The years have passed so it was no longer the classic angst-ridden dream about being late for class. Instead it was a vivid play out of a conversation with my sister Camille Genova Klinga. I was settling in for a chat. Soon enough, she told me, "You're dreaming. I'm dead." Camille had passed over in 2001.
I am not alone in this jarring kind of nocturnal experience. In her memoir "Nothing Was the Same," Johns Hopkins University professor of psychiatry, Kay Jamison, tells of her dreams about her husband. He was psychiatrist, Richard Wyatt. When she also began a conversation with him in a dream, he had informed her he was also dead.
Such dreams unsettle us for days. I actually felt the compulsion to return to my home state of New Jersey to visit the graves of my sister, parents, and grandparents. That's a long way from my new home in Arizona. Right now I am putting that on the back burner.
Perhaps this reaching out to dead loved ones is our way to begin preparing for our journey from the only state of being we have known to one in which we have no experience. In May, I will be 71. I have lived longer than any member of my family. And, unlike them, I am still working full-time operating my own business. Of course, I want to be in denial about my own passage over. But my dreams intervene.