Day 248

When my alarm went off this morning, my dream left me feeling disoriented, confused, and angry. At the start of the dream, Mom and I were at church. In my head, it was supposed to be Sacred Heart, the church I grew up in, the one my mom still goes to, but I could tell by the way it looked that we were somewhere else. I told mom that it looked different — the room had been stretched, the pews turned 90 degrees and pushed towards the walls so that there was a vast empty space in the middle, and the alter was gone — and she confirmed that they had done renovations. But it wasn’t renovations. I knew that. It was a different place entirely. Somewhere warm, like Fiji. Mom insisted that it was Sacred Heart, and the annoyance in her eyes silenced me. All around, I felt the presence of other people. However, I saw no one but mom. Then the dream shifted. We were still in a tropical place, but now we were on a patio — made of pinkish red brinks — at a fancy hotel, the sort of place I’ll never be able to afford, the type of place I only would have gone to if Dad insisted and paid. There was a barbecue and people were milling about with mixed drinks. Out of no where, Dad — wearing his swim trunks and beach jacket — walked up to us smiling, as if he’d only stepped away to the bar. Joy surrounded me. Joy that lasted no more than a moment. He went to hug me and I stepped away. He couldn’t be there. He was dead. Dead people don’t randomly show up no matter how badly you want to see them. I called him on it. I called him a fraud and mom got angry. Suddenly, my son appeared at my side. He tugged on my shirt and whispered in my ear, “Photoshop.” So I reached for my phone, snapped a picture, and raced to my computer. Pulling the picture up on the screen I saw it, the subtly difference, where the mask of his face wasn’t quite attached properly, where it hung in a fold where his check should have been. And the freckles on his arm weren’t arranged properly. As I worked on the computer my son morphed into my spouse. “It’s a scam,” she said. “What do you think he wants?”

And that’s when I woke up. Why did I have to question his presence? It was a dream. Why couldn’t I simply be happy that he was there? When my mother dreams of him she never questions his arrival, she smiles, greeting him warmly. But even in my sleep, deep in dreamland, my doubts poisoned me. My need for a rational explanation stripped me of a much needed moment of happiness. I needed a rational explanation, and in searching for one I found only disappointment.

This afternoon my son and I had a much needed break. We drove to Califon to visit a friend of mine and her two young boys. (Surprise of all surprises — it was a town in New Jersey I actually liked.) My son was thrilled to see other kids, and even though they are younger he enjoyed playing with them. How wonderful it was for him to escape the world of adults and submerge himself in childhood. They kicked a ball, he taught them how to properly kick a heavy bag taekwondo style, and they made a mess in the school room/play room. As for me, I got to have an in-person conversation with another adult who was neither my mother nor my spouse. Despite the fact that we all wore masks, it was a slice of normalcy, a few hours in which we could escape and be happy.

While pulling the condo apart and sorting through things in my son’s room, I can across two writing pieces he did in first and second grade. The prompt of the first one read: “The luckiest thing that ever happened to me was…” My son wrote, “…when I went to Disney. I went to every park. I got a Mickey Mouse hat. But we had to leave eventually. I was very sad to leave. I was very lucky to go.” Of course, I cried reading it because it reminded me of Dad who had taken us to Disney twice. For four years we all looked forward to returning together. It sucks to look forward to something for so long only to have it disintegrate moments before it was realized. In the second assignment, my son said, “My Grandparents are worth to me more than gold. They let me stay up to watch a movie or two.” I cried, again, wishing I could snap a photo of them and text them to Dad. They would have made him smile.

Cases continue to rise. Deaths are occurring at a frightening rate. Nearly 2,000 people died yesterday. Roughly, 8,000 people died since Saturday morning. Governors in the Northeast are advising against holiday travel, but none of them are yet to issue restrictions comparable to the ones we experienced in the spring. A teacher friend of mine here in New Jersey got the call — his school will be completely virtual until mid-January. My spouse is hoping to get a similar call soon. In Utah, there are only 65 available ICU beds in the entire state. Parents in New York City spent the day protesting the shutting down of city schools. The pandemic continues to pit parents against teachers. The fallout will be awful. Last year teachers were heroes for adapting to new ways of teaching to ensure that learning didn’t stop. Now they are demonized. Teachers will end up quitting — or dying. Resentment and anger and bankrupt cities and states will lead to further pay cuts instead of the raises teachers deserve. Those who leave will be replaced. There is always a fresh supply of teachers graduating college, but will they be as good as the ones leaving? In a world that vilifies teachers and pays them poorly, who will the profession attract? In the end, the children will suffer, but an uneducated generation does not bode well for the future of our nation.