Dreamful

June 1, 2019

I was sitting across from one of my favorite people and one of her favorite people. One of my best friends and her boyfriend, soon-to-be fiancé. We’re out at a stereotypical DC restaurant that is also attached to a high-end butcher, of course. They specialize in charcuterie boards and whiskey drinks, both of which are my friend’s favorites. We’re celebrating her graduation from grad school. They’re sharing a bench covered in leather, dyed red, that I can only assume is from one of the cows that we’ll be eating tonight. I’m sitting in a chair across from my friend, the chair next to me holding my overstuffed, far too heavy purse.

We’re waiting to order and they’re being obnoxiously adorable. They haven’t seen each other in maybe 36 hours and I’m subjected to nauseating PDA, incandescent smiles, and gazing that can only be done by people in love. Okay, it really isn’t that bad, but it is mildly uncomfortable.

We’ve put in our orders and we’re catching up now, even though we all see each other way too frequently. I’ve got my left arm draped over this empty chair, playing with the strap on my bag and I’ve quite possibly zoned out from our conversation for a moment. I clue back in when I see my friend gesture over to the extra chair saying, “See, that chair shouldn’t be empty. Madison needs someone too.”

I roll my eyes and shake my head yet smile at my friend. She’s been pushing dating hard on me lately. It seems like every conversation includes something about my lack of a dating life. We’ve talked about it when she’s come on entirely too strong and she admits it’s because she’s happy and wants me to be happy in that same way. Though it’s hard to be frustrated with her when she says, “I just didn’t know it could be this good. I want you to have that too.” I know she means well, so I steer us back to a different topic of conversation, one we were discussing before I zoned out.

Our food comes and it’s great. The company even better. We’re giving my friend her graduation card and gifts as it’s wrapping up. Then, my friend’s boyfriend starts giving a toast to her, praising her for all she’s accomplished, sharing how much he loves her. 

And I feel a flare of anger. It’s startling and I don’t understand it at first. I feel angry towards them as a unit. The way they’re looking at each other, how they know each other, support each other, and it hits me.

Oh wait. I really do want that.

I’m proud of my friend and happy for them as a couple, please don’t misunderstand.

No, I’m jealous that they’ve found each other. And it hits me that despite my grandstanding for my friend every conversation, I really do want to be in the relationship.

I’m uncomfortable with this realization at first. I shouldn’t want that. I can’t want that. Unless it’s a doctor who specializes in chronic illness and likes to take his work home with him.

Before my brain surgery, I did want that. I wanted to be married. I wanted to have kids. I wanted to own a home. I wanted a lot of things.

And then I had brain surgery. And over the course of several years, I was told I was probably going to die, imminently, on a regular basis. And then I was told it would be medically unwise to ever get pregnant. Not only was I isolated and not able to meet anyone, but my life hasn’t been conducive to dating. It takes so much mental, emotional, and physical energy to be going through a medical issue that dating isn’t really feasible. Plus, at what date do you drop the, “I sort of have a tumor,” fact about yourself? Date 1? Date 3? Never?

My dreams slowly became unrealistic. It was easier to forget about them than watch them die. It was easier to tell myself they weren’t my dreams any more than to figure out how much harder it would be to reach them. Well, I thought it was easier anyway. So I let these dreams go and didn’t make new ones. I just moved through life day after day and hoped to avoid painful reminders of the dreams I abandoned.

But I’m realizing I do want that. I do want to meet someone and I do want to have a family and I do want to build a home together. I do want more than this self-isolating, self-inflicted loneliness that is shadowed by the remains of dreams once dreamed. I didn’t free my dreams to let them live a life unencumbered by illness, I just killed them myself instead. I murdered my own dreams and blamed it on the illness. It was too painful though, and I didn’t know how else to survive. I still don’t know. My illness is ongoing, so how do I dream again knowing that they could be cut short at any time? How do I hold my hands open like that?

But then again, how do any of us know? Isn’t a dream by definition something we hope for yet cannot force? A gift if fulfilled. A guide if unfulfilled. I, like everyone else, have a right to dream. And no one, not even my illness, my doctors or myself, can tell me it’s ridiculous. A dream is not a goal. My goals may be lofty but they are attainable. A dream is a wish. A dream is a hope. A dream is a want. 

I’m beginning to feel again. To want again. It’s scary, I’m scared. Because I know, more than many people my age, that my dreams aren’t owed to me. That I can’t make them happen. That they might never be.

My only hope is that I’m stronger now. That when the doctors tell me I’m probably going to die at some point soon, or that the life I’ll continue to live won’t look like I expected, I don’t regret the dreams I brought back to life. I only ask that I don’t hold the heartbreak I’ll feel against me.  And that I’ll smile instead, knowing there are better dreams yet to come.

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