Dreams of the Dead

Shortly after my sister died I had a dream. It was unlike any dream I’d had before, or have had since. It was crystal clear and in full colour, with none of the sepia fuzz or blurred edges of regular dreams. It was absolutely indistinguishable from real life.

I was in a corridor at a party, surrounded by people, with music blaring. I looked up and I saw my sister dancing toward me. Tanya had been ill for years before she died, but in the dream she was healthy, beautiful, and radiantly happy.

She smiled at me, and we had a brief conversation, too intimate to be repeated here. But I said what I needed to say to her, and her reply was just what I needed to hear.

I woke up with an absolutely overpowering sense of having just had a conversation with my sister. Her voice rang in my ear, as real as the sounds you can hear now. It was odd and unsettling, but incredibly comforting to me.

I am not a spiritual person. I have never believed in the spirit world, or in life after death. I never for a moment imagined that I could communicate with my sister, and I’m still not sure that I did. But the dream felt like I had communicated with her, and it gave me the closure that I so desperately needed. It gave me a final conversation with my sister that I did not get a chance to have in real life.

Tanya has appeared in my dreams many times since, but never again in that same way. My dreams of her are often distressing; she is there, but I know that she shouldn’t be there because she is dead, and my dream self is confused trying to work it all out.

I asked friends if they ever dreamed of their lost loved ones and, overwhelmingly, they do. Some like D, whose husband died suddenly last year, have profoundly upsetting dreams in which their loved one is lost over and over again.  

“I'm always chasing him, begging him to come back, to stay with me and our three sons. He never answers my questions, never looks at me in these dreams. He just walks away and ignores my pleading. I hope to one day have a comforting dream with him in it.”

Others find their dreams to be uplifting, offering another glimpse of that deeply missed person.

“I recently renovated and moved into my late parents’ home,” says M, “and they visited me in a dream – they were so happy to be at my housewarming. I believe they were just letting me know they approve.”

And C, who dreamed of her late father when she was pregnant. “He came and sat next to me in his favourite tennis shorts, put his hand on my belly and told me we're having a girl and she will be fine. Two weeks later we found out we were having a girl and she is now almost seven. I believe dreaming of our departed is them coming to say hello.”

And yet many others, like me, feel bereft when they wake, as their conscious mind remembers what their dream state did not.

“It is comforting during the dream,” said S, who lost a parent, “but achingly sad when I wake and have to process the loss again.”

Of course it is sad. There is always going to be sadness in death. And I wouldn’t wish my dreams of Tanya away, not even the ones that cause me pain. It is okay for me to feel pain when I remember my sister, or when I conjure her in my dreaming. She was in my life for 37 years, and she will always be part of the fabric of who I am, whether or not she is still alive.

I’ve long since stopped wondering whether my initial, hyper realistic dream was anything more significant than just my brain grieving a loss. I know now that it really doesn’t matter. Whether it was my sister visiting me from beyond, or my subconscious being super kind to my conscious, is irrelevant. It helped me more than any grief counselling or sympathy. At the time it was just what I needed.

My sister is gone, but she lives on in my dreams. And I cherish that. It means she is still with me, that she is not forgotten. I hope that I dream of her for the rest of my life.

This column first appeared in Sunday Life magazine

#MyFirst... Moment of Terror

Each Monday I will be writing about a First. I will choose the First (first kiss? first drink? first fight? first phobia?)
I will post the topic here and write my own little piece about it. And I will invite YOU to write about your own First on your blog anytime during the week. If you have never experienced that particular first, write about why not. And how you feel about that.
Then add your blog post via the linky below, and/or tweet it under the hashtag #MyFirst.

Today's topic is My First... Moment of Terror

I don't remember the party at all, but I remember the events afterwards with crystal clarity.

I had just turned sixteen years old, and I was coming home from the wrap party of the TV mini-series I had starred in. I can't recall what I was wearing, but it was probably similar to the 'Relax' t-shirt and leggings I wore to the premier. My hair was short and a weird dyed-blondey colour, my skin was tanned from six weeks on location in Queensland, and I was plump after eating my way through the catering services.

It was late, about two in the morning. My parents had excused me from my normal curfew because it was such an exciting occasion. And I was with adults. I was being dropped home in a cab. There really was nothing to worry about.

