that some day we all wake up to a life more glorious than any dream we have yet to experience, even in our wildest imaginations.