Of dreamers and dreams

Four a.m. Someone, something throws water on my face trying to wrestle me back into consciousness. It stings but I do not fully awaken, only enough to be aware of what is playing out. My body lies still, paralyzed in either fear or anticipation of what is to come. I watch in horror as my babies slip through my fingers into a rushing river, the love of my life disappears inside a savage tornado, a gun is pointed to my head and the trigger pulled over and over and over sending shock waves through each molecule in my being. The only thing I can register as reality is the sweat these scenes generate, soaking my bed sheets until I shiver under the weight of its dampness.

What is a dream? Why do we have them? I’ve heard they are our subconscious seeking ways to sort out our underlying fears and frustrations. The players in the dream simply represent part of ourselves that we are unable to come to terms with during waking hours. Reliving past hurts or joys under rapid eye movements. I have a cursory awareness of what Freud and Jung thought regarding them but after reading a few paragraphs, my head starts to spin. Some cultures believe dreams represent symbols to tell the future or our struggles in an altered plane of existence. Recent theorists now lean more toward their meaninglessness than anything else – random visions created by random stimuli before dozing off.

Mostly, they frustrate the fuck out of me.

The room is shadowed in late evening sun. There is a piano and smell of lilacs. We are dancing. Holding one another in a tender embrace that is of pure light. He sings a song gently in my ear, words I know I will recognize upon awakening when they are played on the radio. We laugh and touch as two old souls who chose to walk an ethereal plane while others merely close their doors. It is not sexual, it is a deep knowing closeness that we share. The light gets brighter. It always does. And the music turns into an electronic beeping ripping us away with barely the time to whisper goodbye until we can find each other again.

I want some of my dreams to have significance and true meaning for my awakened soul. Others, I want to forget and give into their nothingness. Can I have it both ways? Of course, I can do anything I want. The battle lies somewhere in between as my inner hall monitor waves her red flag, screaming “You have to chose! You have to chose!”

The history of me has been riddled with nightmares – true, baffling, body-thrashing, involuntary shrieking and a forceful cleaving into rapid consciousness. Images of dead relatives rising from their coffins as I try to bash their skulls back down with a sledgehammer. Desperate chases as someone has taken my child from me and I cannot rescue them before they are lost over a bridge into a flood. The worst are the dreams where I am dreaming of being in bed asleep only to be awakened in the dream by one of these horrors. Distinguishing the line between dream and reality becomes much too difficult for my brain to determine until it is too late and I am writhing in mental anguish, praying for the end to come quickly or the sun to wake me.

There are great dreams, too, where I fly through the skies and know I was meant to. I dream of reading my inauguration poem for the nation on a beautiful, crisp day in Washington DC. Riding whales and horses, holding very old hands with my husband and traveling to distant lands I might not ever get to see when I am awake. I have dreams with my familiar on journeys fantastical or snuggling comfort where the gentle purring echoes long passed awakening. Or the miracle life growing inside of an empty space where my uterus used to be.

The long studied, over analyzed and clearly undefinable classic human conflicts – accepting the desired good with the perceived bad, embracing the dark while living in the light, giving to receive, receiving to give, taking a risk in order to be safe, coke versus pepsi, if it’s okay to go, then it’s okay to stay, less filling or great taste, honoring the flag through civil disobedience, opposites attracting, “to be or not to be” and an entire universe fitting within the nucleus of a single atom.

All of these are in us as humanity – in me as part of that larger family.

Is this what I dream of?

Or am I dreaming right now?

I am driving down a dirt road and see him walking in a crowd of people. He is sobbing and lost. I pull over to talk to him and he tells me a story I cannot bear to hear. Or repeat. I fly into a rage and try to determine if I am awake or asleep. He turns into cake as I rip him apart yelling no, no, no. I lash out at the world trying to make sense of it all. My body rolls over and I see the clock. Four a.m.

Untitled Post because I just don’t know…

I have always wanted to be a mom, to have babies. When I was a little girl, I used to dream of getting married and having four babies – two boys and two girls. I had some names picked out like Christopher Richard and Anastasia. My sister and I used to pretend we were having babies (i.e., in “labor” – when you’re about six or so, who knew it wouldn’t be “fun?”) with our Baby Tenderlove dolls. It is one of the few memories I have from our house in San Antonio.

EvenĀ  my dreams of being a famous actress came in second to being the world’s greatest, most loving and ultimately cool Mom. I would imagine myself onstage accepting my Tony Award and looking down at my children in the front row, dedicating the award to them, telling them how much I loved them and was so glad they were my true life.

The greatest part of that dream has come true – I am a Mom. I have two beautifully amazing children – one boy, one girl – about nineteen months apart. They are currently nine and eight. As far as being the penultimate parent? Well, you’ll have to ask my kids about that (but not today, as I am a bit grumpy). And, no, there is no Tony Award in my near future. (still holding out hope to work that in someday…)

Why am I writing this? Good question. I don’t know other than why do I write about anything here but to wrench out some meaning behind feelings, dreams and/or occurrences in my life. And hormones. I may have written a few times about those. ;0)

I have been having dreams lately about being pregnant again. Just last night I dreamed of myself with a full, round belly excited at the prospect of another child. One of those surreal dreams where I could almost touch the stretched, smooth surface and feel the baby moving inside. I was also heating cinnamon rolls and lettuce via a refrigerator toaster oven while my entire extended family gathered around a large table. It was an odd dream.

Odd especially because – not sure why it matters, but feel the need to state it – I am 41. I haven’t tried to get pregnant for, well, about nine years now. My husband had the v-snip about four years ago to ensure our family size maintained its status quo. I agreed to and even had to legally sign-off on that decision way back then. Getting pregnant again has long been out of the picture for me.

And, oh yea, one other thing – I had a hysterectomy about a year and half ago. I may still have my ovaries, but due to the fact that it was on its way to falling out and I needed other reconstructive surgery to repair damage during childbirth, I have no uterus for a womb. My tubes have been shut off to any egg deliveries and there is no cervix to dilate. In short (which, I know, is not possible for me), I am no longer a physically functioning instrument of human reproduction.

There. I’ve said it.

Then why the dreams? Why the twinge of heartache when I feel whatever eggs I have left being expunged into the empty cavern where my uterus used to be? Am I doubting a decision that is irreversible? The time for that was nearly two years ago. Could it be that I fear my track record so far as a Mom and would like a do over? Is it grief – still? If so, how does one properly grieve a uterus? Should I have kept it and buried it under a budding tree as a way for it to continue it’s sole purpose of supporting fetal development?

I have actually wondered what happened to it. I was, of course, under general anesthesia and have no freaking clue what went on after I was wheeled into the operating room other than to comment about all the massive amount of stuff they had in there. I felt so calm that day, so sure it was all going to be all right.

And it is.


My body is different – feels different. I have residual pain from one of the other surgeries they performed that day which doesn’t help matters and can get debilitating if I am not careful. Though, it is nice not having to worry about when I can go swimming or plan a vacation around a 28-day cycle.

And yet…(think long pause – like the one in Aliens where Sigourney Weaver’s cigarette ash was two inches long…)

So, now that I’ve reached the end of the blog arc, what’s my usual conclusion that I can pull into my psyche all wrapped up in a curly-q bow in order to move forward and find some peace about my withdrawn uterus?

Unfortunately, all I’ve come up with is this haiku.

Altered instrument ~
What life can I produce now?
Spring winds move the trees.