Sunday, November 23, 2014

Dreams

  • Became part of a singing group.  After publicity pictures, one of the group members (female) tells me she'll give me a ride home (or to the nursing home, not sure about which one).  We drive through cobblestone streets, and there are big holes at street intersections, and the holes are ringed with orange cones.  My driver goes through an intersection; the intersection is blocked by a cone but she drives on the sidewalk (also cobbled).
  • Old people are walking on the sidewalks - they say nothing, they're walking single file.They don't react to each other or us.
  • The car disappears and I'm with a small group of friends.  (2 guys, 3 girls if you include me).  We go enter a beat-up Victorian house.  The stairs morph into institutional crete-n-steel steps, and the landing/hallway we go into looks like a dorm room.  The smell is a cross between old wet basement and nursing home.
  • We walk down another set of steps into the basement.  It looks like a swamp set from a 50's Z-grade monster movie.  The smell is overpowering.  Here and there you see laundry drying on wire clotheslines.
  • We leave the basement and walk upstairs - we open the door to a very full, shabby, Victorian-style parlor.  The residents are sitting in rows.  The residents are not reacting to each other or to with anyone else.  The aides are pushing plastic carts around the outside of the square, just wheeling around and around the outside.  (The aides are women; they're dressed in pink scrubs.)
  • The reception desk is behind a counter; the counter has a wire glass window.  The receptionist is dressed in a traditional nurse's uniform.  I ask her where my mother is, and before she can reply, a hallway appears to my right.  I walk quickly down the hall and I arrive at a parlor - nice furniture, nice walls (furniture is Victorian - white couch, red lamps with gold swag, two white chairs).  In one of the chairs an old man (not sure if he's dead or sleeping) sits wrapped in a green blanket.  The old man looks like my father, but it's hard to tell because he's covered in cobwebs.
  • I run out of the room, and the receptionist behind the wire glass tells me that my mom is in that room I was just in.  I tell her no, there's an old man in there.  I've lost my group.  I stop one of the nurse's aides as she's wheeling around the square of old people, and I ask her where my mother is.  She asks me what my mother's name is, and I say, "Claire Doxtator."  The aide says, "Oh, hon, we don't have a resident by that name."

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