By Dolores J. Nurss

Volume 1: Welcome to the Charadoc!

Chapter 39



I feel that I have lived through/dreamed the flood of wounded overwhelming the infirmary, within those years when I became systematic about recording dreams–but I’m afraid that my early system left much to be desired!  I paid no attention to external dates or day-residue, concentrating only on capturing story material.  I cannot confirm anything.

I do remember, in the early days of our marriage, my husband taking EMT training, and talking about it when he got home, telling me about the priorities in managing catastrophe: staunching bleeding came in second only to restoring respiration.  How could it not weave into my dreams?  So I would probably place my dream around then, that first year wed, 1985.

I had a lot of traumatic childhood material to deal with in those days.  The first step in becoming a fully functional helpmate was to stop the gush of all those soul-wounds draining my energy—I could take care of the details later.  Thank heavens I married a patient man!

I wrote Cici’s thoughts.

As I sat at the keyboard, trying to remember the exact feel of what it meant to be Jonathan in the terrible days of the core dream, these words flowed through, and it all came back, in more detail than I cared for, but I had to record them anyway, I had to not let the dream slip away in vain.  Too much suffering went into it for it to mean nothing at all.  He might long to forget, but I must notmy duty requires that I not, ever, forget.

          And I am no Til debriefer, chemically cushioned to bear it.  I must take it all in with my nerves as bare as a clean sheet of paper in the typewriter.

          Or maybe it does come to me cushioned, comparatively speaking, in that fuzziness into which the dreams can lapse on waking.  Oh thank God for that annoying, benevolent fade, for how could I bear it if I recalled it all too clearly, in its first, ice-sharp clarity, for more than the minutes it takes to mumble into my bedside recorder!

          I didn't specifically dream of the clean-up.  But it would be a part of Deirdre's reality.  Doctors in hospitals might leave all of that to others, but she was not only a medic, but a slave.

          I dreamed of Cici visiting a relative in an insane asylum.  More on that much, much later.

          I invented the makeshift mass, consistent with later details.  I also invented the various sleepy thoughts of different people, wafting through Deirdres drowsing mind.  I did not, however, invent the awareness of snoring while one sleeps; that much Ive lived.


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