Dreaming but still awake

After grabbing a salad from my trusty Paragon gourmet market, I’ve returned to my one bedroom apartment to do battle with a handful of overachieving mosquitoes, who have decided to skip all the open doors below me and fly directly to my bedroom on the 27^th floor.  I never considered mosquitoes to be particularly adept fliers, but I think they’re drawn to the swampy atmosphere that pervades my tiny studio apartment.  It’s good to know that the border of Cambodia and Thailand is home to the most virulent and drug-resistant strand of malaria this side of the Mississippi.  Malaria, why not?

Today has been a good day.  After a string of topsy-turvy days, I’d say I was about due.  The tough days come with bad night’s sleep, of which I’ve had many.  The dreams range in severity and content.  There are the random, vivid dreams, like watching someone fall off a building -- including the sights and sounds of impact – or of being attacked; the weepy, nostalgic ones of past relationships or long forgotten childhood memories; and then Mom and Craig, which are so varied they deserve their own sub-categories. 

So far, I can group three separate themes: a) Mom and Craig shortly before, or during, the dying process where I’m able to jostle them awake for one last conversation; b) Mom and Craig post-death interacting with me as if nothing happened; and c) Mom and Craig before cancer.  Usually, they’ll trade off in terms of who takes center stage; so far, they haven’t appeared in a dream together.

Almost always, I’m able to talk to them in full, with them responding in the voice that defined them long before cancer.  For instance, I remember a dream where I was hiking in Sedona with Diane and Erin, and Craig was just behind me.  He was dressed in his red Beer Lao shirt, the last shirt he was wearing.  I knew in the dream that he was gone, and asked him directly how he came back.  He said that the whole experience was just a big misunderstanding.  I remember whispering to him so the others wouldn’t hear, as if their participation would spoil the dream.

I’ve had similar dreams with Mom.  In one, she was walking around without her walker and improving in strength and mobility with each day.  It was as if she had reverted back to her walking pattern of mid-December when she was just beginning to have troubles with her balance.  In other dreams, I replay the actual moments before her passing, and almost always, she is able to wake up for one last talk.  In one dream, she had already passed away, with all the tell-tale color distortion, but I was able to jostle her awake.  She smiled and said “it’s going to be okay, sweetheart.” 

In all these dreams, I’m able to have a conversation with them.  When morning comes, I find myself struggling to recall their exact words, as if what they said, or their particular mannerisms, or touch were somehow real.  It’s been so long since I’ve heard their voices.  Though I could use the rest, talking to them brings me comfort.  As Dad says, the nightmare is waking up. -- J

Until the night returns

Written in February

Sleep is where you flirt with the unknown without discretion and answer those almost plea-like questions left unanswerable in the waking world. I've found those 8 hours can yield three things: sheer sleeplessness, a growing norm for me; horrific nightmares that carry through long passed the waking hour; or opportunities for the subconscious to craft a movie to make me feel better. Whether beckoned to ease a troubled mind and make sense of a seemingly incomprehensible reality or whether he found me in defiance of rational sense, Craig has frequently visited me in my dreams recently. 

Each dream was almost stupid in it simplicity--pure like a community theater with only one detailed set with background figures blurring in an amorphous swirl of colors in symbolic salute to their utter inconsequence. The only thing that mattered in my dreams was the few actors, the emotions and the dialogue.

It's not the Rose I'd hope to Grow

Craig and I stood in our kitchen back home nearly shoulder to shoulder with our elbows perched on the yellow countertop. In a steady, contemplative tone, we shared reflections on his diagnosis and probable outcome as he prepared for an upcoming trip to an unknown destination. I remember him saying to me, "I certainly didn't plan for this; I didn't expect this to happen so quickly...It's not what I had in mind." I asked when he was leaving, and he replied "soon, I think". I asked when he'd return and he said, "I don't know. It doesn't look like I will". I nodded while fidgeting with my hands. Moments passed and I said, "I'm gonna miss you Craig".    "I'll miss you, too."

The Back-Back

Jill, Diane and I sat on our knees in the area we used to call the "back-back" of our old station wagon circa the early 1980's. We spoke calmly yet quickly as we negotiated what to do as Craig lay lifeless in the middle. One of us cradled Craig's head; the other two held each hand as we desperately told him how much we loved him and would miss him. I could sense what it felt like in my dream to rub his legs and the feel of my fingers rolling over the coarse hair on his cold skin.

