Every morning for the past few days, I have been wrenched from my sleep from this dream I keep having.
In the dream, I discover that my precious boy, Killian Gabriel, who has severe cerebral palsy, is dead. I'm the one who finds him in his bed. Cold. Grey. Lifeless. Yet each time I have checked on him, I am always relieved to find Killian breathing easily and very much alive: his skin has been warm to my touch. Relief? Perhaps, but not so much for me.
I have been Killian's sole caretaker ever since my gadabout weasel of a husband flew the coop. "He couldn't handle the responsibility of caring for a child like Killian" was what he told me before he headed out the door for the last time.
That was three years ago, when Killian was only four. He's now seven and continues to be the joy of my life.
In the dream, Killian's eyes are wide-open orbs of blue glass. His face is paper white; when I touch him, his face (let alone the rest of his body) is like a block of ice. Startlingly cold. I then start keening out sobs of grief as I come to realize that my precious baby boy is dead.
It is not a good way to start the day; it's gotten to the point to where I'm almost too scared to fall asleep.
Well, this morning, I had this scary dream again. I woke up, screaming my fool head off. It's a wonder I don't wake Killian up, it is so loud. I went to check on my son, just as I have done ever since he was born seven years ago, and ... I found him just like I did in the dream: cold. Grey/white. Limp. Unresponsive to my touch or shaking him.
I knew something was horribly wrong with Killian, so I flew to the phone on wings of fear and called for an ambulance. Maybe the paramedics could help my boy, I remembered thinking to myself.
They could not. It was too late. Killian was dead as dead could be, the one told me. I refused to believe him. I slapped the paramedic, called him a liar. I demanded that he try to revive Killian. I could not be reasoned with. The nightmares that had plagued me the past few mornings had come true .
My son, my beautiful red-haired, brown-eyed boy was dead, no longer a prisoner of a body that didn't work. He was now in Heaven, with Jesus, fully healed and alive. Yet I refused to believe it.
I still refuse to believe it.
I do know it is true , though. I now face the gruesome task of notifying his father (if I can find him) and other family members about his death and to make funeral arrangements.