Dream State

While trying to find a document that I actually do legitimately need, I came across this document that I wrote trying to capture a dream I'd had and how my real life and my dream states kept bumping into each other that summer. Before you're too tempted to read too much into what it says, know that I wrote it in 2015, a few months after a failed IVF cycle.

I read through it and thought it was worth publishing here. You may disagree. I don't care.

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I don't always remember what's going on. I forget things I shouldn't, but the doctor has been helpful. Treating two patients together to help them conceive is not a task that just any doctor is up to taking on, but he does seem to know what he's up against.

There has been so much back-and-forth between my job, my home, my social life. I can hardly manage and yet I just keep going. What else can I do?

I lock my doors and double-check them every night. I don’t know why.

The mall. I should go to the mall. I think I bought something there yesterday. Maybe I'll go check and see what they have.

There's an appointment today. I know I've been there recently but I can't remember what we did. It’s such a blur. The nurses take me to the room with all the equipment. Why can't I remember what this appointment was for?

Something is wrong at the mall. I need to go back and help. Someone is fighting. No, not someone. Everyone. It's not a small fight, this is a war. The Payless employee helps me into a boat.

I'm floating. I touch my hand to my stomach.

The room. There are so many machines in this room. The nurse is waving her wand at me. 9 1/2 inches. Cherry birch. Springy. The doctor points at the screen. When did he get here? He shows me what it means and then tells me without letting the words out. Words would ruin it.

I roll back into the boat, blissful, on my way back to that pair of shoes I wanted to buy.

But the shoes don't matter. Nothing does. He did it. I'm finally going to have

Fog. A sort of haze begins to lift. Am I on my back? I was just in a boat. It was safe there.

Here there are ceilings, floors, blankets, pillows, husband. I remember now. I was sleeping, and now I'm awake. I reach for the phone just as the alarm goes off, and I slide my finger across the screen, daring it to make another noise.

Where was I? I wasn't so much sleeping as living. A smile spreads slowly across my face.

The doctor. It's going to work.