the dream

The dream moved seamlessly from scene to scene without narrative interruption.
I was in a hospital.
The place was crowded with school children on their lunch break.
The school children were talking in pejorative terms about Muslims.
I felt a sudden sense of concern.
The thought came to me: "I hope I didn't cause them to think like that."
The Dad was in the hospital.
He was sick.
I was looking after him.
In the dream I had no conscious knowledge that he has already died.
My sister Marie was there too.
She hasn't died, thank God, either in my dreams or reality.
In the dream she was looking after the Dad with me.
Mother Teresa of Calcutta wandered by up the corridor, hale and hearty and haggish.
A doctor took me to one side.
He looked at me gravely.
Now I realised I had taken medical tests myself for some illness and was about to receive the result.
The doctor told me I was dying of cancer and that there was no hope of successful treatment.
I was thinking: "How will I write about this on the blog?"
I thought: "Well I could have the doctor just shake his head without saying anything."
Then I thought: "No, can't do that. Doctor Barn would know well that no doctor tells you you're dying by shaking his head at you."
Now the Mammy was there.
She was in perfect health.
I had no memory in the dream that she has already died.
In the dream she was nursing me.
The realisation became very strong that I would soon be facing death.
I was aware of three regrets in my life.
Firstly, that I had spoken harshly of Muslims.
Secondly, that I had not written any books.
Thirdly, that I had not visited the sick.
I looked into my heart.
I was sure I should have a thousand regrets.
I sifted my own heart.
Fully sure I was dying, these three were my only regrets.
Steve McQueen was in the hospice playing football with some other cancer patients.
I had no awareness in the dream that Steve McQueen was already dead.
Nor did I recall that I had suspected from his connection with the Polanskis that he had engaged in devil worship while alive.
He sent me a few passes of the ball to include me in their game.
I kept thinking: "Why is he sending me such easy passes? I've just been diagnosed. I haven't gotten weak yet."
But I couldn't reach any of his passes.
Then I awoke.
I would have thought it was a mystical dream, except for the fact that in the dream I mixed up Steve McQueen with Gene Wilder, and Steve McQueen seemed to be mixed up about being Gene Wilder too.
And there was some nonsense talk about Steve McQueen getting an Oscar for a film called Gulliver which rather spoiled the chances that this was anything other than my mind acting the sack.
Still.
The realisation of my three regrets remained beautiful to me after I awoke.
And I was thrilled to see the Mam and Dad.
And Mother Teresa was looking well.
And I'm rather happy that if Steve McQueen is making guest appearances in my dreams, he probably wasn't a devil worshipper.