Slowly, warmth returned to his legs and hands; a fleshy red color filled his lips and cheeks, and blue replaced eyes of grey. "Could you hear us? Could you hear what we were saying? The stories, the I love you's?" we asked in a feverish tone desperate to know. "Yeaaaah, I could hear you. I could hear all of you and what you were saying", he said as he began bending his knees and righting himself to a propped position on his elbows. The three of us relaxed back on our heals as if collectively saying "whewww"; joy and relief replaced expressions of concern and sorrow. "We didn't know if you could or if that was annoying". "No, I liked it; it was comforting, not annoying. Thanks for being there for me".  

They say hearing is the last sense to leave when one is transitioning and passing away. Yet, there is no means for confirmation. We sat gripping the hands of both Mom and Craig, buzzing their hair and telling them each moment how much they meant to us, how much we loved them, and how much we will miss their presence. When they passed, we were left clinging to the conviction that somehow our words and touch registered deep on their heartstrings and brought them some level of comfort during the dying processes. In my dream, I remember feeling a palpable sense of relief from that fleeting moment of affirmation. How I wish I could ask him, and mom, in life.

Little Sparrow

The four of us were driving in dad's old copper-toned car down a gravel country road one late afternoon in Spring. I sat in the passenger seat with my back propped against the door and legs folded on the chair. Craig drove while Diane and Jill, unbuckled in the back, hugged the driver and passenger seats. The soft setting sun bathed over the swirling green, slowly and indistinctly rolling by in the periphery. The ping of gravel on the undercarriage below kept time with our constant chatter and laughter until a song came on the radio. "Little bird, Little Sparrow...". The car continued to slow all the while. "Ohhhhh this song!!!" we exclaimed, "Although this isn't the original version." "I don't recognize this song", Craig said quietly. We began to sing to him the original version that was sung by our harpist, and needlessly made words plural in a grammatically incorrect fashion-treeses and the breezes-for fun.

His eyes narrowed; familiar "frankenviens" appeared at his temples as he held his laughter in his flared nostrils before finally letting it out. The gravel crunched below, no longer fast enough to spit up rocks on the undercarriage. The car slowed still, now to a near crawl, as he looked out the window until it came to an eventual and symbolic stop...

 

And these are the dreams. Some mornings, I'm left utterly disappointed by the inactivity and lack of imagination of my REM. Still, I'd rather boring dreams than the frequent sleeplessness I'm having where the intensity of life alone prevents ever drifting into that beloved dream world. Though hours in dreams are few and fleeting compared to the reality that remains, I often fall asleep eager for those stolen 8 hours in which I can laugh with them, hear their voices, and feel complete. 

...until the night returns again.

~E

Beer Lao

(Written in February)

I’m sitting at restaurant along the Mekong River in Vientiane, Laos.  Mariah Carey is singing something about being strong for those who’ve lost, as the sun makes its way across the river.   The river looks dry for this time of year, more like a stream than the life-pulse of Southeast Asia.  To see it now, one could reasonably wonder how the region will survive. 

As I ponder the fate of the Mekong over a Beer Lao, I’m taken back to two years ago and another Mekong conversation.  Then, Vientiane wasn’t so bustling; it was easy to see the river from the main road.  I remember remarking to Craig how picturesque the view of the Mekong was as farmers waded for fish and clams just beyond the reeds.  Now, bamboo restaurants, reminiscent of Krabi and Phuket, line the water’s edge, selfishly blocking the river’s beauty from passersby. 

For me, Vientiane holds special meaning.  Laos was the last country on our three-country tour through Southeast Asia, during which we spent time visiting parts of Vietnam and Cambodia.  We crammed all three countries in 1 1/2 weeks of travel and were justifiably travel-worn when we arrived in Vientiane.  Craig and I spent our first night there waxing on philosophically over Pad Thai and Beer Lao – a Lawler favorite.  Debating over local food had become a standby for us.  And we were both brimming with information.  Craig was working on his latest article on the economic loss rule, while I had just completed my Masters in Development, with a specialty in water governance.  We were both waiting for the right opportunity to offload Al Gore style, complete with lame jokes and boring transitions.  I used Craig’s relative ignorance of the Mekong’s importance to my advantage, and spent the better part of our first night in Vientiane preaching to him about the possibility of a hydropolitical security complex forming amongst the Mekong riparian states, and the critical importance of regional water governance, to protect livelihoods and assets of the poorest of the poor.  Yes.  He obliged and allowed me my five minutes of airtime out of courtesy.  On occasion, he’d chime in with his own take on the topic. Poor guy.

