On December 8, 2020, over three months after Cooper died, I finally dreamt of him. Somehow, I had the presence of mind to put the dream in a note in my phone. I’d hoped and prayed for a Cooper dream, and it finally happened.
Given the circumstances of his death, the “dream” could’ve come in the form of a nightmare, but not that first time; that first dream was a reassurance, a salve for my raw soul. I’m certain the dream meant something and that Coop was behind it. I want to believe it was him. I need to believe it was him. And for once, I just let myself believe. Logic can suck it.
By the time of that first dream, I’d survived three and a half months of After—the horrible week of his death, his birthday, Thanksgiving, and many “normal” days that wrecked me. I’d been back at work for three months, put up a scrawny, cardinal-laden tree mid-November (I’m not usually that person), planted memorial trees, and watched as autumn crept into winter, but I hadn’t had a single Cooper dream.
It hardly seemed fair.
Finally, and probably at just the right time, I dreamt I was hunting for something, rushing through a space I can’t remember, when I found Cooper. I hugged him, held his face in my hands, and we spoke. In my dream, it was After, but he looked like himself.
“Are you okay?”
“How?”
“In your head.”
“I am now. I wasn’t before.”
Whoa.
I awoke crying and clinging to my damp pillow, trying desperately to return to my dream. That never works.
On days when I just can’t stop my mind, when I’m in Mom-overdrive, sick with worry and regret and sorrow and noisy grief, I try to return to this dream. I try to reassure myself, just as I know Cooper tried to reassure me, that he is now okay because he’s right—he was not okay before. If I can’t have him here, I at least need to believe he is at peace. I need to believe he found what he’d lost. I need to believe that his many varied wounds are healed. Remembering that first dream helps.
There have been other dreams (and many nightmares), but nothing that brought the peace of the first dream. Once, I dreamt he was getting ready to leave the farm on his motorcycle. In my middle of the night note, I wrote that it was clear he was really leaving. Saying goodbye. Riding away forever. Another time, I dreamt I was sitting across from a good friend. Her hair seemed different, then she raised her face, looked me right in the eye, and gave me this shit-eating grin. It was Cooper. There are others, some I’ll never share and some I may. The nightmares are mine alone.
I’ve gotten good at opening Notes in the middle of the night and putting in enough of the dream that I’ll remember it the next morning. I’m terrified of forgetting a single dream, a single imagined hug that seems so real, a moment of his giant hand curled over mine, a glimpse of sunlight catching on his red hair.
I’m terrified of forgetting.
I’m terrified, but could I really forget my son? Of course not. I carry the smell of sunshine from the top of his little-boy head; the reassuring pressure of his great hugs; the feel of his fingers curling over mine, a full knuckle to spare; the sound of his gap-toothed whistle as he played call and response with a neighbor up the street. And that grin. My God, the grin.
I don’t dream of Cooper as often as I’d like, but I’m grateful for each one. The remembered dreams are entered into my “Dreams” note, but I don’t always remember. If I awake clutching my own shoulders in a pretend hug, if I awake with my right fingertips folded over my left, if I awake to a tear-soaked pillow and stuffy nose, I like to tell myself Cooper visited my dreams, and I let myself believe.
Woods Writes 