Dreams

What is the meaning of a dream?

Lily tells me that she believes that when her Daddy is in her dreams it is him communicating with her and letting her know he is sorry and he didn't mean to hurt her.

I don't subscribe to this theory but I'm glad that he is "telling" her positive things rather than what he is "telling" me in my dreams.

In my dreams Shawn is scary.  For one thing...he isn't supposed to be there.  He's dead. 

He is, isn't he??

There are some variations on the dream but they are never happy.

When he first died he would appear in my dreams and want to see the kids.  In this dream I am horrified and scared for them.  His anger and sickness are palpable and my fear is that they will be confused and hurt even more than they have been while processing his death.  And then my dreaming mind starts to think, "How can you be alive?"  And I start trying to get a glimpse at the side of his head looking for the bullet hole.  And sometimes I can see it...just a gaping hole through the side of his head as he insists on seeing the kids.

Lately he is just a threatening presence in my dreams.  Angry.  Sullen.  Refusing to talk.  Until he says something so caustic and scary like, "I should have shot you in the head."

I am a spiritual agnostic.  I do not believe in Heaven or Hell.  I don't believe in ghosts.  I do believe we have a soul and an energy that survives the death of our bodies.

Is this really what he wants to "communicate" with me?  Could it be that his spirit is still angry at me?  Did he keep his hatred of me after he died?

This is why I am somewhat speechless when Lily talks about her belief in dreams and her Daddy apologizing in them. I don't want her to know what he is saying in my dreams and I don't want to take away the comfort she is getting from believing.  And yet, I have to hold on to my belief that dreaming of someone who died is simply your brain trying to process your own personal fears and feelings. 

It is just too scary to think otherwise.

What It Was Like for Me the Day You Died - As submitted for publication...

What It Was Like for Me the Day You Died

“They found him. He killed himself.”

It is the evening of my 40th birthday. A birthday I’ve been dreading for months. Because 40 is old, right?

Our two kids are in the back seat laughing uproariously in that way only eight- and nine-year-olds can.

“They found him. He killed himself.”

As I hear those words come through the phone, the car crosses the bridge over the little creek near our house. It will be over a year before I can cross this bridge without reliving the moment of hearing that you, the father of my two children, my former husband of 15 years, had chosen that day, my birthday, to end your life.

Glancing in the rear-view mirror I viscerally understand . . . there is no way I can tell our  kids, “Your daddy died earlier today. Now sleep tight.”

Instead, I say, “Mommy isn’t feeling very well. She has a tummy ache and feels like she might throw up. When we get home I need you to get your jammies on right away and get ready for bed and then I will come read to you.”

And somehow, I do it.

I choke back the nausea. They need one more night of sleep. One more night to just be little kids. I smile – wan as it may be, read them bedtime stories and tuck them into bed, already calculating how many hours until I will be waking them to the news that they will never see their daddy again.

It is tonight that I will discover that 40 isn’t really that old.  But it turns out you can become ancient in just 11 hours.

The first few hours after the kids go to bed are busy enough that I can’t feel it happening. I have to call people and let them know.

But then it is bedtime even for the adults, and I am alone.

Pacing in the dark. Kitchen.  Living Room.  Bedroom.  Living Room.  Kitchen.  Living Room.

Looking at the clock. Looking away. Looking back.   Two minutes.  Five minutes. Thirty seconds.

What is a reasonable time to wake them both up?  Count again how many hours until I unburden myself from this horror.

And do what? Change their life?

And what choice do I have? The news is unavoidable and I have to be the one who delivers it.

Keep pacing. Keep moving.

At some point, I think I feel your presence. Rage fills me. “Get out!  You have no right to be here. Go away!” Your presence feels lonely, and I’m not going to be the one to comfort you or entertain your regret. I am the only one here for the kids now. You chose this.

Once exhaustion sets in, I become almost delirious. I know lying down to sleep would be futile, but I can’t keep walking anymore. Sitting next to the bed and resting my head on the edge is as close as I’ll get to sleep for another 24 hours.

And finally, the sun comes up, just as it does every day. At least as long as you’re alive to see it.

Our son is awake first. I call him into his sister’s room and we sit on the bed. It’s nothing unusual; we frequently do that in the mornings.  The kids are smiling with the anticipation of a new day.

It’s just the three of us there in the room. All in this together. I’ve decided at sometime during the night that your suicide will not define us.

And then I say it and it’s done: “I have something very hard to tell you. The hardest thing I’ve ever had to say. Your daddy died yesterday.”

The reaction is exactly as I imagined: wailing and looking at each other and at me with wide, questioning eyes. “Is this real?  What happened?”

I tell them.  It is the right thing for them to know the truth.

But there is still the part I can’t say. That I’m changed. I’m not just 40 years and one day old. When I stayed awake all night in order to keep them young for one more bedtime, I grew old. I don’t tell them that they're old now, too.

This is the true story of my 40th birthday.  I turned 42 this past August.