Of course, I was a little bit drunk, because this was a film crew, and people in film crews drink. And the actors drink, even the teenage actors, even the ones who had barely turned sixteen. I was a little bit drunk and I was in a taxi and it was two in the morning and it was time to go home.

I can't remember who I was in the cab with. I do remember that I wanted to be grown up like them. And so, when the taxi reached the corner of my street, I offered to get out right there, and not be driven to the door. It would have been no trouble at all for the cab to make that right hand turn, to travel the extra 150 metres to get me to my house. But no, I said, this was absolutely fine, even though the streets were empty and it would have taken all of two minutes.

And so I hopped out of the cab on the corner of a main road, shut the door and waved my chaperone goodbye, and headed up the street to home.

It was 2am, I was a bit drunk, and I was sixteen. I heard a car behind me, the only car on the deserted road. And then I heard the car slow down, and stop altogether, and then turn slowly into my street.

And as my whole body went cold, and the terror rose in my chest, the car pulled up beside me, and began following me at pace.

I could barely breathe. I was bathed in fear. My alcohol haze was lifted and all was crystal clear. My vision narrowed to myself, the street, and the car. I was aware of nothing, not the past, not the future, not my life, just my home up ahead and the distance I needed to cover.

The fear. The fear. I wanted to run and keep running. But I wasn't a great runner and I knew I couldn't outrun a car. And I knew the car door could open and a hand could reach out. I could feel the emptiness of the streets, and the silence all around.

I considered bolting into a stranger's house, but it was 2am, and I could bang on the door, but what if nobody heard? I figured my only chance was to make it home. And I knew I couldn't sprint the distance, so I had to play it smart.

I wanted to run but I couldn't. Not yet. And so I forced myself to walk normally as the car trailed beside. I kept my eyes straight ahead, agonisingly aware of the vehicle, and calculating how many steps it would take to get me to safety.

And when I thought I was close enough, I broke into a run. I ran as fast as I could run, frantic with fear. I ran with eyes fixed on my house, terrified that any second that car would stop and a hand would reach out and I'd be gone gone gone.

I ran full pelt to home, and as I got through the gate I grabbed my keys from my bag and slid them into the door. I was ready to pound and scream and ring the bell, but I got the door straight open, and I slammed it shut behind me.

And then I was there, in the hallway of my parent's house. The fear drained away and I stood shaking with relief. I looked down the hall at the home in which I grew up, and I had never felt more safe. I had never felt more secure. I kissed my parents goodnight and I went to bed and I was so happy to be home. I never wanted to leave.

To this day, I don't know who was inside that car. Whether it was one person or six, whether they intended to scare me or worse. But it was the first moment of sheer terror I had ever known. I need only to close my eyes, and it is just under the surface.

I've had other moments of fear since, in many different forms. But none have resembled that night in the street. It has only been replayed in my dreams.

Next week's topic: My First... Obsession

A Dream of Maddox

Last night I had my favourite recurring nightmare. Not that one would think there is such thing as a favourite nightmare, but clearly my subconscious does, because she keeps hauling the damn thing out.

Now, if my subconscious was slightly more creative I would dream of zombie apocalypses, or being in the supermarket wearing only nipple tassels, or finding myself standing before an audience who speaks only Klingon.

But she's not. She's boring and prosaic and utterly predictable. And so, I dream of failing university.

The nightmare has many variations. In last night's scenario, I had just found out that I had an English exam in two hours. It was a verbal exam, in which the examiner would question me about a great work of literature. Every student was allocated a different masterpiece, and mine, I discovered, was  'The Maddox'.

In my dream, I had never heard of 'The Maddox'. In my waking life, haven't either. (I mean, I know The Maddox to be The Son of The Brad and The Angelina, but as far as I know he is Boy and not Book. Perhaps my subconscious is more creative than I thought? )

Not That Maddox

I realised in a panic that I wouldn't have time to read the book before the exam, and so I Googled it. I couldn't find crib notes to the book, but I did find reference to 'The Maddox' as a film starring Johnny Depp and the characters from South Park. This didn't help me terribly, but I decided to watch the film anyway.

Then I remembered I hadn't actually gone to class for a year and that I'd fail no matter what and so I decided that there was no point.

