My Strange Dream about Death

It’s only been two months since my husband died after his long illness, but I’m back to work and to doing most of my usual activities. I’m teaching my courses, even created a new one, as well as writing letters of recommendation for students, evaluating manuscripts, seeing some friends and going to a few movies. I’ve gotten rid of the hospital bed, walkers and wheelchairs (Note to self: Must remember to get rid of the shower chair!). I’ve bought colorful wool rugs and velvet cushions to cheer up my apartment, all meant to remove the reminders of illness and death.

Except you can’t get rid of them so fast.

I often think of my husband’s slide towards death, his valiant fight against the inevitable. I never know when those ghostly images of him will appear in my mind—mainly in the evenings. I might be sitting on the sofa watching MSNBC, and suddenly I’ll think, “he always sat here,” and how I moved closer on the sofa next to him as he got frailer. I had the sofa cleaned, but I still sense the impression his body made for the past fifteen years, always sitting in the same spot. I bought a purple rug to cover up the place where his hospital bed had been, but I still turn away from it at night.

I didn’t know this period after death would be so hard. You see, I’d wanted him to die. For his last fourteen months, I prayed that he’d not last so long. And, at first, I was relieved when he did. Relieved for him, and yes, for me. But now a strange, unfamiliar weight comes over me, unexpectedly sometimes, but especially around the time of day that he died, just after sunset.

I also never knew how much work is left for the survivor to do. So many forms to fill out, phone calls to make, bank accounts to close or deal with, visits to the social security administration office, insurance issues, left-over medical bills and transferring a car title that’s been under “the deceased’s” name.  Again and again during this process, I have to say, “he died,” or “he is deceased,” even as I try to move on.

Very early one morning, it must have been around 4 a.m., I was awoken by a strange dream. Even as I try to recall it, the dream is fading, eclipsed by the impermanence of memory and the prisms of light moving on my ceiling, little rainbows created as the morning sun strikes the crystal chandelier over the table at which I sit. I decided to write about my dream before I lost it entirely because it felt important, as if it carried a message.

This dream came to me after an evening where I’d not been my best self. All day I felt fragile, and then I had an outburst at a work event. And although it was a righteous outburst, in defense of my beloved students, I’d come home feeling bad about myself, wondering when I’d be less volatile and strong again. 

I had a glass of wine with dinner, went to bed and slept well until early morning when the dream came. I saw both my husband and I on our way to dying, or I guess we were, since we’d been taken to a strange place, a place that I knew had to do with preparing for death. It didn’t seem like I was sick, but we were now both in an open space adjacent to a cemetery. It was a large space, slightly wild, with a few dull green plants and grey-brown vines that seemed withered, even as they were taking over the place, growing, like hair often does after death. But there was nothing frightening to me about the place. When I looked to the left, I saw a small open-air market with fruits, vegetables and bread, which was closing down for the day. I wondered, should buy something? But I knew that was ridiculous, since my husband and I been taken there to prepare to die. When our life-force was failing, each of us would be given a shot to fully relax us, and we’d each be gently placed into a cotton-lined pine box.  It was a comfortable death with dignity and without pain. I could see my husband was going down, peacefully, and I was okay with that. But. . . I realized I felt fine, even if a little weak. I didn’t want to be given that shot! I stood up, “I’m not ready,” I said, “I am NOT dead.”

And then I woke up. Even within my dream I knew what it was about. I knew that part of me was still with my husband, feeling as if I might be going down with him (as, in a sense, I had been, taking care of him during those hard years). Almost daily I worry about whether all that stress is taking, or will take, a toll on my health. But in my dream, I was—or maybe just insisted I would be—fine and alive, standing on my own. Still, as of yet, I was in a liminal place, both with my husband, and not.

Peter Costanzo