“Night breezes seem to whisper ‘I love you’
Birds singing in the sycamore tree
Dream a little dream of me”
“Dream A Little Dream of Me.” Music by Fabian Andre and Wilbur Schwandt and lyrics by Gus Kahn (1931).
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I have dreamed of Lee only 3 times that I can recall. The first time, we’re standing together. I gently rest my hands atop her shoulders, my fingertips touching her back, and slowly pull her close. We kiss. Her lips and mouth are welcome and familiar. I can taste her. In my dream, I’m thinking, I’d recognize you blindfolded, Lee.
She teases me, ever so lightly brushing her mouth against mine. Her lips are smooth. They are juicy and delicious. They are warm to the touch, as comforting to me as a piece of warm bread. As we kiss, I can smell Lee’s sweet bread scent.
During her life, in a private moment, Lee might take hold of my lower lip with both of hers, precisely as she is doing at this moment. In my dream, I think, I’ve had many dreams about Lee, and I know the difference between what’s real and what isn’t. I could feel her. Then I have a “pinch-me” moment, confirming for me that we are kissing. I’m so grateful. When I awaken, I’m feeling happier than I’ve felt in a long while.
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“Sweet dreams till sunbeams find you
Sweet dreams that leave all worries behind you
But in your dreams whatever they be
Dream a little dream of me”
“Dream A Little Dream of Me.” Music by Fabian Andre and Wilbur Schwandt and lyrics by Gus Kahn (1931).
The second time, Lee announces to me that she is feeling better, and remarks that it’s been a long time since she’s been pain free. She says matter-of-factly she will inform her oncologist that she believes her pancreatic cancer is now in remission and demand a scan to prove it. In my dream, I am thankful to hear such encouraging words. Fact is, to me, she looks healthier. I notice that the color has returned to her smiling face. Sand, she has put on healthy weight. Lee not only appears relaxed but seems to be at peace. Even so, I implore her not to say anything to the doctor just yet, lest it jinx this unexpected good fortune. In my dream, these words have no sooner left my lips than I feel red-faced and sheepish. After all, I’m a grounded guy, who is not the slightest bit superstitious.
*****************
“Stars fading but I linger on, dear
Still craving your kiss
I’m longing to linger till dawn, dear
Just saying this”
“Dream A Little Dream of Me.” Music by Fabian Andre and Wilbur Schwandt and lyrics by Gus Kahn (1931).
In the most recent dream, I’m standing on a street corner somewhere with Bob, a high school buddy, whom Lee knew well and loved, and who remains one of my closest friends. Lee drives up in her car. The window is down. She beckons to us. We get into her car. After Lee drops off Bob, it’s just the two of us. It is comforting to be alone with her, riding in the car. All too soon Lee says she needs to get home. In the dream, it is my understanding that there is a kid waiting for her. However, today I’m not sure whether Lee told me about this kid or whether it was merely my assumption. Regardless, even in a dream I can recognize this is an odd and unexpected development since Lee and I didn’t have any children. Still, I rationalize: Isn’t having kids just part of the natural order? I don’t dwell on the matter. I am truly happy for Lee and feel good for having been able to spend a little more time with her.
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These several dream experiences pique my interest, so I spend a bit of my waking time conducting cursory dream research via the Google machine and quickly determine there is an overwhelming amount of material available to digest. Pages and pages of it being served up by earnest theologians, wacky New Age spiritualists, research scientists, mental health practitioners of every ilk. I’m struck by the veritable cottage industry that seems to exist on the internet comprised of mental health experts who opine on every conceivable aspect of the role of dreams in the grieving process.
For example, I learn that “back to life” or “visitation” dreams are commonplace. I learn that not all dreams are equal; some dreams qualify as “big dreams,” a term attributed to pioneering psychotherapist Carl Jung. Nowadays, it’s a term used to describe a dream that stays in one’s waking memory for an indeterminate period, perhaps even months, or years. According to some experts, such dreams can be transformative. Of course, since the grief process itself is transformative, the fact Lee has visited my dreams should have been predictable. Indeed, there evidently is abundant expert research indicating that dream themes like mine — a loved one free of illness, or appearing healthy, or comfortable, or at peace, are run-of-the-mine.
Yet, the deeper I dived the more I began to resent such “informed” opinions, which tended, unintentionally, to trivialize dreams of the dear and departed as experienced by us survivors. As for my own sweet and fondly recalled dreams of my recently deceased wife, they remain highly personal and significant events. The very notion they are either ordinary or interesting only for their potential therapeutic relevance to the grieving process misses the mark by miles. My conclusion is that the scientific literature fails adequately even to begin to describe the special shared moments which, however briefly, bridge the gap between the dead and the living.
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Some days I wake up in a half-empty bed and my first sad thought of the day is that she is still gone. The new reality, which is both harsh and heartbreaking, is never completely out of mind, of course. at this time of day. However, once upon a time I would have bounded from bed while Lee slept. I was the earlier riser, and one reward was to hear the soft sound of her breathing. Today, the early light leaking through the windows into our bedroom still awakens me, but now I tend to linger, tossing and turning thoughts of Lee, wondering if she will ever return to me again in a dream, hoping it will be soon. I hardly notice the new day that is patiently waiting for me to participate.
“Say ‘Night-ie night’ and kiss me
Just hold me tight and tell me you’ll miss me
While I’m alone and blue as can be
dream a little dream of me.”
“Dream A Little Dream of Me.” Music by Fabian Andre and Wilbur Schwandt and lyrics by Gus Kahn (1931).