Last night I dreamed of my father

Last night I dreamed of my father. I haven’t seen him in awhile–he died last year in March. He died as he lived–quietly and considerately, in the tiny twin bed at the cabin he shared with my mom. The path to his death was rocky–a cancer scare, necessary oxygen, a body that became unrecognizable to him as it weakened and spasmed. When the final days came, the days my dad was actively dying, it bridged my mom’s birthday. And like the considerate man he was, he lay quietly all through that day while mom and I took turns sitting with him, swabbing his dry mouth and voicing sweet memories of a life well-lived. Dad lingered all through that day and on into the night, waiting until early the following day to finally pass. Mom took the bed beside his that night and around 4 in the morning stood in my doorway whispering “Marg, I think he’s gone.” And he was. But I marveled at how he was still somehow there for an hour or so following his death. When I returned to his bedside awhile later I found what seemed to be an empty shell, now void of the light and warmth of my father.

The time since then has been spent attending to my mother more than myself when it comes to matters concerning my father’s death. I never fell apart. I never sobbed my eyes out, missing this man I’d known my whole life. But he comes to me in memories, in recipes that I remember him making, in familiar hymns at church, in the wag of my little dog’s body when I remember him asking “how’s my fine puppy?” This wasn’t how I expected to grieve.

Last night’s dream was one that would typically render me jangly. It was one of those confusing dreams where I was supposed to give a talk and found myself in a crazy building, with no road map. A speech unprepared, a late arrival. This dream held all the makings of a stressful night but oddly, with each scene, I felt more and more relaxed. I entered an all white room with a large oval table. Clearly it was time to share a meal. I sat down on one side next to my mother and my daughter. Across from us sat my father. Sitting across from him seemed normal and I noticed how rosy his cheeks were, how healthy he looked. His demeanor was calm and he gazed at us without a word. His twin brother entered, carrying an ocean blue serving bowl and set it on the table. My Uncle Lew’s presence did seem odd. Lew died in the 1980’s after a long, sad bout with brain cancer–an experience that left my dad with a hole in his life that he never talked about but his twin was gone, just like that. I watched Uncle Lew set the bowl down and take a seat beside my father and I wondered if I was seeing a ghost. I wondered if anyone else saw Lew and I glanced at my mother and daughter for confirmation. The looks they gave me clearly conveyed that they too were gazing on both men.

My dad looked at us calmly and then to his brother. Then his gaze returned to us and a little smile grazed his lips as if to say “don’t worry. don’t be afraid.”

It wasn’t until I woke up that I realized that seeing both men was unusual. My dad’s presence seemed so normal. I lay in bed awhile staring at the ceiling, calmly, quietly, doing my best to receive what had been given to me. And the image of my dad’s face-healthy, calm, happy-sits in the front of my mind’s eye and I can’t help smiling.