Pandemic Dreams
My youngest daughter called me last night to say she dreamt that I died of Covid. From my ICU bed, I phoned her to say good-bye, a heartbreaking scenario being played out in ICUs around the world. Aster, who teaches in Detroit, wanted only to hear my voice and be reassured that my 66-year-old body was still inhabiting my Chicago apartment. I told her not to worry. I was being very careful. I am privileged to be able to work from my dining room table. I do only essential errands for groceries and medication and kitty litter. My sole outings are socially distanced walks with masked friends in forest preserves.
Yet I worry, is this enough? Sometimes it feels as if am driving in a raceway of bumper cars, steering wildly to avoid a collision and never knowing if a driver will ambush me around the next bend.
I worry about my kids and friends and family members getting sick and dying. I worry that hundreds of thousands more American will bury loved ones. That an unconscionable number of families are going hungry or risk eviction. I worry about the known and unknown- the long-term effects that may rob me of memory and movement. I worry about lost time.
My head spins with the question posed by Mary Oliver- “What will you do with this one wild and precious life?” At 66, I hope I have many years ahead, yet the death of both parents at age 60 has made me keenly aware of life’s fragility. Will I live to make playdough with my unborn grandchildren? Travel to see the northern lights in Norway? Find a companion to grow old with and to hold my hand in movie theatres? Like so many, I am living a life interrupted.
And my interrupted life is inspiring bizarre dreams. Early in the pandemic, I dreamt that Aster and I watched from our beach blanket as dozens of mysterious beings emerged from the ocean. As they approached the shore, these green masses of slime morphed into bodies rising from the sea. Arms and legs, necks and heads. These creatures were the color of the stove top playdough we used to make when Aster stood on a chair to stir the gooey mix. Graceful black symbols, artfully calligraphed, were splayed across their bodies. Though they carried no weapons, these beings looked like warriors girded for battle. Their gazes fixed straight ahead, these creatures streamed onto shore in an endless parade. Could these be unmasked warriors doing battle with an invisible enemy.
I am not the only one having bizarre dreams. Experts report that pandemic dreams are indeed a phenomenon; we are having more of them because we are sleeping more and later, given that some of us can skip our commutes. Some experts theorize that dreams represent coping mechanisms to resolve problems. Pandemic dreams reflect our angst, nightmares and real-life trauma.
Harvard researcher Deidre Barrett has studied more than 6,000 pandemic dreams described by 2,500 dreamers. Often the meaning is obvious; some in the study reported being chased by a Nightmare Before Christmas assortment of bugs, worms and other menacing creatures. Others said they had dreamt of tornadoes or hurricanes, metaphors for the perils we face. Frontline health workers were haunted by trauma nightmares in which they feared losing patients, despite heroic efforts to save their lives.
Not all my dreams are scary. In fact, some are bliss. I once dreamt that that I was at a medical conference with Brad Pitt. Fearing I would contract Ebola, I summoned all my will power and declined to kiss him when he brought his gorgeous face oh so close to mine. He shrugged and left the empty conference hall. I regretted my decision immediately.
As I write this, a miraculous vaccine is being distributed across our nation that will eventually put an end to our pandemic dreams. Meanwhile, we continue to ponder the meaning of dreams no stranger than the world we are inhabiting.