Broken Dreams

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I awoke from a dream and hours later I'm still pondering all it alludes to. I don't dream every night or what I'd consider often, but when I do they're vivid and have profound meaning. In this dream...

I was married to my young sweetheart and we wanted kids. We weren't so fortunate early on and it took it's toll on our lives individually and on the marriage. If nothing else, all she ever wanted was to be a Mother. And me, I wanted to be happy and definitely reproduce.

I was 47, she was 45 and we were finally blessed with a son. We soon discovered that our one and only was deaf and blind and unable to speak beyond elated or terror filled shrieks. I felt confused, my prayers betrayed, somehow punished, like Job, but I clung to all that was good and we learned braille and to sign in the palm of each others hands. It was more than 24/7. It was learning to live an entirely different existence. For her, it seemed to come natural initially. It was beautiful to observe. They bonded beyond my ability, while I headed out the door most days to work and provide.

We both were so focused on him and his needs, all we had left at the end of the day was restless sleep at best. There was no us. It took it's toll on her. In my absence she'd grown weary and frustrated and resorted to wine and pills. She hid this amazingly well. I was oblivious, until...

In a black out, she passed out on the couch and in his free reign of the place, he turned on the stove. Fortunately it did not ignite and the Carbon Monoxide detector went off and automatically alerted the Fire/Police departments and me at work. She admitted her problem and went to rehab. I installed cameras and my Boss, Co-workers and friends in our condo building helped with Junior.
It was a struggle to say the least but I became hyper vigilant. This was my one and only and failure just wasn't going to happen on my watch. Every conceivable safety device and system was in place. Overlapping fail safes. Accountability and the absolute best people involved I could ever imagine that truly cared.

She came home, I was concerned about relapse, kept her under my thumb, hovered like a hawk and had people drop by in my absence. In her mothering nature and with the joy in his life, having stepped out here and there I finally relaxed enough to take a break, feeling confident all was in the past and would be well.

Away on a business outing, tragedy struck. I came home to sirens and smoke and people in the street. A fire on the 7th floor. She was brought out on a gurney, smokey ash on her face. Where's Junior?  I was restrained.

In the days that followed, there were two theories that came out. One suggested that she relapsed and after the most amazing evening with him of dinner and play, she passed out, again. And with free reign he turned on the stove and this time it ignited. In fear for what he could not see but could smell and feel he escaped onto our balcony. When the flames sought the rich oxygen and the drapes became engulfed, he had no where to go but jump, into the abyss.


The other and the one proof was provided of, was that the video from the cameras I'd installed revealed that they had the best evening ever. Full of play and as was her nature to understand the child that came from her, she wore a blind fold and ear plugs. After eating they played with the sensory panel full of knobs and bolts and various textures that had been made by a friend who had an autistic child. They sat in the living room floor communicating and loving on each other as they rolled and tumbled and fell onto the pillows that surrounded them like a corral.

She carried him to bed, wore out from all the play. She hadn't tied him down. The image of him resting peacefully, un-tethered to was too good not to savor, if even for just a bit. He often had what appeared to be terrible dreams. To watch him endure them while tied down seemed unjust, too much to bear. All seemed right with the world. She went to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine, walked onto the balcony to reflect and celebrate a full circle, the cycle of life, feeling like the mother she always wanted to be. Having not consumed alcohol in a long time, she soon rested her eyes on the couch before planning to get up and clean up, finish tucking him in and go to bed herself.

He got out of bed, ventured into the kitchen and turned the knobs on the stove, this time igniting...


She didn't recover. She blamed herself. She was committed to an asylum, where she bit her tongue off and gouged her eyes out and jammed pencils in her ears destroying her eardrums.

She now lays in her bed, strapped down suffering from horrible dreams... broken dreams.

My son is dead, I can't communicate with her. I've moved on, I forgive her.