On death and dreams.

Dad and Paul, by Cbabi Bayoc
Commissioned by Joe Monahan

Nothing is as boring as listening to others people’s dreams.
-John Green, Paper Towns

I get it. I agree. When someone starts to tell me about a crazy dream they had, I find myself drifting off to that headspace filled with groceries lists and song lyrics. (Unless it’s one of my kids, and then I am all ears because kid dreams are magic.)

But what if another person's dream is about someone who has died? 

Those dreams are complicated and special and heartbreakingly rare.

In the weeks after my dad died, I had really bad dreams. Scary dreams. I’d bolt upright in my IKEA bed, in my tiny Chicago bedroom, alone, sobbing, out of breath, frightened.

Naturally, I connected dreams of dead people with fear. I wanted to will them away.
As time went on, they became less scary and more confusing. I’d open my eyes, unable to find the line between sleeping and waking, imagination and reality, life and death.

And then one night, I had a dream about my dad, and it gave me a sense of comfort I hadn’t felt in months. I knew he was there, and that he wasn’t there, and I was able to tiptoe along that line and walk away with something good.

After that, when I’d worry I was forgetting his voice, or when I was frantically trying to recall his laugh, or when I just wanted to remember what it was like to share this earth with him, I’d hope for a dream.

Last night, I dreamt about Paul. It was the first time in a long time. It was just us being normal in an abnormal place. Nothing exceptional. Nothing exciting. A short film brought on by a snooze button and an interrupted sleep cycle.

But he was there and he was as real as he’s ever going to be to me on this side of life, and it was so nice. It helped me remember the sense of his presence I’m beginning to forget.

We didn’t get to say goodbye to Paul. Sometimes I’d wish I’d have a dream where we could do that, but you can only ask so much from your subconscious. Instead I’ll gratefully settle for those moments together, in an alternate universe where dogs can talk and front yards are oceans and nothing is normal except us, together in one place.

It’s a rare form of surprise peace, the gift of temporary comfort.

So if you are my child, and you dreamt about riding in Peppa’s camper van, or if you are a friend or stranger, and you dreamt about someone who died, someone whom you miss terribly, tell me about it. I’m all ears.

Those kinds of dreams are anything but boring.