Then I woke up and there was a cat on my head.

What is your recurring nightmare?

This. This Is What Friendship Is.

Last night I dreamed about my best friend from school. We were in a holiday house, sitting on the bed. My friend told me an enormous secret, and I accepted it without question. And then I realised some doors were open in the house and I went around closing them, to make us both safe.

And then I woke up.

In the scheme of dreams, it was pretty tame. I mean, I have dreams about sex and death and cars flying off cliffs and houses floating in the sky. A dream about a secret and some doors is pretty mild by comparison.

But having been awake for an hour now, I'm starting to see more in the dream than met the unconscious eye. 

Because to me, that dream encapsulated friendship. It represented everything my close friends give to me, in one scene.

I have a fairly sizable circle of friends, and a massive circle of acquaintances. I have friends with whom I'm laughed, with whom I've cried, with whom I've had conversations which lasted for hours, and with whom I have stayed up late exchanging texts and message which have had me weeping with hilarity.

I have friends who have brought me food in a crisis, driven me here, and accompanied me there, and exchanged advice on everything from child rearing to anxiety to which bras will provide the greatest uplift and support.

But there is one quality that elevates true friends above everyone else, that goes beyond the chatter and the fun.

Unconditional acceptance.

It's when your friends know all your shit and they love you anyway. It's when you can tell them absolutely anything and they won't judge you or stop loving you, they'll just hold out their arms to catch you if you fall. It's when you know they may not agree with everything you say or do, but they will always be there, no matter what.

It's when their unquestioning acceptance helps you to go around your metaphorical house, shutting the doors and keeping yourself safe. 

To everyone who has this type of friend in their life, I hope you appreciate how blessed you are.

And to my beautiful friends, who know who they are, thank you.

Sex. On A Plane. Interrupted. By My Husband.

I have written in the past about my imaginary friend Cherie and her totally inappropriate sex dreams. Well, I don't know what Cherie was up to this morning, but I was sure having a doozy. Because when my husband woke me up at 5.20am by turning on the TV*, he disturbed one of the most fantastic dreams I've had in a long time.

And it was about a man I find extremely unattractive.

Except, clearly, in my subconscious.

Actually, the dream was about two men. Three, if you count my husband (which, if you were conducting a census, you would). One of the men is someone I do find quite attractive, so it wasn't that odd that he popped up in my dream (um... metaphorically speaking).

My husband, Handsome Man and I were all on an aeroplane, and my husband and HM were arguing about which direction we were heading. (Freudians, you can just shut up right now.) Then a third, unattractive man boarded the plane via the emergency exit, which was peculiar as we were mid flight.

UM walked straight up to me, took my hand, and began kissing me.

"This is strange," I thought to myself as I passionately returned his embrace. "This man quite repulses me. And yet this is rather erotic." (Note that I didn't find it 'strange' that he had boarded a plane mid flight. So goes the shaky logic of dreams.)

Artist's impression of WHAT MY HUSBAND RUINED

I lay down with UM on the floor of the plane (we must have been in First Class because there's certainly no such leg room in Economy) as my husband and HM argued away, oblivious. And then we started to engage in some quite heated sexy-type business, and it was going really promisingly, until... oh god, oh god, oh GOD Melissa Doyle on Sunrise!

And then I woke up.

There is no moral to this story. There is nothing you can take away from it and use to enrich your own life.

Unless, of course, you are the Unattractive Man. In which case, you should feel mighty good right about now. And hope that next time, bloody Melissa Doyle doesn't interrupt our rendezvous.

*which is a whole other post in itself - I mean, not very considerate, huh?**

**and before he starts bombarding this post with comments***, yes, he had the earplugs in, but the light from the screen was still dazzling

***assuming he will read this post, which he probably won't****

****which is a good thing, considering it's about inappropriate sex dreams

When A Dream Really Does Come True

When I started writing, I used to fantasize about being interviewed in the media. It seemed like an incredibly glamorous thing to do. Sometimes I would actually interview myself at home, just chat to myself in my kitchen, ask myself questions whilst I was chopping up veggies or washing the dishes. I always asked myself really interesting questions.

