That Michael was fine. But in the hospital.
And on a Monday, he was going to die. Because the hospital people had given up.
I was in the hospital lobby.
And Michael's surgeon came up to me to say he was sorry.
I called him Michael's first cardiologist's name. I couldn't remember his. In this dream.
He corrected me.
I ignored him and kept calling him the other guy's name.
I pleaded with him to give my son a chance.
To perform a transplant. He backed away. He said there was nothing he could do.
I was persistent. I followed him. Crying.
He changed his mind. He said he would do it.
I called him the wrong name again.
He left to prepare for surgery.
I went back to a waiting room. Filled with people.
And my Michael. Who was dressed in his sweet black hoodie. College shirt. Khakis and only socks. [The clothes he was buried in.]
We hugged. And I smelled him.
He was mystified at my jubilation at seeing him.
He gave me his "you are being weird, mom" look.
I said I hadn't seen him in so long. That I missed him.
And he said I was here all along.
I woke up at that moment. Tears on my cheeks.
And my first thought was that I wanted to tell him about my dream.
It was so real.