November 6, 2006
About half an hour ago, I woke from a recurring dream, a variation on one that I've had ever since Schuyler's diagnosis in the summer of 2003. It's the dream where she talks to me. I hate the dream, even though I also love it a little. I hate how I feel when I wake up and Schuyler's reality hits me all over again, dissipating the dream like smoke.
This time it was a little different. I was holding a baby girl -- our baby, the second child we were never able to have -- and I was wondering where Schuyler was and how she was doing, in that way that I usually think about her during the day, from the moment I put her on the bus and give her over to the world.
Just then, in my dream, she came up behind me and put her hand on my shoulder, and she said the same thing she always does. "It's going to be okay," she said. And then she asked where her beanbag chair was.
Julie woke me in the middle of the dream so I could put Schuyler on the bus after she left for work. I found Schuyler on the couch, getting her morning Zaboomafoo fix. I asked her how she was doing. She smiled and silently gave me a thumbs up.
It's going to be okay. I still hurt for her, though.