Even in dreams, I’m on crutches lately.
Last night, though, Clyde and I attended a dream wedding for two dream friends who don’t exist in the waking world. They were handsome, healthy men in their early forties; their ceremony was a formal affair.
In the dream, I was a groomsman. Like the other members of the wedding party, I was changing clothes in what appeared to be a Sunday School classroom that, for the occasion, had been converted into a changing room. I was padding around the hallway, wearing nothing but my ruffled shirt, tux pants, and black socks, when Clyde pointed out I didn’t have my crutches or my AirBoot with me.
I hurried back to the dressing room, plopped down in a chair, slipped on the boot, and strapped its two hard plastic sections together with the Velcro fasteners. In the dream, I thought, "How nice it was to have a few minutes to walk around on my own!"
This morning, while waiting for Clyde to come out to the car, I recall the dream: the ease with which I was able to take steps, and my lack of need for crutches.
Hesitantly, I lift my crutch, holding it like a rifle.
I take a step. No pain.
I take another step. No pain!
If any of our neighbors were looking out their window, they would have seen a fat forty-year-old man walking in circles and giggling like a schoolgirl. ("Herbert! Herbert! That new neighbor of ours has gone plumb crazy! Call 911!")
I’m supposed to stay on one crutch for another week and a half … and I will, as I don’t want to ruin what appears to be great progress so far. That brief taste of freedom, though — suggested by my own subconscious — was awfully sweet.
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