I dreamt about Henry last night.
The two-month anniversary of his death is tomorrow. Last night was the first I had dreamt about him. I've been wondering, waiting for it.
In residency we had some lectures on helping people through the loss of a loved one. We learned that many people hear, or see, their loved one after they are gone, and how important it is to normalize it, lest they think they are crazy.
I have so been hoping to see him, to hear him. After years of hearing him call "Mommy" from his room, I long for his voice, even if it were just a memory merged with a hallucination. Sometimes I'll see something out of the corner of my eye, but disppointment follows when it turns out to be an out-of-place chair.
Last night in my dream, he was how he had been the few months up to his death, happy, solid, warm. I drank in his face, his voice, and held him in my lap as I sat cross-legged on the floor. I knew in my dream that it was just a dream, that it was what I've been waiting for. He didn't, and played and talked to me.
It was wonderful. He was so healthy, so happy. I kept my hand on his wrist, to feel his strong and regular pulse.
It was wonderful. I hope he visits me again soon.