Last night, I had a collection of bad dreams, but I’m only really aware of two. The first one is gone in that fog of sleep that happens, but the second is sorta interesting.
I was getting onto a plane (at least the building I was in was very similar to an airport, with escalators, and lots of people coming and going), and had someone who reminded me of John Candy leading the way, and it was all somewhat rushed, like he was helping me get where I was going before time ran out. I was taking an escalator down, and then was placed into a capsule that was vaguely tube-shaped. Little windows at the top, and metal bars and framework around me. There was a sense of a countdown, and exhiliration of takeoff, but then something went wrong.
The tube was filling extremely quickly with water. Clear and clean, and fairly warm, but choking nonetheless. I couldn’t move, and couldn’t get myself out of the canister I was in, but wasn’t really able to do much but kick feebly at the edges of the tube, hoping that someone could hear me, or do something to get me out. The air in my lungs exploded out of me in a cough, and I felt the compression of claustrophobia in my chest. I sucked in water, and felt it burn my nose, and kept kicking… and kicking… I was heartbroken, I was dying, and couldn’t do anything about it. There was no panic any more, just futility, and loss.
I woke, and while I couldn’t move (what’s that chemical that we release into our muscles that keeps us from running around in our sleep?), I gasped in air, and then lay there panting, my head pounding and my heart bashing my ribcage as I lay on my still-numb hands.
I looked around a little, and realized that Tate was in the bed, but the soft (foamy, sorta rigid) pillow was over his head. I yanked it back and threw it almost off the foot of the bed, and then watched him closely in the dim light to make sure he was breathing. He was lying on his back, his head was turned to the side, away from me, and yes, he was breathing. He obviously hadn’t been bothered by the pillow at all. At least, he didn’t appear to be distressed in any way.
So why did I dream of drowning? Did my six-month-old son send the sensation of smothering to me for long enough to wake me to get the pillow off his head?
That stuff aside, I’ve been feeling the hangover from dying today, and it still hurts. I’m still sad about it.