I just awoke from a dream. In it, I had been strolling lazily through a crowd of friends and family and strangers. We were all gathered under and around a sort of tin-roofed pavillion, that sat on a concrete pad, in a lovely green park by a river. As I was walking, an instrumental track of Ray Lamontagne’s “Jolene” began to play, and I began to sing. My voice reverberated under the pavilion, and it sounded beautiful –much more beautiful than when I actually used to sing the song.
Soon, people stopped chatting and milling about, and everyone began to listen to me, my voice booming out across the crowd. When I was done, the crowd went wild. People cheered and applauded and patted me on the back. My friend Ruben Gonzales came up and hugged me.
“So good to hear you sing again, brother! I always loved how you did that song!” He said.
“I can still pull it off sometimes!” I replied.
The crowd gathered ’round, and people hugged me, and I felt warm and loved and complete and whole.
Then I woke up, and my heart broke, because dream-Brian is a liar, and he does this to me frequently.
I can’t still do it sometimes, and I’ll never do it again. Neither can I run along the dusty trails of Area J, in Fort Bragg, North Carolina, ticking off easy miles on effortless jogs –another common lie he weaves for me in dreams. Nor can I sail boats, or stroll city streets, or cook lavish meals.
Most cruelly, Gloria will never reappear and whisper in my ear that it has all been a bad dream, and that she still loves me –a little fantasy that dream-Brian likes to trot out a few times a month.
I don’t blame the guy. Dreams are the only venue I have to experience normal human activities, and it only makes sense that he would continually return me to the things and people I have loved best. I know he’s not trying to break my heart. But, still, every time I wake up from one of these lovely little lies, it does.
It isn’t the dying that’s hardest, it’s the disability. It’s the loss of identity that occurs from having abilities and activities and relationships stripped ruthlessly away, until there is hardly anything left of yourself, and you are left alone to try and find a meaningful path forward in a life now devoid of meaning.
That’s the hardest part of all of this.
I don’t believe in any sort of heaven or afterlife, but if there is some part of my consciousness that persists, I hope it is in the reality I’ve concocted in my dreams, where I run miles easily, sing songs to rapturous applause, and feel the warm embrace of love once again. That is all the heaven I’ll ever need –a dream from which I don’t have to awake.