Now that I've released two books, I have done quite a few interviews, and let me tell you - it is pretty glamorous. There is nothing that makes you feel quite as important as having a radio or newspaper journo focus fully on you for a period of time. Of course, once the interview is over you just go back to being alone in the kitchen chopping veggies and washing the dishes, but it really is fun while it lasts.

It's amazing when a dream you have finally comes true. For me, publishing books and being interviewed and giving talks and meeting people who have actually read my books is totally a dream come true. I still pinch myself, every single day, that this has happened to me. I can't believe it. I often feel like I am living in a parallel universe as Writer Kerri, and that Other Kerri is still plodding along somewhere in the real world, doing work she doesn't enjoy, feeling pretty ordinary about herself, and being sure she will never amount to anything.

Still, this isn't the first time a dream has come true for me. The first time was way back in 1984, when I won a leading role in a television mini-series. I was a little Jewish girl from the suburbs, and a pretty crap actress at that, and the whole thing was absolutely unbelievable. I spent the entire three months of the shoot pinching myself (and the next three years trying to lose the 12 kilos I gained on set, but that's another story).

The next time it happened was in 1999, when I gave birth to my first child. I held that slippery little boy in my arms, and I could not comprehend that something so magical, so impossibly wonderful, had happened to me. Nearly thirteen years later, I look at my three kids daily and feel exactly the same thing.

And then the most recent time it happened was last Christmas in LA, when I met Simon Baker, and you all know how that turned out.

But there are many dreams that didn't come true. Josh Goldenbum never loved me, despite me loving him passionately from afar for three whole years of my life. I never grew big breasts, despite having fantasized about having them for years before puberty. I never won an Oscar, and I think it's probably too late now. And I didn't actually have sex with Simon Baker, which was more than a little disappointing.

Still, magic can happen in life, and dreams really can come true. But I guess if all of them did, then it wouldn't be as magical.

So what about you? Have any dreams come true for you?

A Sex Dream.... About WHO???

Have you ever had an inappropriate sex dream?

No? Oh.... er.... no, no, neither have I. But my... er... friend has. Her name is... um... Cherie. Yes, Cherie. And Cherie's had quite a few.

Now, some may argue that any sex dream that is not about one's partner is inappropriate. Others may argue that any sex dream about one's partner is inappropriate. Others may argue that any sex dream at all is excellent, and that we shouldn't be looking a gift bonk in the mouth.














In my Cherie's opinion, however, an 'inappropriate' sex dream is one which stars someone one should not be dreaming about - a relative, a close friend, a close friend's parent, someone of the same sex (if one is heterosexual), someone of the opposite sex (if one is gay) or just someone one finds really unattractive.

Cherie's inappropriate sex dream was the last kind. Oh, though she may have occasionally had the second kind too. And maybe, once or twice, the fourth. But if so, she didn't tell me.

It's always disconcerting to wake up from a dream in which you have done something utterly bizarre. I mean, dreams are not visited upon you from beyond. They arise from your subconscious. You create them. So when you dream that you're doing the wild thing with someone really, really unexpected - well, you can't help but re-examine your mind. You wake up and wince and think, where the hell did that come from?

At least, that's what Cherie tells me.

And then, when you see the person you had the dream about, you feel all weird. You look at them in a completely different way, because you've suddenly seen them without their clothes on (except that you haven't, of course, your subconscious has, and even your subconscious hasn't really seen them, it's just seen some version of them that it created). But it still feels weird. It's almost like you really have had sex with them, except that you haven't at all, or at least you have, but they haven't had sex with you (unless they have too, in a dream of their own, which is getting into a whole different realm of bizarre).

Or at least, that's what Cherie tells me.

Happily, though, I haven't had any such dreams. I dream only of my husband, and of failing my university exams (even though I finished uni about a hundred years ago). Oh, and of houses floating in the air, which really freaks me out. But that's a whole other story.

As for Cherie, however, I'll make sure she keeps me posted.

So tell me - have you ever had a totally inappropriate sex dream?

A Short But Revealing One

I feel really good about my book. I know it's going to sell well.

Or at least, that's what I thought I felt.

Turns out my subconscious is not nearly as confident as it would have me believe. For last night, it revealed itself to me in a dream. And it was not good.

I was away at a writers' festival with my agent Pippa, and my publisher, the Handsome Mark. I was speaking at the festival with another writer, a first-time author like me.

