Day 8: Dreams – When dreams come true
When I was 10 years old, I dreamed that I had died. I saw a coffin with flowers on top, and I noticed a block calendar on a wall with the date April 4.
When I came down to breakfast, my parents and brother saw right away that something was wrong. When I told them about my dream and what I had seen, they dismissed it as unimportant. “It was just a dream,” they said. “It didn’t mean anything.”
I was not convinced though. A few of my other dreams had come true, what if this one did too? In that case, I had less than three months to live. I was only ten years old. My life had only just started and now I might never get to see my eleventh birthday.
Scared that talking about it would only increase the chances of reality, I told no one of this dream, other than my family. As the weeks passed though I grew increasingly worried.
When asked what I wanted for my birthday in May, all I could think of was ... to live. When plans were made for our annual vacation, I wondered if I would be there to join my family.
When my weariness was noticed, my mom and dad asked if I was still thinking of that silly dream. “It means nothing,” they assured me. “Dreams are just images of what we see, hear and experience and the result of an overactive imagination.” Were they right?
I wondered: Why would I dream about dying? Why had I seen everything so clearly? Why could I remember everything so vividly? Other people barely remember their dreams in the morning.
And why April 4th? Why not any other day? The questions kept churning and churning around in my mind.
When April 4th came around, I did everything extra carefully. From the moment I stepped out of bed, I was aware that accidents lurk everywhere.
When I went down the stairs, I held on to the banister and took the steps one at a time, for fear of falling. When I had my breakfast, I chewed carefully so as to not to choke. I refused to go to school for fear of a traffic accident, and when my mother announced she would go grocery shopping, I let her go alone for the very same reason. I wasn’t setting foot on a bus or in a car if my life depended on it (which in a way, it might).
The day crept past and I spend the hours tucked up in a chair, reading. Eventually, it was 10:00 p.m. and time for me to go to bed. “See,” my mom remarked, who hadn’t said anything, but who remembered that this was doomsday for me, “Nothing happened. I told you it was just a silly dream.”
Yes, it would appear she was right. In two hours it would be April 5th and unless I died in my sleep, I was in the clear. When I woke up the next morning, I quite literally heaved a sigh of relief, so happy that this dark cloud that had been hanging over my head for months had finally gone.
41 years later, on April 4th, my mother died.
