If you’re lucky, she’ll come to you
If you’re lucky, she’ll come to you.
It’s happened before. You will be sound asleep, absentmindedly dreaming away, going along with whatever strange nocturnal plot line your lizard brain has outlined for you, and there he or she will appear. Right on the periphery. Just as far as you can see. Perhaps they’re standing at the edge of a tree line, tall, watching. Silent. Smiling, maybe. Or waiting beside the hibiscus planter that sits in the far corner of the pool deck of your childhood home, the one by the screened off sun-room. They’ll be just… observing. Looking straight at you as you continue along with whatever absurd, imperative dream-task is at hand.
A doctor once told me this happened to him. He was an objective man, and so was completely perplexed by the whole thing. He woke up in the morning feeling like this time — this dream — it was different than any others he’d had. In fact, he rarely dreamt at all.
He said his late wife appeared to him three times in three nights before he never saw her again. She was always “in the background,” he said, “as if everything was actually a production at the Globe and my dream was the stage. She would stand by the painted drapery in the way back, meant to look like part of the landscape, just… watching. She looked happy and sad at the same time. I remember she was wearing this white dress she wore one time in Mexico. I loved her in that dress.”
His wife was, of course, gone. She died in his very hospital where he made rounds every day. He worked on the floor where patients were stored while they recovered from gastrointestinal surgery. His wife was brought in on the bottom floor emergency room one afternoon after a devastating car accident. He didn’t even know she was there until the first floor called his nurse station directly. She died less than an hour after she was admitted.
“I got to say goodbye, but I never felt like I really got to say everything.” He told me. “It happened so quickly. I told her I loved her, but she was already slipping into unconsciousness. I’m fairly certain she heard me. But I’ll never know. I’ll never really know.
“Every night after that for a full week, I wept. I couldn’t do anything on my own without just, weeping. I wanted so badly to see her one more time, to be sure that she knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I loved her and I was sorry. I was so sorry. I had… done something to her that I couldn’t take back, and I had to tell her one last time.
“After I came home from hospital that night, I wept and wept and was overwhelmed with the thought of, ‘If I could only tell her, I need to tell her how desperately sorry I am.’ How she deserved so much better from her husband.
“That’s when I had the lucid dreams.”
That’s what he called them, when he first came in. Lucid dreams. He was wrong, but I didn’t bother to correct him. His grief was still fresh.
He was lucky. She came to him. I told him that later, at our second session. So many people pass and their loved ones aren’t allowed the luxury of seeing them ever again. He was very lucky.
But if it was going to happen again, a fourth time — that’s where I came in.
“There is a way to tell her. To ensure she knows.”
I’m a facilitator of these things, I told him. There are counselors out there who can handle your grief and there are “psychics” who can bring you a message from beyond. Some can even deliver a message to the lost loved one on your behalf.
But I can do you one better.
“I can bring you to her.” I told him. “She can hear it straight from you. Your own words.”
If you’re lucky, she’ll come to you. If you’re smart, you’ll come to me.