In Dreams, Awake
"Our truest selves are when we are in dreams, awake."
-Henry David Thoreau
My wife is gravely ill.
I am a pragmatic man and can say the words and understand their import without giving in to fear or despair. At the risk of sounding dispassionate or even callous, I can honestly say that I have accepted the situation and am prepared to deal with every eventuality, no matter how dire. In my defense, I hasten to add that this holds true even when my thoughts turn to my own well-being.
For to my mind I have contracted some of the symptoms that marked the initial onslaught of my wife's "disease". I use that word advisedly because despite the battery of tests she has been subjected to, her affliction remains an enigma to all involved.
Including the many specialists who have been brought in, at no small expense, and who have proven to be, to a man, arrogant louts, idiot savants, not one of them able to come up with any kind of a reasonable diagnosis. It is their frustration, I assume, that causes them to make the ridiculous assertion that since all other possibilities have been considered, assessed and discounted, her condition must be psychosomatic in origin. Though I protest that my wife's family are a hardy breed, teutonic in health and temperament, one by one they pore over the thick sheafs of test results, scratch their learned heads and individually and collectively advise me to retain the services of a good psychiatrist.
And then they have the unmitigated gall to express surprise at the vehemence of my response...
I am appalled when I discover that I have nodded off during the weekly planning committee meeting. As my colleagues titter, the firm's CEO fixes his baleful gaze on me and though I apologize profusely, his stern, forbidding countenance makes it abundantly clear that my transgression has been duly noted and appended to my permanent record.
Once the meeting has adjourned, I call to make a late afternoon appointment to see Dr. Albert Galbraith, our "family physician"; the term is moot since I have resolved that my wife and I will remain childless as long as I have any say in the matter.
At 4:30, sharp, Galbraith greets me and ushers me into his office which is small, stale and personable--words that could also be used to describe the general disposition of its occupant. An unkind thought perhaps, but in light of my present circumstances I think that my churlishness is understandable and appropriate.
Once seated I tell him that I am experiencing periods of profound lethargy and on occasion have fallen victim to sudden, fugue-like states... reminding him that my wife came to him with similar complaints not so long ago. When I finish, he dons his stethoscope and taps and pokes and prods but after this cursory examination just shakes his head.
"As far as I can tell, there's nothing wrong with you," he says, and when I grimace adds quickly, "of course, you may not find that entirely reassuring since I told your wife the same thing." He slides forward on his chair and clasps his hands on the desktop. "Robert, I ask you again to at least consider the possibility that the root of your wife's illness is, in fact, mental and not--"
"No." I will have none of that kind of talk and have made that clear to him in no uncertain terms. "My wife is a strong woman, doctor." I avoid the easy familiarity he likes to employ in discussions with patients often, I feel, at the expense of professionalism. "She's not the type of person who manufactures an illness. Nor am I, for that matter." He attempts to interject one of his bland, offhand remarks but I will not be mollified. "I find it inconceivable that you can look at her, see how she's wasting away and then tell me that in the opinion of you and all of your experts there's nothing that can be done for her. She's practically an invalid, for Christ's sake, and if you think she's just having us all on--" My outrage is getting the better of me; I compose myself while he waits, evincing sympathy. "There just has to be something, something you haven't considered yet, behind all of this."
"Well," he grunts, sitting back in his chair, "I have to confess, I'm at wit's end." His face is drawn and he has been rubbing at his eyes throughout our conversation.
"You look tired, doctor."
"I am tired," he snaps, but quickly recovers. "We're all under a lot of strain. What we really need is a vacation, a couple of weeks on some tropical beach with white sand, palm trees..." It so happens that there is a travel poster tacked to the wall beside his desk that depicts a scene much like the one he is describing. Its cropped perfection captures his gaze and holds it; I have to clear my throat to disspell his reverie. "You're looking pretty bushed yourself," he observes, unctuous facade in place once more, "why don't you let me prescribe something that'll help you get a good night's sleep. I can adjust the doseage so it won't impair your performance at work--"
I snort at the suggestion. "Thank you, doctor, but as I've just told you, sleep is the very least of my worries. Besides, we already have enough of your pills and potions at home to start our own pharmacy as it is--I'm sure if there's anything I need we probably have it."
He shrugs and I start to rise, anticipating our usual, perfunctory handshake; but his eyes have gone back to that poster and it quickly becomes clear from his rapt expression that his thoughts reside elsewhere, in a place where such amenities are, apparently, superfluous.
During the drive home my concentration wanders all over the place, the streets unravelling before me monotously. It takes a near accident at a busy intersection to finally bring me around. Had it not been for the attentiveness of other motorists someone might have been killed.
I am badly shaken by the incident and when I reach the house decide that a sedative might not be such a bad idea after all. I am in the process of uncapping a pill bottle when I hear my wife call out to me. I pour a glass of water from the pitcher in the refrigerator and take it into the bedroom with me.
"I heard you come in," she says, favoring me with a wan smile. She is framed by the pillows propped behind her, a stark chiaroscuro of red hair and pale flesh receding into a background of rumpled white. I set the glass on the nightstand beside the bed, drag a chair over and ease into it.
"I hope I didn't wake you."
"No, I was waiting for you."
"You're looking very well today," I tell her, although that is certainly not the case.
"I feel fine. Well, not fine." She looks away. "Silly is more like it. I mean, I can't help thinking there's nothing really wrong with me and-- I--I'll try to get up and move around...and then it just hits me and here I am, flat on my back again." She reaches out and takes my hand. "You know, last night I had the most wonderful dream." Her face is averted, her voice soft. "I can't recall the details but it was like I was floating. I had this sense of incredible space all around me but I wasn't frightened. It was so...soothing. It--it was hard to wake up and know I had to face all...this again."
"Well," I say, searching for the right words, "I'm sure there will be some kind of improvement. And soon." But it is yet another lie and neither of us believes it for a moment.
"I hope so. I'm getting terribly bored with--" She yawns and looks apologetic. "Sorry."
"That's all right."
"No, it isn't." She frowns and in the next instant snatches her hand away and pounds it on the coverlet. "I feel so stupid, laying here day after day and not being able to do anything and you're so good, looking after me and--and--" Her voice cracks, splintered by emotion.
"I know. It must be dreadfully difficult for you."
Her outburst exhausts her. She slumps back, her eyes already cauled and distant, not acknowledging the water glass when I offer it to her.
I creep out and close the door behind me. As I start back down the hallway I am overcome, that's the only way I can
describe it. I have to brace myself against the wall for support, my head lolling, my vision dazzled. I barely make it to the couch, sprawling onto it like a casualty, my senses scattering to the four corners of the room. And then I am falling, twisting and writhing through a vast empty, screaming in my mind as I plunge down, down, into a darkness that is unending and inviolate--
The next thing I am aware of is my wife's face hovering over me and then I feel the pressure of her hands on my shoulders.
"Robert? Robert? Are you all right?" I make a sound of complaint and she relaxes her painful grip.
"Sorry," I murmur, "I guess I was..." I lose my train of thought and squint up at her in puzzlement.
"I thought I heard you moaning so I came out to see what was the matter. At first I didn't want to wake you. I know how exhausted you've been lately and I know it's my fault, it's all because of me--" She sags against me and I take her arm and help her back to her room.
I have to call in sick for the first time in years.
I start to explain my situation, about how I'm feeling rundown and out of sorts but my department head, in his characteristically brusque manner, interrupts.
"Half the office is down with the same thing. Must be a flu going around or something." Even the telephone can't disguise