A running diary of dreams I've had of my mother since her passing.
Dreams of my mother are rare yet vivid. When my eyes jerk open from my slumber with a racing heart, I legitimately don't know if she's alive or not. As the grief coincidingly reawakens, I remind myself she's gone. It kills me to think the only time I will ever be face-to-face with my mother again is in my dreams.
I hope we're reunited in the next lifetime, whatever or however that looks like. I hope that as she holds me, the aching sorrow that's been stored in my body will vanish and I will know peace.
Monday, February 5, 2024
I walked into the dance competition dressing room with a familiar feeling of dread with all of my gear in tow. I schlumped down at a cafeteria table with no makeup on and my hair up casually.
I was clearly upset as I spoke sternly to my studio owner about my mother's absence due to the severity of her illness before her death. Then, all of a sudden, she was right next to me on the bench, advocating for me as she often did when it came to dance.
The only words I remember from the conversation are: "postmortem dying," referring to the time at the end of her life.
Sunday, December 10, 2023
At first, it was a brief glimpse of us in the family room just as we used to exist: her in the blue, ribbed, remote-controlled recliner chair and me laying on the leather gray, worn out, paralleled couch on the opposite side of the coffee table. She wore her pearl headband and a zippered jacket. As I vented about family drama, she listened.
Suddenly the scene changed to the hospital lobby. I was going to visit her on the day she died. The visitation line was too long for my little patience. I walked to the front, cutting other guests, declaring, "it's going to be too late." I don't know how I bypassed the front desk, but I made it through, free of a visitor's badge.
Then I was walking through the hospital. I ended up in the respiratory care wing when I asked a nurse for help to locate my mother. She looked up her name and graciously guided me to her bed in the next unit over, telling me that I would switch out with my dad for the next shift. I also saw her young daughter who she brought to work that day.
As the nurse drew the curtain back, my mom was sat upright in the bed as healthy as she could be. She was in a black dress, no machines, no wires, no cast or bandages. I walked up right next to her. She put out her hand to hold my face and I sobbed as I clasped onto her arm. I'm not sure if it was from relief, sadness, or the joy of being with her once more.
The sensation of weeping was so strong that I shed a few tears when I woke up.
Tuesday, November 22, 2022
My wedding.
I don’t remember who I was marrying, what my dress looked like, or any of the guests.
I rushed to a specific hotel room after the ceremony.
On the bed lay my mother dying.
I scooped her body into my arms, begging, “Stay. I need you.”
She was kissing my forehead and apologizing, telling me that it’s what she needed.
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