Visits

A few weeks ago, in the midst of my deadline push, I had a dream. I don't remember the subject of the dream. I don't remember anything about it except that my dad was there.

When my dad died six and a half years ago, I was a mess. C had been out of the hospital exactly a month and we'd each just completed our first full weeks back at a school and work, respectively. The whole family was tired, emotionally and physically. We were just wiped.

When the phone rang that night, I knew when my brother said my name what had happened. Hell, I think I knew before that, when the phone rang. Several weeks before C got sick, I remember thinking to myself, "Wow, Dad is really getting older. He's 78 now. He could go any time." I never, of course, expected it to be so soon. I'd just gotten back to writing him my weekly letters, and hadn't had the phone number of the latest nursing home to even call him. I don't know, still, if he ever received that last letter I wrote, the one where I let him know that his grandson, the one named after his beloved little brother, was going to be okay.

My brother, sister, and I never had any closure with dad before his death. Dad's wife kept his pneumonia and deteriorating health from us even though she knew it was bad. I would have been on the next plane had I known, even as fragile as I felt from C's ordeal. My brother and sister would have walked through fire, too, to be there. I know forgiveness is necessary in one's life, but I'm still struggling with forgiveness for this act by Dad's wife. I don't think I hate the woman (though I never did like her), but I truly don't understand how someone can be so heartless.

Anyway, we all went out for the memorial service and surrounding dysfunctional insanity and ridiculousness that is always a key feature of my family's gatherings. It was good to be there for my dad, but in so many other ways, it was just awful. Awful. If I were to tell you some of what went on with the wife and my dad's half-sister, your jaw would drop. It's barely speakable.

I became pregnant with S a couple of months later; I spent the last half of the summer a walking disaster. I don't do pregnancy well to begin with, and combined with the fallout from almost losing C and grief on so many planes and...well, it wasn't a pretty sight.

Unlike my previous pregnancies, my dreams were vivid when I was pregnant with S. Every night. Technicolor. Detailed. Some made sense, some didn't. I had many early dreams that featured a baby girl - and none that featured a baby boy - so when the ultrasound tech wrote "XX" on the screen at my 18 week developmental ultrasound, I wasn't all that surprised. I just thought, oh, my dreams were right.

Shortly thereafter, I had a dream about my dad.

In my dream, my dad was his older self, but he was active and with it. He was not encumbered by Parkinson's disease. His voice was not slurred, his movements were normal, his face had expression, and his hearing was fine. He was smiling.

The other people that were there were interesting. There was this woman who I think was named Nancy. It was a woman I met in real-life once, many years ago, when I traveled with my dad to some meeting. This woman was one of the organizers of that meeting; she was gregarious and genuine - and just the kind of woman I would have expected my dad to end up with (but clearly didn't). She wasn't a "trophy" wife. She was just a cool woman. I can still remember what this woman was wearing and her manner when I met her all those years ago.

Also there were two of my cousins, the sons of my dad's half sister. But they weren't adults. They were young kids, ages I never would have known them at. They were still innocent in this dream - it was before they were completely fucked over by their mother and father. (I refer to them here.)

My brother was there, and my sister was somehow present, but I didn't see her.

In the dream we were all sitting around a table, except for Nancy, who was up and down and around. My cousins were actually fun to be around. They were smiling and impish. They each had crew cuts. (Now I don't want these cousins to know where I am.)

My dad kept telling me, "I'm okay. I'm okay." He was almost smiling, and his eyes were clear. He really meant it.

After that dream, I felt better about his death. Not completely, but I wasn't as torn up about it as I had been - not at total peace but not so worked up. I've always thought that dream was Dad visiting me to let me know that he really and truly is in a better place.

I didn't feel creeped out or anything after that dream. I felt relief. And I hoped Dad would visit me in my dreams again sometime. He didn't until recently, until that dream I can't remember.

I've missed him a lot through the years, of course. He'd get such a kick out of my kids, especially M, I think. He'd dote on S. He'd tear up every time he saw C (as he did before he got sick, just saying C's name would do that). Every time I'd visit, he'd remark on my relative paleness - a result of the East Coast life of a Southwest native. He'd continue to remark that I should have gone to law school. He'd have huge respect and affection for my husband.

There have been times I have been sure we'd have an argument over this or that - politics mostly. There are plenty of things he'd criticize, and other things I'd take too personally. We'd still be sparring over the "Bake him a pie" comment. I'd still get annoyed every time, when there'd be discord among the siblings, he'd say, "I just wish everyone would get along!"

I've wondered what he'd think about how I've become involved in school/town issues. I wonder what he would say about the book - especially since I haven't yet told my family anything about it. I wonder what he'd say about my trying to get back to printmaking. I wonder if he thinks I'm getting it right with the kids.

I wonder if that dream I had recently was just to let me know he's still around. Maybe the content of the dream isn't as important as just knowing he's around.

Still, I hope he visits again.