That night, Craig and I stopped by a local bar, Kop Chi Dur, where we listened to “Neil Diamond” and his side-kick “Patsy Cline” belt out Peter, Paul and Mary, Bob Dylan, and the like.  By coincidence, the duo’s first song was a Bob Dylan tune Craig had taught me just a few days before called “Don’t think twice”.  Craig and I just smiled at each other. 

The next day, I had to make an Embassy run to renew my visa.  Craig and I booked a flight to Luang Prabang for early afternoon, but, in typical fashion, by noon, I was still waiting for my visa.  After some discussion, we agreed that Craig should go ahead with the flight, with the idea that, if I didn’t make it to the airport, I’d rebook my ticket and join him later that day.  A half hour before our flight was to depart, I finally received my visa, but had to haggle with no less than three Laotian tuk-tuk drivers before landing one that would take me to the airport for a reasonable price.  I arrived just in time to join Craig in the waiting hall.  I can remember that moment so vividly.  Craig was writing in his notebook as I slowly slung my backpack down beside him, in an exaggerated “for the love of God” expression.  He seemed surprised to see me, and happy that I was there. 

We arrived in Luang Prabang in time for a nice bike ride; Craig took video of us as we snaked through the hilly town.  We ended the night with food and a chat at a restaurant nestled deep in the city’s bar district.  Ever the risk taker, Craig drank a glass of Laotian apertishi, or moonshine.  I can remember his eyes watering as the alcohol went down.  Full and a little tipsy, we took a stroll along the night market, and bought a few silk items for his friends back in Denver.  While walking back to our hostel, we stopped by a wake for a woman who had recently been cremated.  The family had hired a local music troop to play traditional music as people passed by to pay their respects.  As a matter of custom, funeral services are open events, and everyone is welcome to attend.  Craig and I joined the family, and ate and drank Beer Lao with other Laotians as the music troop played traditional wooden instruments. 

Craig remarked on this night during one of his story-telling sessions last September.  Craig believed in living life with a heightened awareness of self, as well as awareness on how one fits within a larger framework of interaction.  Music. Camaraderie.  Openness to strangers.  This was, to Craig, a representation of philosophy in action -- of life in its most perfect, yet simplest form.  He seemed transformed by this experience, and spoke of “that one night in Luang Prabang” as if trying to relive the moment – if only briefly. 

That night in Luang Prabang was also meaningful for Craig in that it provided the catalyst for him to act on his instincts and decline an offer with a major law firm, something he had been debating throughout our time in Bangkok, Vietnam, Cambodia, and then Laos.  He even considered quitting law altogether to embrace the life of a development worker.  We had many a conversation over grasshoppers and snails about what it would mean for Craig to take a risk and change his life course completely. 

The prospect of entering the private sector on the heels of what he considered was his life’s calling – working as a clerk with the Bankruptcy court – was physically and emotionally upsetting for him.  He didn’t want to get sucked back into corporate haggling, billable hours, and lopsided work-life balance.  He hated litigation and all the games and tricks that went with it.  However, he had already accepted the offer; it was a matter of continuing with a bad decision out of principle, or risking his reputation and going back on his word in order to do what was right for Craig.   “That one night in Luang Prabang” helped Craig put his life in perspective.  The next morning, he sent the firm a note informing them of his decision.  Little did Craig know that this one decision adorned us with a small lesson for life of gnomic brevity:  never settle in happiness; we deserve much more. 

After spending a few days hiking the hills in Luang Prabang, Craig and I traveled back to Vientiane in time for a little shopping before catching our connecting flight to Bangkok. Craig often bought trinkets or souvenirs as little reminders of his time abroad.  It was in Vientiane where Craig bought a red Beer Lao t-shirt a shirt he’d wear often throughout his travels, and especially in Denver.  The Beer Lao shirt was a particular steal, since the store only had one left in his size.  I remember the purchase vividly, and how his eyes looked as he asked earnestly if I thought the shirt was too tight.  I told him it was flattering. 

He loved Laos; he loved traveling; he loved the t-shirt.  It seemed fitting that, in the end, his young life ended while wearing the very shirt we bought together, during one of the best periods in his life.