For the past couple days, I have been in a Hellvirus wax, and have therefore have been taking Ny-Quil (a substance I usually abhor), so that I might actually sleep at night, rather than thrash around, coughing, snotting, and kicking off covers, creating an utter nighttime hell for both The Ginger and for me. As a result, both my waking and dreaming life have been a little surreal.
The other night, I dreamed of my brother. Well, not him so much as his bedroom.
When Michael was alive, like most teenage boys are wont to do, he spent most of his time holed up there. We affectionately called it "The Cave" and him "The Cave-Dweller", something that may or may not have made him hate us all a little. He would emerge every so often, usually for meals, and stay for the roughly 15 minutes it took him to inhale his food and grunt a few words conversationally. Then he would disappear back into his comfy little hole, amongst the company of the computer, video games, music and art that he loved so.
After the funeral, during the first few nightmarish weeks, the sweet woman from the funeral home came by to deliver a plastic bag of Michael's things that he had the night they found him. My dad took the bag from her, and in a choked-up voice, said "I'll just go put it in his room." I followed him up the stairs, where I watched him crack open the door, lay the bag on the floor, and close the door behind him. That was the last time any of us have been able to even come close to going in there.
My parents have to pass by his door every single day. I don't know how they do it. When I go home to visit, just the sight of the now-bare wooden door, stripped of all his signage ("Do Not Disturb Before Noon on Weekends" and other teenage sentiments) reduces me to tears. It doesn't seem right that the door be sealed shut without him hiding out behind it. I almost imagine that he's still there, and has been since April, and that any minute the door will open, with him poking his sleepy head out to say hello.
Anyway. Michael's room is hugely symbolic. And in my dream, my mom came to me, a complete crying wreck, but with strength and determination in her voice, and said, "It's time to go into Michael's room, and I need you with me." With heavy hearts, we opened the door and crossed the threshold. It looked the way I remembered it - walls sponge-painted dark blue, toys and games and clothes everywhere. My mom went to retrieve the bag from the funeral home and pulled out items one by one: a house key, his wallet, a journal. I, on the other hand, stared at the walls with a combination of sadness and surprised joy.
See, his bedroom used to be mine when I was his age and we first moved into the Harrison Ave house. When I went off to college, my parents unceremoniously moved Michael into my room and me into the spare room (which was the size of a closet), something that I resented for a while. I eventually realized that I was glad Michael had the bigger room.
In my dream, the pictures of my friends and I that had adorned the walls when it was my room were still there. With tears in her eyes, my mom said, "He left them up there. He looked up to you so much." I realized that Michael really did love me a lot, and that I was a good sister to him after all. And I was still really happy that he had gotten to make the big bedroom his very own for the time he was alive.
Before the other night, I hadn't dreamed about Michael in a long time. So in some sick, twisted universe-logic kind of way, the Hellvirus has been kind of a blessing. I'm even thinking maybe I should trip balls on cold medicine more often, if it means I get another chance to reconnect with my brother.
When Michael was alive, like most teenage boys are wont to do, he spent most of his time holed up there. We affectionately called it "The Cave" and him "The Cave-Dweller", something that may or may not have made him hate us all a little. He would emerge every so often, usually for meals, and stay for the roughly 15 minutes it took him to inhale his food and grunt a few words conversationally. Then he would disappear back into his comfy little hole, amongst the company of the computer, video games, music and art that he loved so.
After the funeral, during the first few nightmarish weeks, the sweet woman from the funeral home came by to deliver a plastic bag of Michael's things that he had the night they found him. My dad took the bag from her, and in a choked-up voice, said "I'll just go put it in his room." I followed him up the stairs, where I watched him crack open the door, lay the bag on the floor, and close the door behind him. That was the last time any of us have been able to even come close to going in there.
My parents have to pass by his door every single day. I don't know how they do it. When I go home to visit, just the sight of the now-bare wooden door, stripped of all his signage ("Do Not Disturb Before Noon on Weekends" and other teenage sentiments) reduces me to tears. It doesn't seem right that the door be sealed shut without him hiding out behind it. I almost imagine that he's still there, and has been since April, and that any minute the door will open, with him poking his sleepy head out to say hello.
Anyway. Michael's room is hugely symbolic. And in my dream, my mom came to me, a complete crying wreck, but with strength and determination in her voice, and said, "It's time to go into Michael's room, and I need you with me." With heavy hearts, we opened the door and crossed the threshold. It looked the way I remembered it - walls sponge-painted dark blue, toys and games and clothes everywhere. My mom went to retrieve the bag from the funeral home and pulled out items one by one: a house key, his wallet, a journal. I, on the other hand, stared at the walls with a combination of sadness and surprised joy.
See, his bedroom used to be mine when I was his age and we first moved into the Harrison Ave house. When I went off to college, my parents unceremoniously moved Michael into my room and me into the spare room (which was the size of a closet), something that I resented for a while. I eventually realized that I was glad Michael had the bigger room.
In my dream, the pictures of my friends and I that had adorned the walls when it was my room were still there. With tears in her eyes, my mom said, "He left them up there. He looked up to you so much." I realized that Michael really did love me a lot, and that I was a good sister to him after all. And I was still really happy that he had gotten to make the big bedroom his very own for the time he was alive.
Before the other night, I hadn't dreamed about Michael in a long time. So in some sick, twisted universe-logic kind of way, the Hellvirus has been kind of a blessing. I'm even thinking maybe I should trip balls on cold medicine more often, if it means I get another chance to reconnect with my brother.
Posts
