Dreams about Dad

In the first dream I had about dad, I was a teenager throwing a party with my folks out of town. My parents came home early. I watched the car pull into the garage. I slammed the door to the garage in a fit of panic. My friends scattered and bolted out of there, leaving their bottles behind. I retreated to the farthest end of the room, about to get busted.

My mom stayed in the garage. Dad entered with a forlorn look on his face. He was wearing a hairpiece that made me cringe. It looked so phony, with mismatched colors—a black nest atop a silver crown. It was the sort of thing he’d refuse to wear when he was alive.

We both knew this scene was all wrong. I was in my late 30s and he was gone. He didn’t bother scolding me. What’s the point?

Sometimes we could laugh about the dark side, but not this time. I woke up with what felt like a stomp to the chest. In the morning gloom I was painfully alone. It was a cosmic FU to a grieving son.

At the dinner after dad’s funeral, my friend Jim had told me I could contact him anytime I wanted to discuss this new wound in my heart. He’s taught me that the burden of grief is a little less when we share it. Jim has lost a few loved ones, going back many years. I described that dream to him in a message.

“I see a connection to my own dreams,” he said. “We are always back at our shared childhood home or somewhere familiar like grandma’s. But we’re all our current or final ages. You are seeing your dad in a different way now. And you are like.. Whoa! Dream-related emotional unpacking is fucked.”

“The hardest part,” I replied, “Is having no control over it.”

“Yeah, the dreams can be the worst,” he responded. “When you dream that everything is back to normal and everyone is happy. Then you wake up, realize it was a dream, and the nightmare begins. I call them reverse nightmares.”

In the second dream, dad gathered the family in the living room. We knew he was sick and getting worse, but he tried to show us he still had some strength. Beside the window, he opened the blinds with a tug of the rope. Light poured in after his dubious proof of strength.

“See?” he said with a thin sarcastic smile.

The sequel was an upgrade over the original. My dreams about dad improved from hopeless to underwhelming. I got more guidance from Jim.

“The dreams are your brain’s way of dealing with complex emotions,“ he said. “The way I look at it now is that in my dreams I’m able to hang around with people I miss, even if it’s in a wonky environment or situation. They’re bittersweet. I used to feel like my dreams were haunted. But now I think of them as a blessing.”

This was a more uplifting message than the one about reverse nightmares. I wanted to feel that blessing in my intangible mind. I wanted to see my dad the only way I could.

In my sleep, dad materialized and told me he was browsing online for a new car. I sighed and reminded him that, under the circumstances, there was no need for him to do that.

A week later I was rushing back from the fridge to hand him a beer as he sat on the couch. I was eager to please, but he looked at the can nonplussed. He told me he likes a different brand.

“Which one?” I asked.

“Well, Nick… It doesn’t matter,” he said. And you know why.

These were not the deep connections my heart wanted. My subconscious was acting like a punk. But I had to sleep every night. It was easy to keep trying to see him in a way that felt special. Not cheap. I knew he had the power to use his love like a form of magic, even now. Maybe especially now.

In the last dream I had about dad, I was driving home from work. It was the same route I took to get home from my old job at the call center in Neenah. I had to pull over because, farther down Tayco Street, the road was flooded. A trail of cars was stopped before the glimmering pool of water. With no way to bypass the flooded road, I parked in the lot outside a bar to figure out my next move. I went inside to get a beer to help me unwind.

My friend David sat at the bar. I took the stool next to him. As it happens, David lost his dad several years ago. When I asked him about the flood down the road, he shrugged his shoulders and stared at me with comic exaggeration. Cosmic mystery, he said without speaking. He too had no clue about the flood. So we sipped our beers and cracked each other up, talking nonsense as we do.

Then I heard a voice let out a high-pitched call: “Aaaahhhhaaaahhhh.” It sounded silly yet triumphant. I knew it to be the sound made when the pearly gates open in heaven, as it does in a movie or cartoon.

That was how dad made me turn my head. He grinned to reveal his front teeth and the dimples in his cheeks. His blue eyes squinted and shined beneath his Brewers hat. He strolled over to me with swagger and sweetness. Baggy gray sweatshirt, loose blue jeans, white New Balance shoes. In an instant, elation ran through my body. This wasn’t a knockoff or cruel parody. This was Bill! I felt the pure joy of the man’s authenticity.

In response to his heavenly sound effect, I said, “I bet you’re making that noise a lot these days.”

He leaned in and hugged me. I was happy to hug him back. (I learned later that I had wrapped my arms around a pillow and squeeeeeezed.)

“How are you?” he said.

Tears began to stream.

“I’m OK, dad,” I said. That was partially a lie, as it always is. A moment later, I added, “I miss you so much.” That was all true.

“Ohh… I miss you too, son,” he said.

We cried for joy and melancholy and held on to each other a few more seconds. I woke up with a blink feeling replenished and clean. It was 5:30 in the morning and I’d never started a day so perfectly. I stopped squeezing my pillow and started raining tears on it. I grabbed my phone right away and wrote a note to sum it up.

Dad was unable to speak on his last day. The pain the cancer brought got so all-consuming that he could moan in agony and nothing more. I said “I love you” enough times to embarrass the man, but I didn’t care. It hurt that he couldn’t say it back.

The most convincing case for the existence of heaven came to me in my last dream about dad. It was a feeling that I could never put into words, and I’m at peace with that. It might sound corny or cliched, but I don’t care.

My dad said goodbye to me the only way he could.