Nightmares are not new to me. My earliest memories involve dreams of things growing out the floor and houses with dimly lit plywood mazes filled with monsters I could hear but never glimpse.
Last night I dreamed of Iraq. We were home, Chris and I and my youngest son, enjoying beautiful Southern California weather and standing in the garage. Around the edges of my vision the landscape began to change. The colors washed out and heat distorted the distance. Soon I could hear small arms fire.
I was first to see them. A group of soldiers hunkered down behind a short wall sending rounds down range. When they saw us they called for my husband.
Maybe they were short a medic, maybe they needed cover, or maybe I was just having an anxiety dream about the knowledge that, given the chance, Chris would go back in a heartbeat. And in my dream he did go. He ran off back into the sand leaving us to watch the war drift closer and closer until in enveloped our world.
At six when I woke I told myself the dream would leave me like so many of them do after a few hours. Only a small number of very specific images linger in my mind for more than that. This one however has not only lingered but has hung at the back of my eyes all day waiting for a chance to create the hot feeling I get across the bridge of nose warning me of impending tears.
I learned a new sympathy for Chris though I know what I experienced is nothing close to the dreams that wake him screaming some nights. Why? Because the monsters I dreamed of do not exist.
Chris’ monsters are real and he’ll always carry them.
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