I was excited and positive about the turnout, until Pippa approached me, her face black with fury (metaphorically speaking. Even my dreams have some logic).

"You know you've blown it," she told me angrily.

"What do you mean?" I asked. I'd blown it? What exactly had I blown?

"You didn't get that story to me on time so now your book is ruined," she said. "It will never sell. It's all over."

I felt utterly crushed, and was overcome by a wave of panic. My hopes and dreams lay dying before me (again, metaphorically speaking. In the dream we were still at the writers' festival and everyone else was having a picnic).

I looked from Pippa to Mark. "But... but... what story are you talking about?"

"The one about you throwing the table through the window," Pippa said. "You promised it to me. You haven't delivered .So no-one will ever buy your book."

I looked pleadingly at Mark. He nodded, his face hard and cold.

"It's true," he said. "I can't help you. It's all finished. You should have written that story."

I started to cry, great racking sobs that actually woke me up from my dream. I shifted over in the bed, prodded my husband and asked him for a cuddle.

"I had a terrible nightmare!" I told him. "I dreamed that Pippa and Mark told me the book was finished because I forgot to write a story about throwing a table through a window!"

My husband pulled away and looked at me. "You forgot to write the story about the table?" he joked. "How could you forget to write the story about the table! Oh that's very bad....."

And he wonders why I have issues.....

A Dream Of Lunch Unmade (aka Goodbye, Golden Bum)

I had a horrible nightmare last night.

I have a lot of bad dreams, and this wasn’t any of the usual suspects: being chased by evil demons down dark alleys, falling from great heights, realising I’m topless at a 40th birthday party, or being rejected by Josh Goldenbum at school.

No, this nightmare was about making sandwiches.

It was awful. In the dream, I was standing in my kitchen, desperately trying to cut the crusts off slices of bread for my children’s lunches. It was morning, and we were running very late for school, but despite my best efforts, the knife kept slipping out of my hand, and the slices of bread kept crumbling. In desperation, I went to the fridge to find tuna and sliced cheese to put in my kids' lunchboxes, but all I could find was broccoli and peanut butter, neither of which they like (besides, they’re not allowed to take nuts to school, but I wasn’t actually thinking about that in the dream).

I woke as I wake from any nightmare, in a cold sweat, with my heart pounding. And, as normal, I had to go through a mental reality check to calm myself down. Usually this checklist consists of things like ‘there are no evil demons’, ‘I’m not falling from anywhere’ and ‘I really will find a top to wear to the party’. (Sadly, though, I actually was rejected by Josh Goldenbum, so I can’t talk myself out of that one.)

In this case, however, the checklist was a bit different. I had to remind myself that the bread was fresh and the knives were sharp, so a crumbling loaf was highly unlikely. The fridge was well stocked with tuna and cheese, there was no broccoli to speak of, and the peanut butter was almost finished, after I got stuck into it with a spoon the previous day. I always make school lunches the night before so the whole dream was redundant anyway, and what’s more, the dream took place in the school holidays.

I finished my checklist and felt better. It was just a dream!

And then I felt worse. Much worse. Because it hit me.

I was dreaming about school lunches.

Not demons. Not nudity. Not even Josh Goldenbum. No, I was dreaming about sandwiches. Yes, this is my horror now. This is what wakes me, sweaty and panicked in the middle of the night. The fear of sending my kids to school without a nutritious, suitably non-allergenic meal. The terror of not being able to cut the crusts off.

I realised that I have turned a significant corner in my (inner) life. My subconscious - once a proud receptacle for all sorts of complex existential fears – is now completely empty, except for a couple of plastic lunchboxes and a pile of crustless bread.

So what does this all mean? Is it good news or bad? Have I become a simpler, less angst-ridden person? Or have I merely repressed my true existential anxieties (“Who am I?” “What is the meaning of life?” “Do I exist if Josh Goldenbum doesn’t know I do?”) and replaced them with metaphorical anxieties about lunch?

I don’t know. I do know, however, that the fear of a sandwich unmade is every bit as scary as thinking about death, or contemplating the nature of infinity, or pondering the meaninglessness of the universe.

And from now, I’m going to sleep with a lunchbox under my pillow.