A Perplexing Dream

There is no perceptible light in the room save for a faint red glow from the clock behind my head. I lay on my back frozen in place trying to regulate my breathing. The room is icy, a discernible battle raging between the two opposing forces of warmth and cold. The roaring of the furnace audible even from two stories below is juxtaposed against the rushing of cold and wind battering the house from outside. I will turn myself and look at the clock. 2:08 a.m. I lay still and let the dream recycle through my mind. I work to further steady my breathing and allow the tears to flow freely, cascading down the sides of my face, pooling in my ears, and overflowing onto the pillow.

The dream is still too painful to attempt any dissection, any interpretation. Not as bad perhaps as the abduction dreams, but still… This is an abduction dream of sorts. The abduction of my heart that now works to regain a steady rhythm in my chest. This is my core, the most intensely raw and vulnerable place that lives in me. I don’t experience these kinds of dreams very often, the “wake-up-frozen-in-fear-can’t-move-for-sometime” kind of dreams, and this one seems different, not so random, not so ephemeral, not so E.T.-little-gray-men-ish, but real life images, real people. This dream is screaming at me to pay attention to something specific in my life.

My breathing begins to ease and then suddenly I break into sobs that I can’t control. The feelings eclipse everything, taking over my body, moving through me without any conscious connection. The fear surfaces and exits through my breath. It roils through me in waves, strangely keeping time with the rhythm of the wind and the pulse of the furnace, creating a kind of accompanied dance. I feel held by the bed and the noises while my body continues to convulse, my thoughts are muddled, the images fleeting.

I was outside in the dream and the temperature was dropping. I kept telling people it was going to be 24 degrees overnight, and we had to find him or there would be no chance of his survival. The light was fading; the search parties were out, including the dogs, and with every degree of the setting sun my panic was rising. I wish it were my life at stake. I would so gladly trade places, gladly sacrifice myself for him. The helplessness that I feel chokes me initiating another round of sobs.

My son is lost; lost in a large swampy wood. It has been three days in the dream and this is the end of the search. We must find him now or we won’t find him alive. There is no question of why he is missing, no kidnapping or child abduction. He just wanders and can’t find his way home. He can’t speak and has no way to ask for help, no concept even of being lost or needing help. But I imagine the fear I feel in part is his. No food, no water, way too cold; how does he conceptualize this experience? I must find him; I must find him or I will parish along with him. He is more an extension of me than he is a separate person; some strange appendage, an additional limb. I am so tied to him I can hear his thoughts, feel his breathing, his pain, and anticipate nearly his every move. Where has he gone? I should be able to find him, should have expected his leaving, but the elopement always comes out of the blue.

I remember the first time he disappeared; he couldn’t have even been six yet. He was sitting in the backyard right next to the house sucking on a Popsicle. He was miles from the back gate and he hadn’t moved in sometime. I went in the house for at most 30 seconds to retrieve another Popsicle and when I returned he was gone. Six squad cars, half the neighbors, and 45 minutes later we found him around the corner under a tree in someone’s backyard. But for all the calling, and looking, he could have been missed, and it was cold that night as well. The level of vigilance that is required is staggering, exhausting, and there is no leeway, no safe 30 seconds with unlocked gates, no running to answer the phone or use the bathroom, never, ever.

The sobs are easing and I can move, the paralyzing effects of the fear dissipating along with the images from the dream. I roll on my side and wrap myself in a ball continuing to cry softly; measured, controlled, no noise, just the tears and a quiet labored breathing. What can this mean, this strange dream out of the blue? I flew home early, upgraded my ticket to come home last night instead of the scheduled next morning. I needed my own bed, my things, and to sleep at home. But this dream is important, and I can feel it compelling me to understand its meaning.

The morning has dawned gray and heavy, with winter perching in wait as the last of the fall is swept away by the endless wind. Today is Sunday; a potentially lazy day filled with the reentry tasks of unpacking, grocery shopping and organizing for the coming week after having been gone. As the day progresses the dream tugs at the corners of my consciousness, distracting me, calling to me, flashing its images of the empty woods. Was this some kind of prognostication, a prophetic dream about danger that I need somehow to avert?

For months I have been struggling with another decision about my son’s living situation. He is currently living in an out-of-state treatment facility for autism, and although his progress has been considerable, I have concerns about him continuing there. An opportunity for him to live closer to home has developed, containing a whole new set of pros and cons.

