Memory dream January 25, 2000
This dream seemed like it took place in two different dimensions.* It brings with it a familiarity, a memory from something that happened to me when I was a child, related somehow to this dream.
What I first remember is a woman who seems intent on killing herself, but perhaps this is just how it appears. She was obviously in anguish about something, crying and very emotional. She had a broken piece of pottery in her left hand and there were large scratch like marks on her neck close to the jugular veins that were bleeding. I don’t know if they were self inflicted or not, but it feels like she was the one that made them. It also seemed as though she was unaware of what she had done, I felt if she was serious about killing herself the cuts would have been deeper. Was it just for attention, or was she trying to feel something, anything?
It starts to get a bit muddled at this point, where memory mixes in with the dream. I start to see that I am lying down on a table or perhaps it is the kitchen counter. I was unconscious and there is blood on my neck too. This woman seems to be in my thoughts and it feels like she is calling to me to stay with her. For some reason she is making me feel guilty and I didn’t feel safe with her, didn’t like her. I started to feel maybe I was dying, and this frightened me. I felt so sleepy, but I knew I had to wake up. I seemed to understand I had to focus on something, an image that would help me get through it, but I couldn’t remember what that image was supposed to be.
In the end I saw a mountain peak. There was a lot of blue around it, the sky I guess and the peak was white. The sun just rising above the mountain. I stared hard at the image trying to figure out what it meant and this is what brought me back. The woman disappeared and I was aware I was now awake in the dream. I realized I was a small child through all of this and was crying for my ‘mommy and daddy.’ At the same time I saw myself as an adult and was calling for Patrick to help me.
This is when I woke up, still feeling the emotion of the situation. Because I could not fall back to sleep I lay thinking about what I had dreamt. Broken pottery, broken glass, cuts to the neck on or close to the jugular veins…is there a connection to this imagery, both of my actual experience and the image from this dream?* I have many times over the years experienced situations such as these, almost like déjà vu, so I cannot help but wonder at the timing of the dream so soon after my experience.
When I was five or six years old I had been bothering my brothers who were sitting on the couch watching a hockey game. I really hated the games, wanting them to turn off the TV. The games and the length of time they were on was a reminder of my isolation, having nothing in common with this family. I felt very lonely on evenings like these as their focus was completely on the game, so I had no one to talk to or play with. It was unfortunate I could not find inside myself the reasons to enjoy the game so I could join them. I had a scarf, I think, and was dangling it in front of them wanting their attention, hoping they would play with me as I stood behind the couch. My brother pulled the end of the scarf but I held on tight, not willing to give it up. He let go suddenly and I fell backward.
Right behind me was the hallway with a folding door that was closed to keep the heat in the lower floor of the house. The folds had metal pleats and it was on one of these I hit my head, splitting my scalp. I don’t really remember much else after that except I was lying on the kitchen counter with my head over the sink. Helen had my head supported in her hand, the water was running from the tap in the sink. I think she was washing the blood out of my hair. The next thing I remember was being at the hospital for stitches. I will never forget the feeling of the thread being pulled through my scalp even though anesthetic had been applied to the area. Such a strange feeling, hard to describe actually.
*After thinking about it for a few days I realized it was a both a memory and a new experience, because the feelings associated were familiar. I think I was remembering the experience as a child, but I was going through this as an adult. That I was calling Patrick makes me think I was aware of this being in the present. What happened to me that night as a child was never something we talked about, so I don’t know if my life was threatened as it was in the dream, but I suppose it was possible. I am vaguely aware of waiting for an ambulance to take me to the hospital, but I’m really not sure of many of the details.
These are questions I now ask: Who was the woman calling me to join her? Was she someone who knew me? Did I know her? Was she calling me to the other side of the veil to join her in death? I believe there must be some connection for me to dream of this incident so many years later, but I still do not have full understanding of it.
Che Guevara’s mother died May 18, 1965. This could be the woman who was calling me to her. It makes sense she would want me with her, after all being the daughter of her beloved son who for all intents and purposes was lost to her. She would most likely have known me but I would have been too young to remember, not having seen her from the time I was a baby. I would likely have been scared of her, being around five years old when I had this accident. The date of these events very closely coincide with the Stanley Cup final played on May 1, 1965. I know it was cold outside and I believe it was spring because I am sure they were watching the playoffs, which made the games potentially longer with overtime play.
Also, if I can make this connection to the woman who would have been my grandmother, I would have to add she was very close to her son, missing him terribly while he was away. Could the cuts represent her anguish, knowing what he was going through, unable to help him, sometimes not even knowing where he was yet all the while transparently clear of his impact on the world. If she died not seeing her son for so long a time, her sorrow would have been great, I believe. Che was in Africa when she died.
*see Close Call, Chapter IV, page 45
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