Dreams have always fascinated me. Some tell of a future we’d rather not face; others bring insight and inspiration. Below are some dreams from my memoir, Watching for Dragonflies: A Caregiver’s Transformative Journey, in which I write about the years I cared for my husband, Michael, who suffered from multiple sclerosis:

More than once, in the summer months after his collapse, Michael asks, “What is happening to me?” It’s more a bewildered lament than a question.

As his legs stubbornly refuse to respond to his will, he begins to feel that his body has betrayed him. He can no longer control it; he is no longer himself, and his image of his old self is inexorably slipping away.

Our growing anxiety continues to be echoed in our dreams. In a recent one of Michael’s, he’s driving a big truck down the highway when suddenly he loses control and panics; the truck veers sharply out of its lane. He is terrified.

In one of my own dreams, I witness a showdown. We’re somewhere in the Wild West. Michael appears youthful, in jeans and a plaid cotton shirt. We want to go through a gate in a fence, but a huge, intimidating animal bars our path. It looks like a kangaroo with a seal’s head, and, as Michael attempts to pass, it continues to threaten him. He’s afraid, but he confronts this unnatural-looking animal, refusing to flee. I can see his body begin to shake, and he finally decides to turn back. I, in turn, am left to wonder whether I have the strength and courage to face down this beast by myself.

I share many dreams in my memoir. Some, such as these, foretell ominous events while others are positive, revealing internal resources that assist me on my caregiving journey. In one of the latter, I dream of a strange goddess. I see a young woman who has been enchanted; eyes appear all over her head and in her long, dark hair. She is beautiful. I sense that this dream is showing me that my awareness is increasing now and that I’m also becoming more conscious of my nurturing feminine energy and intuition and the collaborative power it brings.

Have you had dreams that you’d like to share?

Photo by Ellen Tanner on Unsplash

When you see a disabled person facing a flight of stairs, do you ever think of their right to be disabled? Listen to Norm’s take on this; it just might change your thinking.

When my husband, Michael, was confined to a wheelchair, for seven days he was immersed in a rigorous program of physical therapy, occupational therapy, speech therapy, and group therapy led by a licensed clinical social worker. All this happened when he qualified for treatment in our HMO’s rehabilitation facility. He had a written schedule that hung in a plastic sleeve from his wheelchair, and he was responsible for being at the right place at the right time. He had the benefit of excellent medical staff, who carefully selected and tracked his programs and therapies, and his admitting doctor oversaw his treatment and progress. Although he had a regular hospital bed in a four-man ward, he was rarely in it except to sleep at night and, sometimes, to rest for a couple of hours in the afternoon. He took his meals in a group room and participated in the activities and movies that were provided for patients during their free time. I was able to visit him whenever I wanted, but because the facility was quite a distance from home, I didn’t come every day. I was able to take some time off for myself, secure in knowing that he was well taken care of.

            Michael got more cheerful while he was there. The hospital was laid out to accommodate wheelchairs, and the wide hallways made it easy for him to wheel around to the various rooms. 

            “I thought I was getting better,” he told me when I visited one day. “But the doctor tells me my MS isn’t disappearing. It’s just easier for me here. Everything’s laid out for a wheelchair, and I have all kinds of support.”

            He did make progress, however, and as his functioning improved, he saw new possibilities opening up for him. His balance and walking got better. He became independent in upper-body dressing, only needing help with pants, socks, and shoes, and his confidence improved. Physical therapy increased his strength and range of motion, and when he came home, he had an exercise program designed to maintain his gains. 

            Two caring women in the occupational therapy department got Michael approved for a customized, electric power chair. It had mid-wheel drive, which made it highly maneuverable, and Michael loved it. When he took it out for a test drive in the parking lot and garage, he put it through its paces. The chair passed the test and, thanks in large part to Medicare (which Michael had received early due to his disability status), he was finally outfitted with what he needed.  

            While I was visiting him one day, the physical therapist asked Michael if he would like to stand up. “You bet!” he said. So, the physical therapist strapped Michael onto a standing board. This device gradually raised him from a prone position to almost 90 degrees. 

            The first thing he said when he was “standing” was “I want to hug my wife.” 

I moved close and embraced him, and he put his arms around me. It was the first time we had held each other this way in years. I was a little self-conscious being in a room full of people but feeling the full length of his body against mine was sublime. I closed my eyes, rested my head on his chest, and savored the moment. We held each other until the therapist came to crank Michael down.

            I highly recommend checking out rehab possibilities if your loved-one qualifies. For Michael, it was definitely time well spent.