Dreams . . .

A few days before Easter, I had a dream about Bob, a beautifully complicated dream about which I won't go into details, except for the ending. I had my arms around Bob's neck, I could feel him, just as if he were alive and well, I could touch the exact lines of his neck, his silky hair in my hands, everything about him was so real, I couldn't believe it's been two and a half years since I last held his whole, healthy body next to mine, without causing excruciating pain, without cancer. That Bob died over two years ago, the Bob I have yet to mourn, still so buried beneath the trauma of his illness. In the dream, my head is on his chest, I am sobbing. "I miss you so much, I want you here with me, I can't do this by myself any more. . ." He just held me, saying over and over quietly, "I am here Jen, I am always here with you, I will never leave you." His voice was so soft and soothing, so full of love. But of course, being of pathetically earthly mind and body, I had to argue with him, crying even harder, "But you're not here with me—I can't see you, I can't feel you—this, right now, this isn't real!" He just held me, stroking my hair, allowing me to cry and carry on, saying softly, "I'm always here for you, I'm always here . . . " When I woke, my pillow was soaked with tears.

Dali's The Burning Giraffe

I've had several such dreams of Bob, each time, I wake myself with my own crying. I never had such vivid dreams before Bob died—wait—I take that back. Often, my dreams are vivid, but not in a linear, literal, message-delivering kind of way. Usually, they'd give a Hunter S. Thompson novel a run for its money (sorry for the lame wikipedia link—it was the best I could do in short time), without the aid of hallucinogens . . . there is never a story line, and often involve random, Salvador Dali-esque settings with talking goats, peeing in public, or my teeth falling out . . . my recent vivid dreams aren't frequent, maybe once every several months or so. At this point on this f'n journey (F'NJ, for short), a dream about Bob mostly feels like a form of torture—to see him, hear his voice, physically feel his beautiful, whole, well body, and then wake up empty-armed leaves an oppressive heaviness with me that lasts for days, reminding me, with deep clarity—this is my life now. Without Bob. A tiny part of me feels comforted by the dreams, and I hope in time, I'll open myself even more to that peaceful comfort, and to the possible meaning and messages behind them.

By now, I could write a nice little volume about Bob dreams—some that I've had, some that family members have experienced—nearly all with the same message: "I am always here with you, I'm healthy and whole again, you know this, don't you?" But right now, they are at once, confusing and precious, cryptic and sacred. I shared this one, only because it was so recent, had such an impact and that maybe in time, in a future blog, I can expand on these in more depth and detail . . . I do find it beautifully ironic, that the least religious, yet most spiritual, person I have personally known, would come to me in a dream, just before Easter, with a message of eternal life and love. I know that some, at best, may dismiss all of this as cuckoo for cocoa puffs, and at worst, be completely offended, but I guess that's not my problem, just sharing what I know right now. My hope is that more will find the beauty in the ethereal connection we all have with our loved ones—those who share this earthly life with us as well as those who have passed, that life doesn't end with death . . . I'm still wrestling with so many pieces to the puzzle—so many intricate facets to every relationship, the journey doesn't follow a linear path, doesn't follow anyone's path, anyone's prescription, no one can really, truly tell anyone else how it is . . . unique as a freakin' snowflake, we all are which just adds to the astoundingly confusing impressively infuriatingly, and sometimes brilliantly stunning nature of the journey. If only there was a specific recipe to follow, would make this whole damn thing so much easier . . .

Gibbons are scary.

So, on the topic of dreams (yea! for staying "on theme" for once!! Therapy might be working!), my sister, Jill, called this morning to tell of a horrible dream she just had about me being attacked by a gibbon. Not a plain ol', generic, run-o-the-mill monkey, not a boring textbook ape, but specifically, a gibbon. Yea, WHT??!! was my first response, too. I actually had to Google it as she was telling me this, to verify that it indeed is a monkey-like creature. Anyhoosies, in the dream, she, Bob and I were walking down a street when suddenly this gibbon (makes me giggle, just typing that) comes out of nowhere, grabs me, hauls me up into an abandoned bus up a hill, and starts beating the daylights outta me, I was crying, trying hard to fight back; Bob and Jill could see the gibbon and me through the bus windows as the killer monkey continued to maul me, but couldn't get to me, they could only watch from a distance, helplessly horrified . . . Eventually, I somehow got away from the vicious simian (learning and growing in vocabulary, peeps, thanks to Hamline University), to safety, Bob held me as I cried, trying to explain to them the terrible ordeal, showing them my cuts and bruises . . . Everyone was bewildered at what had just happened . . .

Jill was mortified by the dream, but I was laughing, a lot. During the telling of the tale, I had to have her repeat much of it because my laughter kept interrupting her. Jill finally said, "What the hell is so funny, Jen?! It was awful, just awful! You were being beaten so badly, and all we could do was stand there and watch! It was horrifying, it felt so real—all of it—Bob was there, as real as anything, he was his old self, whole and healthy again, but neither of us could do anything to help you—what could it possibly mean?!" I said, "Are you kidding?!? It's so obvious! It means I must never go to Como Zoo again!" Just kidding, peeps. I actually said, "Are you kidding?!? That monkey is grief, Jill! I've been trying so hard, without success, to come up with just the right metaphor, but you and your gibbon beat me to it . . ."

Grief is an ambushing gibbon (wouldn't that make a great bumper sticker?), impervious to anyone's efforts but the one going through it. No one can do this for me, not even Bob. It's my own journey and a tough one it is. But we can be here for each other, to help pick up the pieces, and continue on. I am so close to my family, and all adored Bob, became so intertwined with his ordeal, deeply affected by his illness and death, as well; but it's still astounding that they, too, would have such intense dreams relating to his ordeal. The interconnectedness of humankind is mind-boggling . . . well, that, and my sister is a natural born worrier, as natural to her as breathing. Believe it or not, she has an even worser case of worstcasescenarioitis than I do—in that respect, I'm not surprised she would have such a dream. She takes on the world's problems, adding them to the already heavy load she carries, feels very deeply for others' struggles . . . But I'm no dream analyst—maybe it meant something else entirely. Still, what an amazing analogy, regardless—that grief does appear so violent and dangerous at times, it feels like a vicious battering. By a gibbon. And how amazing that Jill's subconscious mind picked up on my grief so vividly and accurately, as well as the helplessness of loved ones surrounding the one grieving, too . . . grief is astoundingly universal, but we don't always know it, because it's often a hidden journey . . .

The monkey could also represent what those who practice mindfulness/medication call "monkey mind," referring to the incessant chattering, inattentive, overactive worrying, fretting, giving in to doubts and fears of our mind that we all engage in from time to time, but can be especially pronounced when processing a huge loss . . . the really funny thing about Jill's dream came about when I called my mom to tell her about it. She listened intently, astounded at Jill's perceptive story, as well. Later in the day, my mom called me back, and said, "Jen, when you told me about Jill's dream, I kept thinking, 'why does the word gibbon sound so familiar?' Later, it dawned on me—the doctor who delivered you was named Dr. Gibbon!" Seemingly random, but it could easily be entwined into the dream meaning, as well . . . the cool thing about dreams—so many facets, layers, symbolisms, one could spend days picking just one dream apart . . . of course, it doesn't help that I just spent the past week reading and analyzing a collection of short stories by Argentinean writer, Jorges Luis Borges, who delighted in concocting wildly bizarre labyrinth-ical stories that blurred fact with fantasy . . . holy hell, that's enough thinking for one day, and it's only 9 am. . .