Dreams and Prayers (or More Scenes from a Recuperation)
I don’t know what it means but I have had a couple of odd dreams since the surgery.
About two days after the surgery, I dreamt that I was walking around the hospital looking for the oxygen cannula, that two pronged plastic thing that sits under your nostrils and gives you oxygen. When I woke up, I discovered that I had knocked it away from my face, so I readjusted it and went back to sleep.
Two weeks ago, I had the oddest dream about my mother. In the dream, I was hurt and angry that, not only had she not come to see me when I was in the hospital, she had not even come up to see how I was doing now that I was home. She hadn’t even called. In the dream, I was getting more upset and angry that she was ignoring me. I woke up from the dream still feeling angry and hurt that she had not shown any concern about my surgery. It was a typical bad-dream emotional backwash. After a couple of minutes, when I was more awake, I remembered that my mother died more than 15 years ago. This made me feel sort of stupid at getting angry in the dream. Freud would probably have a field day over that one.
I also remember this odd reverie I had the first day or so after surgery. I was lying in the hospital bed, still sort of out of it from the anesthesia and the pain killers, and I decided that I ought to pray. So, I started saying an Our Father to myself.
Our heaven who art in Father. Not right.
Art Father who our in heaven. That sort of sounded right, but not quite. I tried that one again and got stuck on the Art Father part. Art. God. Creation and creator. I started this theological discussion with myself about God the creator and art being a creation and this went around in circles for a bit. I thought the whole thing was just blindingly brilliant and a major breakthrough in religious thought before I fell asleep again.
I didn’t remember this again until a few days ago and I laughed myself silly over it. This may prove that you should not pray under the influence of painkillers.
I am doing excellently. I feel much better, but not stronger. I have to build up my stamina a lot before I go back to work. I no longer have to wear the abdominal binder all the time, but I usually wear it if I am walking.
However—insert trumpet fanfare here—I am driving again. Believe me, this feels great. I have gone shopping for groceries and gone to the pharmacy and driven myself to church. Yesterday, I drove to the Danbury Mall and met Cathy, who drove down from Springfield, Mass., to have lunch with me. My college friends are the best. After lunch, I had a haircut and did some shopping.
I am also able to sleep on my side now. I had been sleeping on my back for the last few weeks, which meant that I was snoring. My mouth would be terribly dry when I woke up and sometimes it was the dryness that woke me up.
Things just keep improving.
About two days after the surgery, I dreamt that I was walking around the hospital looking for the oxygen cannula, that two pronged plastic thing that sits under your nostrils and gives you oxygen. When I woke up, I discovered that I had knocked it away from my face, so I readjusted it and went back to sleep.
Two weeks ago, I had the oddest dream about my mother. In the dream, I was hurt and angry that, not only had she not come to see me when I was in the hospital, she had not even come up to see how I was doing now that I was home. She hadn’t even called. In the dream, I was getting more upset and angry that she was ignoring me. I woke up from the dream still feeling angry and hurt that she had not shown any concern about my surgery. It was a typical bad-dream emotional backwash. After a couple of minutes, when I was more awake, I remembered that my mother died more than 15 years ago. This made me feel sort of stupid at getting angry in the dream. Freud would probably have a field day over that one.
I also remember this odd reverie I had the first day or so after surgery. I was lying in the hospital bed, still sort of out of it from the anesthesia and the pain killers, and I decided that I ought to pray. So, I started saying an Our Father to myself.
Our heaven who art in Father. Not right.
Art Father who our in heaven. That sort of sounded right, but not quite. I tried that one again and got stuck on the Art Father part. Art. God. Creation and creator. I started this theological discussion with myself about God the creator and art being a creation and this went around in circles for a bit. I thought the whole thing was just blindingly brilliant and a major breakthrough in religious thought before I fell asleep again.
I didn’t remember this again until a few days ago and I laughed myself silly over it. This may prove that you should not pray under the influence of painkillers.
I am doing excellently. I feel much better, but not stronger. I have to build up my stamina a lot before I go back to work. I no longer have to wear the abdominal binder all the time, but I usually wear it if I am walking.
However—insert trumpet fanfare here—I am driving again. Believe me, this feels great. I have gone shopping for groceries and gone to the pharmacy and driven myself to church. Yesterday, I drove to the Danbury Mall and met Cathy, who drove down from Springfield, Mass., to have lunch with me. My college friends are the best. After lunch, I had a haircut and did some shopping.
I am also able to sleep on my side now. I had been sleeping on my back for the last few weeks, which meant that I was snoring. My mouth would be terribly dry when I woke up and sometimes it was the dryness that woke me up.
Things just keep improving.
posted by Valerie DeBenedette at 11:41 AM
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