December 1, 2010 Wednesday.
Last night I dreamed I was having a stroke.
I was lying on a bed that was higher than the usual bed. A double bed, or matrimonial bed, as it is called here in Costa Rica. I was naked, covered to the waist with a lighweight comforter that I kept trying to pull up to cover my breasts. It kept sliding back down. My arms were out to my sides froming a cross or an angel. At first I was aware that my arms felt heavy. Maybe it ws dificult to move them, maybe not. I experimented, moving them, and maybe they were heavier than usual, but maybe not. I drifted a while. Wendall was up and walking around. We were at a house that his family lived in, cousins were around somewhere, and they were all getting ready to go to some other cousin's wedding or party or funeral. I tried to tell Wen to stay with me, but I couldn't get through to him, or he didn't think it was necessary to stay with me.
I felt heavier, couldn't move as much, tried to pull the coverup over my breasts again, gave up. The people were moving around in the house, getting ready to go. No one was paying any attention to me.
Soon I felt really heavy and couldn't move. I began to suspect a stroke, so I started doing a mental review of systems. Both sides were equally heavy and immovable, a good sign, stroke wise, or a terrible one, depending. I realized I couldn't talk, my mouth moved, but no sound, I think. I tried to get someone to check my pupils with a flashlite, but whoever it was who did it flashed into my eyes and looked but I never got an answer to whether they were equal or reacting to the light and that scene drifted away.
By then I was sure it was a stroke, and there was someone's relative there who was a doctor. I asked if he had coumadin or heparin. I was talking, I think, because I explained that I had observed and diagnosed myself and I needed a blood thinner immediately to prevent further damage. Someone gave me a shot of herarin in the left shoulder. I asked what strength and what dosage it was and got an answer in numbers. But I didn't understand them. 200 something.
Soon I felt that I was better, could move a little, and I thought I was talking to people. My mouth moved and I heard the words and I talked to several people, but no one responded. I banged on the wall to get attention, and someone asked me if I thought I was talking. My mouth felt dry and wide open and I answered in a normal tone and they didn't hear me. So I screamed at the top of my lungs and dark spots flashed in my eyes and sparks of light, it was a real strain, and whoever it was heard me, but faintly.
Then I realized I was trapped in there, couldn't escape, and this was what it was like to have a stroke and there was nothing I could do and no way I could escape now. I was terrified. Not resigned, but I thought there is no way to get morphine and if I got it I wouldn't be able to swallow it, and this was the final horrible worst think that could happen to me and it had happened.
I thought a lot in the dream then, how I never imagined it would happen to me and how after all my worry and planning, here I was, at last, trapped with no way out.
It never occurred to me I would die from this, obviously I wasn't dying, just trapped forever. I remember thinking it interesting that Wen was there. Even as real as this was I think I somehow knew he shouldn't be there any more.
Now, awake and writing this, I think about it and think, I freed him and then I was trapped, as if I had taken his place and must live this way now.
I woke, flat on my back, mouth wide open, dry, unable to swallow. I had been lying on my back, breathing through a wide open mouth, probably snoring. I couldn't get the dream out of my mind. I think about asking at the farmacia if they sell morphine, or searching the streets to see if I can get some from the drug dealers. And I think how stupid I was to get rid of all the morphine Wen had left when he died. I think about going back to the states to die, or find morphine.
I realize it may be a little crazy to obsess on this fear, but I imagine waking in that condition for real, alone in this apartment, lying there, wishing to die and unable to do it. I guess if they left me alone long enough, I could starve to death. Jesus.
The dream. I think it was due to the physical position in bed, Van's death, the long conversation I had with John yesterday about his heart stents and rehab and realization of the reality of one's own death. And, no doubt, Alex's abandonement, as I feel it, although, I still expect to hear from him.
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