I carry my inability to clearly delineate what is right about this situation like a ball and chain weighing me down, inhibiting the ease of the rest of my life. When my son is unsettled or not doing well, it eclipses my ability to focus on anything else. Seth is my number one, and his needs can thwart any attempt at a balanced life. If only he could tell me what he wants, if only I could consciously decipher what is happening in his nine year old mind. I have been unable to make a clear decision about moving him, and have been leaning towards leaving him where he is.

My life seems to be a default process. I have often thought about writing a book called, Decorating by Default, why not a whole series, Parenting By Default, Life by Default, like the Dummy books. My decision making and parenting with my son is at best a default process. I do what I can, given the limited amount I know, at any given time, in any given circumstances. I pray for intervention and guidance, and this dream portends the need for some greater awareness on my part.

It’s now Tuesday morning and the dream is finally fading. I have made no progress with understanding it. This afternoon I have an appointment to visit the house that could potentially be my son’s new group home. I wrap myself in a thick wool shawl and steel myself against the day and the fear. I drive the 20 minutes to a neighboring suburb and follow the directions through various neighborhoods until I reach the classically cliché 70’s subdivision of Irish Hills. Turning onto Dublin Drive, I wind around and into the cul-de-sac. Empty of houses on one side the group home is situated at the base of a hill. Majestic and sizeable, it overlooks a large swampy wood that is, in fact, identical to the one from my dream.

I work to keep myself calm; the anxiety is rising, constricting my throat and pressing in on my thoughts. What does this mean? Is this serious evidence that the dream is a premonition? If I move him to this house will he escape and get lost in these woods? I can’t just dismiss it as subconscious fear any longer, and yet as I tour the house, I feel calm. I can see him here; see him playing in the yard, eating in the kitchen, sleeping in his room. I have no idea what all this means, or where to go with it, but I am troubled by it.

I promise myself I will sleep on it (my standard procedure for making any big decision) and see how I feel tomorrow. I spend the night tossing and turning, reliving the images from the dream a few nights prior. He so desperately needs me to find him. In a strange way maybe the dream is a metaphor for his whole life. The individual with classic autism lives in such an unreachable place, a lost place, a cold and threatening to devour one place. The elements of society, the noises, the movement, threaten to destroy, like the elements of the weather in the dream. No ability to provide himself with sustenance, no sustenance readily available. All of these thoughts commingle in a feverish kind of nonsense throughout the night. All the images from the dream just might be a formulation of the ongoing struggle to reach my child, to connect with him and help him survive.

It strikes me that in this endeavor to connect, my love for him is like a set of blinders. It sits on the periphery of my vision obscuring my ability to see the bigger picture. The dream seems to be tearing at the blinders, but all it generates are tears and confusion. I am always looking for some way to expand my understanding of the situation. I pray for intervention, and when it comes like this, in the form of a dream, I am loath to interpret it or put it to use.

As another day dawns there is still the insufferable wind, which is not the norm for Minnesota. I meet with my personal coach and discuss the dream. She is unsure what it means, but absolutely sure that if I can decipher the content, I will know what to do about Seth’s possible move. So driving home, I called various friends and ran with them. The consensus is mounting for an understanding of the dream as prophetic. People just can’t get over the coincidence of the wooded swamp in the dream and the one across from the group home. I, however, am unconvinced. I believe there might be a connection, but it isn’t what the dream is trying to tell me.

I finally decided to call a friend who used to teach dream interpretation. By some luck, I caught him on his way home from work, with time to talk. After I relay the dream, he informs me, “Sheryl, this is not a prophetic dream. It is happening now. Your son is lost right now, and needs you to find him.” I break into tears. “But Sam,” I say, “How do I find him?” “You bring him home” Sam states firmly, “You bring him home.”

Then, the most amazing thing starts happening. I can feel calm spreading from my head all the way down my body, and I am completely released from the fear and indecision. I know in that instant that Sam is telling me the truth. My son wants to be “home,” near me, close to his family. The dream is his way of calling out, of telling me what he wants. My coach was right. Once I understood the dream content, I would know what to do. So, after hanging up with Sam, I immediately called the group home and gave them a definite “Yes,” with a fairly strict caveat that they will need to be extra careful about his getting out and into those woods.

In all honesty I need to rely heavily on my unconscious and my intuition to make any substantial connection with my child. Autism is a conundrum of significant magnitude, and I, as a natural detective, must endlessly strive to solve it. I know there is still the possibility that he will get out and get lost at the new group home. Then why move him? Many will wonder, but I am certain that moving him was the directive of the dream, and what I am to do for now. So I will forge forward and deal with what comes next.