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Dreams Do Come True

Dreams Do Come True

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Published by Phil Shepherd
A true story about death and reconciliation
A true story about death and reconciliation

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Published by: Phil Shepherd on May 27, 2009
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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06/14/2009

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Dreams Do Come TrueI awoke from the dream and lay there thinking about it for just a few moments before my pressing schedule required that I get up and go downstairs to began another workdaymorning. I was having lots of dreams during that time, so even this one, with my mother standing next to an inner spiritual guide we both had studied under asking if she cancome and stay with me for the last four to six months of her life, didn’t stay with melong. In the light of a busy morning, I figured it might be symbolic of something. Ididn’t really give it much more thought than that.Months passed and I forgot totally about the dream. The day before my forty-ninth birthday and five days before my mother’s seventy-ninth, I gave her a call. I was feelingthis deep sense of gratitude to her for giving me birth and I wanted to thank her by takingher out for dinner on my birthday. When she answered the phone she was shy and timid,which was not like her. She had always been an extremely opinionated person and her relish for a good mental battle had grown over the years into an obsession. She and Inever spent a normal time together anymore. It was always a test to see how long wecould be pleasant before she would try and pick a fight. In the last decade I had strugglednot to get drawn in and fortunately was becoming more successful with each passingyear. But my reluctance only seemed to redouble her efforts.My forgoing of our ongoing war happened because of an incident ten years earlier. Wewere sitting in a restaurant waiting for our meal. She and I had already drifted into one of our common battles. Our skirmishes always began with a few snide comments followed by a hit parade of hurt feelings and past sins. We had been very close when I was a child, but as I entered adulthood each of our disappointment in the other had grown, blockingout the love that still flowed strongly enough to keep us coming back for more.As this particular dinner battle grew in intensity, it struck me how bad this fighting mademe feel. Had all my trying to best her or illuminate her on the errors of her ways, reallychanged anything over the years? At that moment, the strangest phenomenon occurred.My right eye continued to observe the restaurant but within my left eye a movie reel began to play. Scene after scene appeared and then vanished. In them there were onlytwo players: this person who was now my mother and I, not as we are today, but as wewere throughout history. I saw us as brothers in Ancient Greece and then rivals inAncient Rome, then as a king and an oppressed servant, a pirate and a captive, an abusivefather and terrorized daughter. We were constantly changing places. In one life I wasthe oppressor in the next, the victim. This Soul and I had locked on to each other andspent an eon trying to love and best the other while working through all the foibles andhorrors we humans visit upon others and ourselves. Scene after scene played, it seemedthere was no end. Then an inner voice asked if I wanted to keep this theater of experience up? The answer that burst out of me was a resounding no. Then it said, juststop doing it. So simple… just stop.I made every effort from that moment on to stop the battles. But for her, the desire for them just seemed to grow stronger. It was as if my very being was an angry drug to
 
which she had become addicted. I sometimes failed and got swept up in fighting again but through it all, I kept the vision of the two of us ending this life in spiritual love.So when I called and this tiger of a lady came across as shy and a little scared I gently prodded her to tell me what was going on. Finally, she confessed she had been in bed,not sick, but not right either and since there was no food in her house, she hadn’t eatenfor two days. I told her to hang on I would be up there in an hour. When I got there shewas smiling and grateful for my help. I bought her groceries and cooked her dinner. Thenext day I drove up to her house again and took her out to dinner like I had planned for my forty-ninth birthday. We ate at a very tacky Red Lobster since it was the onlyrestaurant near her house. I remember thinking this was not how I had envisioned thismeal. I took her home with me that night.The follow-up with the doctors was onerous but through it all, she was so kind andcheerful, bearing it all with a childlike sense of acceptance. So different from the attitudeof suspicion and barely hidden contempt she had leveled against these same men just sixmonths earlier. Now I was the one doing battle with the American health care system. Iknew something was very wrong with her, but I didn’t know what. The true nature of her illness wasn’t revealed until she had a falling accident at my sister’s and broke her hip. Ascan of her body before surgery revealed cancer in several places. The most worrisomewas in her brain. The doctor, who was explaining her condition, got a smile on his face.He asked if she was easy to be around. My sister and I laughed telling him that since shehad gotten sick she was. He told us that the area of her brain most affected was the areathat controlled negative emotions; the cancer had eaten it away. He said she wasterminal, but that she would have a very pleasant few months. It was then I rememberedmy dream and her request.After her hospital visit, she moved back in with my partner and I. She had never liked or accepted my partner during the twenty-seven years we had been together, but now, sheadored him. She called him, “The Genius”, and would not do anything unless heapproved. I became Mr. Blue Eyes.Some mornings she would awaken with news from her travels on the other side. Her firstcomment being a mild complaint about all the things she had to do before they would lether out of this place. Then she spoke about a school she was attending. Sometimes shewould utter comments such as: “If people only knew how much love is in this world.”or: “You know all those things I used to believe. Well, they aren’t true.” We got so welooked forward to hearing her little spiritual messages.Through the following five months, she suffered very little pain and by late summer haddrifted into active dying. We all spent time with her, filling her room with upliftingmusic, stroking her hand and putting very small doses of morphine under her tongue tohelp ease her struggle. One Friday night, I sensed she was close, so I laid out some blankets on the floor in her room and started to settle in to be with her. Suddenly, acascade of whitish light filled the area at the foot of her bed. It was my father who haddied over thirty years earlier. I was very surprised to see him. It had never entered my

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