The Vivid Dream

[Regel]

We lived on Weston St. in 1957. Two families all living under one roof (my parents, my baby sister and I as well as my mother's brother and his wife and two sons). My cousins were eleven months apart and my birthday fell almost exactly in the middle of the two. The three of us grew up together for the first three years of our lives. We were more like brothers than cousins. We played, argued and fought with each other, but we were inseparable. My maternal grandmother also lived with us in that small three bedroom home.

 

We played together, explored the neighborhood together, and amused the neighbors when ever we took the push lawnmower for a stroll. My poor Nona was our baby-sitter while both sets of parents were at work. At ages two and a half through three we often took to long walks that would send our Nona into a panic. The eldest of her grandchildren Frank would always be the first one she would find often on the front step of our porch. She would ask Frank where we were. Frank would sit there with a long face cradled in his hands and simple point in the direction we had walked. Frank would accompany us only as far as the corner but never would cross the street. Rules never stopped my cousin Don and I. Frank would stand there watching us stroll out of sight then return to the porch and wait.

Poor Nona was always running after us and babbling in Italian to strangers “You see two bambini?” Often we would return long before Nona would catch up to us. Rejoining Frank on the porch step we would wait for her to return. Freaking out our Nona was half the appeal of these long strolls I believe.

One night after a very active day I went to bed and had a very vivid dream. As a three year old I had rarely dreamed in color. That night I did. My understanding of death at that age was not very comprehensive. I had never seen a dead person so imagine your three year old waking up screaming “No! No! No! NOOOOOOO!”

 

I had explained to my mom that in my dream I had seen my adventurous cousin Donny laid out on a table. He skin was blue. I didn’t understand why but at some level I knew at once he was dead. The details shocked and terrified my mother and she crossed herself and whispered “Mal Occio!”

 

I had never seen a corpse and had no experience with this concept that dead people turn blue. I just knew it was bad and woke up screaming. The dream had frightened me and the entire family. It would be thirty one years before I would actually see a corpse first hand. It happened on Sept 22nd 1988.

Edited February 17, 2004 by Regel

[Regel]

I stood there in disbelief, looked around at the nurse and said "I have to see him."

She walked me into a room that was curtained off. She stood there watching me in her crisp blue uniform then proceeded to pull down the sheet. Then without being told she left me there alone with him. Blue was no longer my favorite colour. I stood there and remembered to breathe. I was looking at him and nothing looked right. His face was bruised. Time passed and yet as strange as this seems those twelve minutes seemed like hours. My eyes look further down past his shoulders and came to rest at on the hairs of his forearm. I had suddenly been transported back to a time when I was a child. What a warm safe place that had been to rest my chin as I sat watching him play cards on a Friday or Saturday night. The cards always had company with a glass of red wine to one side and an ashtray on his left. The curl of his idling smoke often came and found me but I never let that stop me from hopping on to my dad's knee and watching.

 

My brother Phil came in and stood with me. My face was wet and I made no effort to wipe the tears. The two of us stood there and I knew it was time to go. I collected myself as best I could and thanked the nurse on the way out. Walking out of the Emergency Room I looked up at the clock. It was barely 10:00 am.

[WrenWind]

*hugs*

[YanYanGanaffi]

Wow. Pwerful story. I lost my mom when I was 14, ten days before my fifteenth b-day. I guess it wouldn't have been so bad if I hadn't been there to see it happen. The ambulance seemed to take forever to get there. While my dad and step brother did what they could to save her, I flagged down the paramedics so that they wouldn't miss our house, which sits back a little from the road and blocked from view on the street because of all the trees.

 

After the paramedics left with my mom, my dad went to the hospital to wait. We thought, or more correctly hoped, she would be alright. When my dad came back with tears in his eyes, I knew she hadn't made it. It was the first time I'd ever seen my dad cry. He had been in Vietnam and was a bootlegger before that, so he had seen death on many occasions. When my grandpa Roy (my dad's father) died, he didn't cry. But on that day in mid October, he did.

 

I couldn't believe it at first. I suppose it was just shock, but my mind couldn't comprehend what had happened. It felt like a dream gone horridly wrong. I've been to some of the nastiest places in the world. I've seen death first hand, myself, in Afgahnistan. I was even his instrument once during that visit to that hell on earth. Even now, just thinking about it, still tears me up inside a little.

 

Sorry to hijack your post, Regel. The story just brought back some stuff deep within myself. But thank you for sharing that story.

 

Jason

[Regel]

Dear Jason,

WHat hurts us the most are the losses we can't accept. I am sorry about your mom. It's a hurt we learn to manage but it never really goes away.

 

That morning a client my father had came tapping on the door at 7:15 am ( we only lived three doors down from the beauty salon). She was not upset but she was worries that my father had simply over slept. My mother (who snores) had slept that night in my old room. My mom discovered him on the floor. He wasn't breathing. She freaked and call my brother at the fire hall. My brother Phil a firefighter from the London Fire Department raced over and immediately began CPR. He was there with my mother when the paramedics came in. Seeing Phil in uniform and recognizing who there were working on they gave it there all. He had been down and not breathing too long and 20 minutes later they pronounced him dead. As they raced my father away in an ambulance my brother phoned me in Kitchener (approximately an hour away). His voice shaking his message was short " Joe, come quick, it's dad. He on his way to the hospital. It's bad..." That's all I remember. I barked to my young family to get in the car and within three minutes of receiving his call we were rolling. Somethings never go away. I knew what he was saying was "Dad is gone." I knew it even though I wouldn't allow myself to believe it. I wept as logic fought with hope. His phone call played over and over in my head. I spoke very little in that hour. The day was as beautiful as any fall landscape you could possibly imagine in direct proportion with how horrible I felt. I left them in the car and ran into emerge. I identified myself and was directed into a waiting room were I found my brother weeping and four of my fathers five brothers. They simple said two words "He's gone."

 

Thank you for your story it was very much appreciated. I hope that with time God gave you the grace to accept your loss like he did for me. Peace.

Edited February 1, 2005 by Regel