“I’ve had this recurring dream in which we are on vacation and he leaves me – just walks away,” I tell my therapist. “I wake up in a panic, feeling abandoned.”
“Oh dear,” she says. “I wonder if these dreams would change if he started looking after himself?”
“Yes!” I exclaim, relieved. These are not premonition dreams, but a projection of my fears about his health, I happily conclude.
Now, as he sits across town in the cardiac unit awaiting surgery, and I, in my usual state of disability, am confined to home, I wonder. Were the dreams warnings? I certainly dreamt of being in a wheelchair long before it happened.
Then the dream shifts: We are going in different directions, my husband, my children, and I; all planning separate vacations. I am feeling uncertain, cutoff, when Ric says: “Come with me; I’m going to Cornwall”. Cornwall! I’ve always wanted to go there – the place where Daphne du Maurier penned the novels that so gripped me in adolescence. “Yes!” I say and my heart soars.
Knowing that my husband is in hospital, receiving expert care, I feel a new glimmer of hope. If all goes well, maybe we will be able to reestablish that bucket list that was set aside, seemingly, so long ago.