By Jill Zero
My dreams used to rebel with technicolor and holograms. Prisms exploded with hues I’d never seen before and the spectrum of light showed its face instead of remaining trapped inside of glass prisons.
When I closed my eyes, I saw cartoon worlds where colors strayed out of the lines and no task was impossible. I saw snow-capped mountains unlimited by restrictions of reality and upside down rainbows like gemstone-studded smiles and creatures that never existed. I saw myself in violet and turquoise with sprigs of harvest orange and gold dotting the horizon. Reality was of no consequence when I escaped to said worlds, and time hid until I allowed it to emerge.
But that was before my heart stopped. I haven’t dreamed in five years.
My life changed the second the doctor got my blood circulating and my heart pumping again. He told me I would have perished if he hadn’t tried an experimental method in the operating room, and I thanked him for his quick thinking even though I didn’t remember a shred of what had happened to me that day. His face showed concern and relief while he spoke, as if he genuinely cared about my fate, and I felt guilty about forgetting the events that surrounded his big, triumphant technique.
He thrust folders and papers into my hands and told me to read about my condition, and to familiarize myself with the causes and effects of my accident. I told him I’m so used to fixing my own problems that it felt unnatural to have another person to thank for doing what I couldn’t. He only apologized, told me that I wouldn’t have been able to fix such a problem even if I’d wanted to, and expressed his enthusiasm for my existence. That was when he pulled out a notepad and scrawled my prescription onto the top page. As he wrote, he explained that the medication would regulate my heart and work in tandem with the weekly injections I’d have to receive. That combination would keep me alive.
The side effects are minimal, he’d said. I’d be prone to dehydration and fatigue. My hair and fingernails could be more brittle and need extra care. Sleeplessness may rear its ugly head. He never mentioned that my dreams and all of my imaginary worlds would disappear, too, but they did. It’s not his fault for telling me, of course. How could the doctor have known that? Maybe I’m the only man in the world who considers dreams valuable. Maybe the thought never crossed his mind. Maybe I’m overreacting.
But damn, do I miss those worlds.
Dreams probably seem trivial to the average person. Everyone I’ve told about my condition either raises an eyebrow at my concern for dreams or grazes over the issue entirely. You’re lucky to be alive, they tell me. You don’t know how privileged you are. I tell them they’re just as privileged to experience a kind of parallel dimension when they close their eyes at night, but their brows only raise higher. No one understands. Perhaps I’m not explaining it as well as I could be. Who knows.
As my doctor had said, a lack of imagination during sleep is a negligible price to pay for being alive. I’m not so sure negligible is the word I’d use, as grand as it may be to feel my heart beating in my chest again. Some days, I swear I’d trade my flowing blood and my pumping heart for one more night immersed in the universes my subconscious creates.
Once I dreamed that my body had turned to dark matter and all of its mysteries filled my knowledge bank at once. Astrophysicists, arguably the most intelligent people on Earth, can’t figure out what dark matter is or why the galaxy is drenched in it, but I knew it all when I dreamed that night. I understood the secrets of the divine and comprehended the fate of our planet and all of its residents. Now, the best I can hope for is understanding the complex plot of a film or predicting the outcome of a book. And for people like my doctor, whose nighttime thoughts likely consist of nonsensical happenings with no clear purpose, using the imagination to comprehend fiction is the best anyone could do. At least, that’s what he more or less indicated the day he saved my life. What kind of a life is that?
My doctor has crossed paths with me outside of his practice since then – once at the movies and once at the supermarket – but I couldn’t bring myself to acknowledge him outside of hospital walls. It felt strange, like I was talking to a program and not a human being. Doctors give the impression of superhumanness in operating rooms because of their glinting instruments and razor-sharp focus, but they’re the same as you or me when they escape from the confines that threaten to squeeze them to death. Come to think of it, maybe he and I aren’t all that different. Our existences trap us no matter how much we struggle to break free. The only difference is that doctors can escape by shelling out ten dollars at a movie theater and my route to escape has been closed tight for five years.
I’m only certain of one thing since my heart stopped beating: If I encounter dark matter or cartoon landscapes again, even for a fraction of a second, I’ll let them swallow me whole.
Original story by Jill Zero. Original sketch by Sam from our Vinyl Veins music column. All content in this post is copyrighted and is the property of Capes and Cartridges. Do not republish without the authors’ express permission.
Loved this!