Good evening, dear reader. I hope this post finds you well. It has been an interesting week for me, but I find that to speak or to write about much of it is difficult. Nevertheless, I shall try.
This has been a week of dreams. I’m sure that this is not uncommon – I know that I dream nightly – but I find that I have remembered more of my dreams this week than in any recent time. For any of the comparisons to make sense, I need to give you a baseline of the nature of my usual dreams. I have always had vivid dreams, alarmingly real to me (even when the content is completely incredible), and usually very narrative in structure. I suppose that this is one manifestation of my desire to be a storyteller. I first dreamed in color when I was six years old; prior to that, all my dreams had been either black-and-white or text-based. Yes, text-based, like reading a book or playing Zork.
My first color dream started out in black-and-white. My family and I were in Moscow, fleeing from (I believe) KGB agents. Do note that this was 1983 or thereabout, so the Soviets were still a looming threat at the time and were fantastic fodder for a child’s imagination. We ran across Red Square – an accurate recreation of Red Square I eventually learned (how did I know what Red Square looked like, you ask; good question, and one to which I do not have a satisfactory answer) – under the cover of night and made our way into the sewers. In the wetworks, we sloshed through a series of tunnels, talked our way past several checkpoints (of course I did the talking, who else would?), and were given scuba gear by a helpful maintenance technician who was cleaning the tunnels. We eventually submerged ourselves and began swimming as fast as we could through a long, dark tunnel. When the tunnel ended, everything around me burst into color. I was surrounded by rainbows of fish dancing through blue water. The sun shone into the water from above, and I knew that we had escaped to the Caspian Sea. I swam effortlessly with the bright schools of fish for several minutes before drifting to the surface, where I found mu family waiting for me in a small boat. I climbed in, and we headed for shore. The dream ended before we made landfall. So vivid were all the colors of that dream that I still remember every detail of it to this day.
That is a fairly common example of what my dreams are like. They are stories; they are fantastic and terrible. They transpire in space, on farms, in huge cities, in the past, the present, and the future. And they are real. When I am dreaming, they are as real to me as any moment of my waking life.
So this week was odd. The first dream that I remember from this week was not a story. Or perhaps it was, but one decidedly light on plot. It was more of a musical review. A one-man musical review, and that man wasn’t me. I have a good friend whom here I shall call Grandpa – for reasons that those who know him will understand – who at times seems to enjoy the role of playfully dirty (old) man. He is also a very talented thespian, so I suppose it was not overly shocking to see him in vaudevillian attire doing a softshoe routine across an unfamiliar stage. What was truly odd was that – and I’m not sure how I know this – the year was 1904, and I was the only member of the audience. Further, the songs he sang were often anachronistic, most notably the Andrew Lloyd Webber pieces that he chose. And then there was the drum solo. . . Anyway, not the normal fare for dreams that I remember.
The second dream that I remember from the week was decidedly more narrative in structure and complicated in plot. It involved time travel and an organization of investigators who track criminals through history. It was a bit like The X-Files meets Where in Time is Carmen Sandiego?. I won’t give away too much of the story since I may actually try to write it down someday as a short story; suffice it to say, there was intrigue, danger, and a good deal of fun. What really made this dream interesting, though, was that it continued over two nights; the second night simply picked up where the first left off. I don’t recall very many episodic dreams in the past; actually, I only remember it happening once before. So this was a decidedly unique dream in that regard.
Aside from dreams, this week has brought an interesting array of physical conditions. I am medicated for the cough that simply refuses to go away, but on one occasion a few days ago as I was dozing, I coughed hard enough to force the entire tracheostomy apparatus out of my throat. I came to due to the odd sensations I had as I breathed. My fingertips drifted across my exposed throat, which was mildly disconcerting, so I stepped to the bathroom because I needed a mirror. Before reinserting the tube, I noted for a brief moment the perfect circle of blackness that sits casually two inches above my supersternal notch. While changing the inner cannula of the trach is already a rare visual experience, the whole of the apparatus disappearing into my throat is even more so. This is the second time that I have had to reinsert the device; the first occurred perhaps a month ago. I coughed while changing the collar that holds the apparatus in place; the force caused it to pop out then. That time, I did not hesitate or take time for any examination; I immediately reinserted the tubing. This time, I was less panicked. It is actually very interesting to study. On some level, I am hoping that I am not under general anesthesia during the procedure to remove the apparatus permanently.
A further unusual physical occurrence was that I became quite ill one afternoon after lunch and vomited up what felt like everything I had “eaten” that day. Through my entire regimen of chemotherapy and radiation, I never once became that sick to my stomach. I’m still not sure what caused it. To complicate matters further, I was at work when this happened. That was delightful, let me assure you. Oh, and the vanilla faux-food is thoroughly repulsive in reverse. Fortunately, it is almost time for another shipment of nutrition and supplies. I’m going to try to talk the company into providing at least some chocolate this time around.
Well, dear friend, I must now sign off. I have taken so long to pen this entry that it is now Day Eighty-Eight, and I am exhausted. I think that – as updates have become less frequent mostly because there is simply not much to tell on many days – I need to redesign my entry titles. Perhaps I shall find something thematic to use. I will, however, try to write more often that I have been lately. I am working to correct my anemia; hopefully this will give me more energy.
Until next time, dear readers, take care of each other.
In music, in the sea, in a flower, in a leaf, in an act of kindness… I see what people call God in all these things.
- Pablo Casals
