This morning is one of those mornings when I woke from a dream so real I wanted to sob when I opened my eyes, because I knew it couldn’t be real, even though my grandfather Daniel’s favorite tobacco hung in the air and I could hear echoes of my grandfather Claude’s laughter. Smell the fresh bread grandma Linette pulled from the oven and the mix of grandma Ritz’s and my godmother Yo’s perfume. Feel each of their arms hugging me in jubilant embraces, but the atmosphere of our joyous reunion vanishes as my eyesight focuses.

I want to fall back into my dream where Grandma Linette and Ritz are truly themselves, not shells eaten out by Alzheimer’s, and where Grandpa Daniel isn’t paralyzed by a stroke or hindered by a weakened heart, and can go on his usual adventures. Cancer isn’t destroying Grandpa Claude and Yo’s organs one at a time. And I don’t have the weight of the migraine sitting in my skull pressing or pulsing, shooting arrows of pain at me, which is such a relief, as I had forgotten what it was like to live carefree.  

Waking up is akin to a bitch slap in the face. Having to deal with their loss all over again, compounded by the reality of my migraine flaring up and down to its heart’s content. It’s a tsunami to digest, and all I want to do is crawl back under my blankets. My beagle, on the other hand, has other plans as he cuddles next to me, stretching out slowly and clearly stating, “It’s time to get out of bed, Mom. I need to go pee.” So, our morning routine begins even if the dream lingers with me.