Haunted

Last night found me in a fitful 13 hour sleep; I fell asleep nursing Fiona to bed at 6 PM and was in bed until a quarter before seven this morning. I swear I nursed her 24 times in the night, possibly more, and because I was waking so much I was filled with vivid dreams swirling around in my early morning haze this morning.

Several were interesting, intriguing and I entertained Liam on the drive to school recounting them. The man, a french-speaking African, who accidentally picked up my bag from the sidewalk where I had left it next to my van. I was able to help him; he didn't speak english and was confused on the street where he stood. It was right out of the book I had enjoyed last month, Tracy Kidder's Strength in What Remains; about a refugee from Burundi. Then there was the dream about my in-laws new home, an ancient stone castle high on a hill. My father in-law drove me to see another castle down the street which was replacing its windows. Then he proceeded to drive his car, in reverse, back up towards his home. Through the front windshield I spotted a mother siberian tiger and her two cubs. I was amazed to realize we were in India. This dream reminds me that today I had on my agenda to call the replacement window contractors to come for estimates on our ancient front windows.

And then there was the dream that I don't share with Liam, the one that leaves me gaping, helpless. In the dream I am in a sterile, yellow room. Fiona is on my lap. In a scene I cannot recall, a person with an old-fashioned rifle has shot her clean through her thigh. She is naked except for a diaper, and the wound is dark purple and round, with deep, red, nearly black arterial blood beginning to ooze from its border. Liam is next to me, begging me to do something, but I can see the glaze beginning in my baby's eyes. I know there is nothing I can do, she is being taken from me. It is too late.
And in the dream I am plotting, scheming in my mind. A tourniquet, perhaps? Couldn't I tie something around her upper leg, to stop the blood from leaving her? Is there somebody I can call to save her? But as I am scheming, it is as if it is already too late, similar to another circumstance in my life about which I need not elaborate here. The thoughts in my mind to save her are wishful thinking, and she sits on my lap, still warm, the wound open, and my son cries into her chest.

I remain haunted.