This morning I woke up from a very deep sleep. I had dreamt I was dying of the corona virus. It was my second death dream. I had no cough or breathing difficulties. Everyone around me – I was in some strange establishment that seemed like an old-fashioned sanatorium. My mother was there and doctors and nurses. My only symptom was that I vomited. It was black, not chocolatey brown, but a deep black with a hint of rust. It was off-putting but I was quite set in thinking it’s nothing and will go away. The doctors seemed to think otherwise. There was a paper clock on the table. A clock made of paper, yes, thicker paper. It was deep green with a wheel of fortune on its number plate. It listed the descriptions of the young women who’d die next. It mentioned someone with olive skin. And a young girl whose life hadn’t even begun yet. She was going to die today. I thought that could be me. Which is a strange thought given how fine I felt and how I protested the opinion of the medical personnel about my prognosis. Probably one of those things the very ill sometimes do. I asked the nurse and she said no, that wasn’t me yet, the one in three days was me.
I begun to feel worse, tired, but I didn’t believe I’d die. I’d fight it. I went and stood before the green iron bars of my mother’s bed, realising I could infect her and should probably not be there, but she didn’t drive me away like a leper, and I was grateful, very grateful.
Then it became the waiting room and the dream slowly blurred as I got closer to dying. I woke up. Like with bad dreams, it’s always a huge relief to realise that my teeth hadn’t fallen out, I hadn’t accidentally cut my hair to ear-length and whatever misfortunes I’ve dreamt sometimes, but this time I hadn’t this consolation. For the brief interval before my senses fully returned, I thought COVID-19 was a dream too, just as giant snails, the Russian invasion of my home town and the Biblical flood I once dreamt of happening.
Objectively, I do love my more symbolistic dreams. They are like little works of art or potential horror stories. This was pretty good. Iron beds, black vomit and the deep green wheel of fortune clock.