In the dream, I am fussing in front of an 18th century mirror that hangs above an elaborate console table in a hallway, and I am trying on pearls, cool to the touch, a long double strand with an exquisite closure, sterling I think, and a woman whom I don’t know stands at my side, willing to lend me these perfect pearls to go with a shorter strand of my own. She is nodding approvingly as I admire my reflection.
I seem to be a guest in some sort of stately mansion, or perhaps an inn that was once a private home, and as I move from space to space I am thrilled to be surrounded by Federal details — all classic proportions and simplicity of ornamentation. There is a fireplace in nearly every room, mantels with dentil moldings, floor-to-ceiling windows, and beautiful cloth-bound books filling soaring built-in shelves. This could be Beacon Hill. This could be Charleston.
As I stroll and explore, all pearls in place, my mother, I discover, is settled into a comfortable chair in front of a roaring fire in a magnificent room. She is alone, watching television. She looks up only briefly when I enter, and I ask, “Is this your den now?” “Yes,” she says, curtly, as if her presence in this place is to be expected and what, really, is my problem?
But this isn’t expected; she passed away years ago in front of the television in a different chair in a different den far less grand, and even in the dream I seem to know that something is amiss. But she is unconcerned, so I assume that everything is fine and I will take my dressed-for-a-party thirty-something self downstairs and enjoy this opportunity to socialize.
As I leave the “den,” I realize that I have a lover here somewhere, that he and I need to discuss our situation, and whatever is going on between us, its resolution holds no easy answers. I can’t quite put my finger on which of two men it may be that I am searching for, but neither is the man who will become my husband and I also seem to know that.
I wander the bedrooms to find him, whoever he is, wondering if he will be willing to have a child with me, and then I stop. Do I really want to have a child with him? Is now the time? Is this what I want right now — with anyone? In that moment, I know that I still have choices — my choices — not my mother’s choices and certainly not his. I suddenly feel lighter, stronger, independent. I also begin to process that time is a jumble, people are in the wrong place, and it occurs to me that I may be lucid dreaming. As the local news drones on in the background, louder now, I am certain of it, and fully aware that here, nothing hurts, every joint and muscle move joyfully, and I can linger in these gorgeous rooms and contemplate the future and fiddle with pearls and dismiss my mother’s indifference — as she dismisses my desire for something more between us — I try to hang on, to remain, to take in every sensation. But much as I yearn to stay in this pretty place in these pretty pearls in this extraordinary, “ordinary” state, it is impossible.
As I feel myself drifting up into consciousness, I stretch both legs beneath the comforter, and suddenly hot, throwing off the covers entirely, I stretch my legs again, awake now, bending first my right knee towards my chest, then flexing and lifting my leg, repeating this process on the left, and repeating the routine another few times so that when my feet hit the floor the pain will be tolerable.
I’m remembering my mother’s pain. In her back, in her legs. And I’m remembering the way I dismissed it.
I get up, wincing, turning off the television that I fell asleep to, glancing at my old alarm clock, and pleasantly surprised that I made it past 5 a.m. for a change. I follow my usual routine: I walk the long corridor to the kitchen where I brew my first small pot of coffee, impatiently, gulping down half of the large cup, black, brewing another pot as I walk a few steps to slump into an oversized red chair in the front room that faces the only decent view, sipping the remainder of my coffee more slowly now, cursing under my breath at the jabs and prickles in my back and limbs if I dare to shift my position, listening to the swoosh of tires as cars dash down the city street in early rush hour rain, an oddly comforting sound, and my cup empty, I wince again rising too quickly and padding back into the tiny kitchen where I refill my mug with French Roast.
Some mornings, I crawl back into bed onto a heating pad tucked behind my lower back, another wedged between the wall and a pillow behind my left shoulder, and sipping coffee, I take to my journal because it is not yet light and it feels like I have all the time in the world; or I pass on the journal and immediately log into one of my many devices, always nearby, then propped on my lap, ready to write or edit with the mental energy and focus I so love early in the day.
Other mornings, I pick the toile chair next to my bed and the radiator, and I settle in for a few hours, reminding myself to get up and move around every 30 minutes, or I settle back into the red chair in the front room as I do today, a cushion behind my back for support, noting a little less pain thanks to a little more sleep.
I try to finish a draft begun days ago but I cannot shake the dream and its strange scenes that remain so vividly painted — the sumptuous setting that delights my aesthetic affinity for Federal architecture and interiors; my mother, a few years younger than I am now, alive and well and as dismissive of me as ever; myself, in the prime of life when so many options remain possible, however complicated by the trade-offs they entail; the realization that the pearls I wore were not my mother’s, passed along to me after her death, a peculiar point of logic even for a lucid dream; the opulence of the strands that I did allow to grace my neck and my pleasure at feeling worthy of wearing them. More than any other impression, what stands out is the freedom in my own body, the wonderment of it, and my acute awareness of the absence of pain at 6:46 a.m.
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There is substance here to turn into a novel. Surely you have one in the works.
Is the PT doing you any good? You have to get yourself back. It’s like what Karl said about sweatpants–don’t give up!
As vivid and fabulous as your writing is here, it worries me that it comes from such a place of suffering.
Healthcare here is luck of the draw, a waiting game, a stream of phone calls and messages and more phone calls and more messages and hoping eventually you land someone who will take appropriate steps with adequate skills. And then there are the bills, even with each year’s new mystery insurance.
At a certain point in time, after years of it, you’re just beaten down.
This is especially tough for the solo 50 to 65 crowd because so many of us have been laid off, cannot get “employer relationship“ jobs any longer (age discrimination), consequently have no disability, are long off the unemployment rolls, and medical care is catch as catch can, either Medicaid or the latest available ACA plan or nothing — all of which is why if Medicare were expanded to this age group, or even the age group of 55 to 65, we could avail ourselves of proper medical care and at least to be able to continue as contractors or gig workers. Without that or something similar, we drop through the cracks and spiral down into poverty if we are not already there.
How in God’s name does this make any sense for the so-called richest country on the planet with its “booming economy“?