Last night I had the worst dream. Ever.
I don’t remember dreams that well, but when I do, They get filled with a fog as thick as San Francisco’s. But not this one. This one woke me up in a cold sweat and stuck. I wish it hadn’t.
I was in a room, staring at the wall. The wall turned green and then a window opened up through it. Then kids were behind me, waiting for something. A feeling of uncontrollable dread and fear swarmed around me. I was told by someone off to my left that I needed to explain to these kids that they will die. Soon. One of my sons were among those kids. I fell to my knees with a massive weight on my shoulders that fell off to the side as I hit the ground. I couldn’t breathe or open my tear-filled eyes. All I thought was, ‘not now, not now, not now.’ over and over. I couldn’t rise to my feet, thinking I could get this over with standing on my own two feet. Nope. I was holding my eldest son in my arm, squeezing him too tight, head buried against his little neck, trying not to tell him he was about to die. I thought if I had a few moments I could get out of this. Nope. My face was a mess, red with anger and hot with fresh tears rolling down my cheeks. I needed to leave. I tried getting up again, but my son wanted to play. I fell to my knees again and hugged him even tighter. He said it hurt, but I didn’t hear him. I held him closer still.
I woke up feeling sick to my stomach and my eldest son, at the side of our bed asking to play on the iPad, while his younger brother continued to sleep soundly – in the space between where my wife [now at work] sleeps and me.
I said yes, and got dressed, then went downstairs to where my son ended up sitting and gave him a big, too-long-for-him hug and told him I loved him.