The Seventh Direction

AWAKEN to the DREAM. Part Three: Stalking Violet. Episode 33

[Old Dorothy's backstory. She herself narrates her backstory. I'm just my nurse-character . . . haven't been recruited yet to co-author this story/adventure. So back we go. —A.A]

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___Dorothy speaks:

Well, here we are, and it's about time, at The Nursing Home.  A fine place. A very fine place. I think so, I like living here. And why wouldn't I? I mean, as far as living in a "home" goes: if I were to compare it to the orphanage where I spent my childhood years, I'd have to say there was no comparison. Those dreadful movies you've seen, about turn-of-the-century orphanages? Well, there you go. Pretty much that's what it was like at the orphanage, dreadful, and sometimes worse. But let's never mind that now, shall we? That's another story from a long time ago, one I'd just as soon forget. The nursing home, and most everything associated with it, suited me just fine. Fine. Fine. The food was fine. My room was fine. The staff was fine. —Most of the staff were friendly enough to joke around with me. Mm-hmm, most of them just figured I was a cranky old eccentric, and they'd tease me and play on that. Which was fine by me. I'd just tell them to quit their bitchin'—that sort of thing.

Truth is—I am a bit of an eccentric, and that suited me just fine too. I had no real family that I could remember. (I'm an orphan, right?). So I made one up. Borderline eccentric, anyway. I called it my extended family, which in a way it was, I suppose. Three things. One: nature—the beautiful landscapes and other stuff I'd see when they wheeled me out and about the yard. Two: the assortments of food—I loved food, and it was actually pretty good for institutional fare, though it was rationed, which rankled me some. And three: a few of the nurses, especially the one who stood a little above the others—Andrea, who really cared and came so much from her heart. More or less, that was the extent of my family, but probably not the extent of my eccentricities. My extended family was very close to me. Of course it was, I didn't have much else! The only other things close to me were my journeys in sleep. And God.

I loved sleep, dreams, daydreams: anything that tied into what was happening to me. Dying, eighty-nine years old and I'm dying. And you know yourself, death sucks. Death, it was slowly surrounding me (trying to swallow me up). The Grim Reaper, I think so, was hanging round, just outside my door. Still, fascinating as that might be, much more fascinating was that the "death process" was also introducing me to Deep Memories of a Long Ago past, and to Visions of the future: all primarily occurring in my dreams. And I thanked God for that . . . also for everyone and everything-else playing their part and helping me through this. Mm-hmm.

Sometimes, whenever we had the chance, Nurse Andrea (but I call her Aces) and I would talk about my dreams—in search of their meaning or messages. She was special, an angel, really. I thought so because she would often come up with a few or more choice words in response to my Dreamtime-pilgrimage narratives and tie things together that were eluding me. Aces was real. Very. She was genuine, and she was relatively new in my life. What was left of it! She and I had become family, close family, and I had a few regrets about the fact that I would soon be leaving her. (Aces, God love her.)

I'd already told Aces that my death was fast approaching, and that it was showing me a part of myself I'd only vaguely known before. She simply accepted it. She was open-hearted and open-minded, so there was no: "Oh, don't talk silly, Dorothy, the doctors think you're just fine," kind of stuff (I'd heard that one before!). Aces believed me, right from the get-go, and, well, sometimes she would squirm, and her face would change dramatically, and her eyes roll, as if she were digging deep, trying to put her mind to her own deep-memory, or to a feeling in her heart, and she would come up with some feedback that would (how are the kids saying it?) blow me away? That's how I knew Aces had been sent to me, an angel for me. I knew, because she was compassionate—maybe empathic as well, and well-built spiritually—which helped to create "atmosphere" wherein and whereby we could draw parallels between her and my feelings when we talked, and tie things together. At times I could see myself in her.