Why Do We Dream of the Dead?

If you follow me on Facebook, you may have read my recent posts about some ‘psychic’ experiences that occurred to me during my lifetime.  The first one  (see FB post on 8/1) transpired when I was a young girl and involved my adoptive mother and me. The second episode took place nearly twenty years ago (see FB post on 8/16) and included a voice I believed to be my father-in-law’s; he offered me a warning, which I should have heeded.  Last month, I dreamt of my birth father, something I do not have any recollection of doing before.  The fact that my birth dad is dead and that I never met him makes the dream even more significant.  Since the vision I’ve been noodling a reason as to why he appeared and why now.

Under the plastic sheet of my desk blotter is a 3×3 headshot of my birth father.  The genealogist I used to research and locate him five years ago requisitioned the print from the university archives where he’d been a tenured professor.  The warm smile edging into his cheekbones, the full lips framing a distinctive smile, the glint of intelligence behind wire-rims, and gray threading through thinning reddish-gold locks are all treasured details that greet me when I sit down to write.  Facial features that I never glimpsed first-hand because my birth father had not wanted to meet.

Over the course of the four years since my sister and I made our appearance in their lives, my two half-siblings attempted to soften my birth father’s stance on ‘no contact’; they swore that he might eventually come around; and, blamed his stubbornness on his second wife, their stepmother.  To my half-brother, my birth dad explained the situation like this: “Son, it’s complicated.” 

In the eleven years since launching my first adoption search effort, I’ve read extensively about the intricacies of adoption, and search and reunion. More disappointed than angry, I grew to accept my birth dad’s reluctance to reunite.  He was entitled to his privacy. My goal in locating him had been to attain medical history, not to disrupt his life.

When my birth father passed away suddenly last year of a cardiac event, my subsequent sadness was more in commiseration for my half-brother and sister’s loss than it was for myself.  They’d experienced a lifetime of memories with ‘our’ father; his role in my life had essentially been that of a sperm donor.  I believe that my lack of bitterness towards my birth dad was due to the meaningful relationship I’d shared with my adoptive father.  I never sought to replace Dad with this other parent. I respected my birth father’s candor. His intentions were clear from the outset: here’s the medical history you requested, and that’s all I will provide. I give him credit for providing it in a timely manner. He could’ve ignored me completely.

My birth dad did me another favor. He disclosed my existence and whereabouts to his other children, my two half-siblings, and he did not demand that I refrain from contacting them. So, while I regret that I never set eyes on my biological father, for all these other reasons, I do not harbor ill feelings towards him.

It’s been over a year since my birth dad passed on.  His second wife cremated his remains, and if there was a memorial service held, it was very private.  This past May, on the anniversary of his death, I honored him by reaching out to my birth siblings (see my blog post 5/29: How Do You Honor The Dad You Never Met?).  Without a gravesite on which to place flowers, a group text was the best vehicle for acknowledging his mutual role in our lives.

So, after May 20th, out of sight, out of mind.

Why then did my birth dad enter my dreams last week, fourteen months after his untimely death? Why did his likeness insinuate itself during the wee hours as I slept on a too-firm queen hotel mattress near O’Hare airport? I must emphasize that in the five years that this man has been on my birth family radar, I do not remember him assuming any starring roles in any dreams. He was out of my life as quickly as I knew his name. When he died, passed into another realm, I’d released the hope of any planned or chance meetings. I deemed harboring any regret, a fruitless endeavor.

Again. Why would a man I’d given up on, make a premier appearance on a Tuesday night at an airport hotel? 

 In the dream, my birth father (I’m certain of his identity because of the headshot under my desk blotter) visited my current home. He spent the night in my cozy guest room, and the next morning we lingered at the front door while he said his goodbyes.  He enveloped me in a warm hug, smiled that notorious grin that my three siblings and me share, and then he was off.  At this point in the vision, I remember vowing to phone my half-brother.  I wanted him to know that not only had I finally met ‘our father’, I’d hosted him for an extended visit. There was no need to further barrage ‘our father’ to consider meeting me.  It had happened.

I awoke with a clear recall of the dream’s sequence.  What’s more? I was deliriously happy. Happy as in that all-over content feeling you get after nailing a coveted hot fudge sundae. All was well. All was in fact, perfect.  Over the course of eight years, I’d met all the other key birth relatives in my family tree.  Connecting with my birth dad completed the list. When the gray hotel carpeting came into focus and I realized that my birth dad’s warm, reassuring hug had occurred in a different reality, questions stormed in.

Was the vision some kind of regret begging to be recognized? Was it an unrealized wish? Or, was it a visit from a man who wanted me to know that he did care about me, that he had wanted to meet me, and had regretted not making it happen? 

Of course, I will never know for certain the purpose of last week’s dream, but I have a theory.  I am sensitive.  I am receptive.  I have a history of connecting with others on different planes, levels, and realities. While the conscious part of my mind feels cheated that my biological father’s visit had not come in this reality, the subconscious part of my brain assures me it happened.  A dream hangover still pervades, so I’m confident my birth dad’s energy is present. And, I feel better.  It is as if a primal wound has finally healed.

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