Every Day

I woke up many times in the night. I ate way too much food yesterday, and I ate foods which cause intestinal distress, and I paid for it, but I didn't sit down here this morning to write about that.  When I woke this morning, I was dreaming about a man I have never met but knew quite well in my dream and with whom I was in love.  In a room reminiscent of an old, plush movie theatre with muted red draperies and velvety seats, several people had congregated. They were there for me and for him. He was supposed to have met me there, and when he didn't show up, everyone in the room became concerned. I was near the stage, pacing, with the other people congregated in small groups, their worried faces speaking words I could not hear.  I turned around, and he was coming toward me. His hair was black and cut fashionably though it looked unkempt. He had on khaki pants, a white shirt, and a black jacket. He said, "I'm so sorry, Margaret. I..." At that point, I put my arms around him and just held him. He embraced me, and then I held him tighter. He responded likewise. We started moving, rocking at first and then slow dancing.  We did not talk.  I finally looked at him and said, "Baby, I love you. We all love you. You see everyone here? They love you. We can get all of this sorted out. This with your father.  You'll see."  He started crying, and then reached inside an inner pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a white envelope with my name written on it. He then ripped open the envelope which contained a letter and a small baggie with white pills.  The letter was a suicide note outlining his plans and telling me goodbye and explaining why he felt he had to take his life.  I could see the writing and a few words. "I'm sorry.  Digitalis. My father. I'm done. I want you to be okay."  We were both crying then, and he said, "I couldn't do it. I was ready, and I heard your voice calling out to me, and I stopped. I've already told my father I'm done with the business. I'm done with it." As I was waking, I just kept seeing his grateful face.  I thought to myself: " This is what love is. Maybe I have never known how to love before." There was a sense of hopefulness in my body as I roused myself awake and headed to the bathroom.  The man in the dream was attractive, but he wasn't someone I think I would be interested in. He was slightly overweight and younger than me.  He was like someone walking out of a foggy forest canopy into the blinding light of an unknown place.  He knew I loved him, and he knew I saved his life.  I wonder, sitting here this morning, if he was me. I read somewhere once that we are the characters we dream about, and perhaps, he was some part of me.  God knows what he said, how he looked at me, how he'd had an epiphany about his life and its value all spoke to me. The part that was not me was the suicide part.  I have never wanted to take my life.  Of course, I spent 10 years of my life working with individuals who had attempted suicide or were contemplating it, so I think that factors in. I think it is representative of the career part of me.  Perhaps I am wanting to return to work, but I am not sure. I want to get better.  That I know.  Maybe that was the hurting me (him) facing the me (the actual me) who wants to help me work through all of these issues that still haunt me at age 60.  I don't have much time left on Earth--at least not as much as I had when I arrived here 60 years ago unless changes in technology still find me here at age 120, but that is not likely.  As Andy says in The Shawshank Redemption: Get busy living, or get busy dying.