A Reunion With Dad: Visitation

Dream Journal Entry Date: August 17, 2023

My father passed away on January 28, 2021, due to liver failure brought on by non-alcoholic fatty liver cirrhosis. In the days leading up to his passing, before he slipped into a coma, an unforgettable moment occurred. While resting, he suddenly stopped breathing. When he did not respond, I rushed to his bedside and repeatedly called his name. He gasped awake, took hold of my hand, and whispered, “Thank you.” He shared that he had found himself wandering through dense darkness, hearing my voice echoing in the distance but unable to locate me. Hearing my call was the lifeline that guided him back.

A couple of weeks before the dream I am about to share, that experience echoed in reverse. I was startled awake in the dead of night by the sound of his voice calling a clear, familiar “Hello?” from afar—the exact tone he always used when calling out from another room at home. The sound was so distinct that I immediately sat up, searching the dark room, half-expecting to see him standing there.

By Thursday night, the demands of caregiving had left me physically and emotionally drained. For days, I had been waking multiple times each night to administer my son’s IV antibiotic infusions, transition his Broviac line back and forth to his TPN and lipid infusions, and manage his four-hour interval continuous G-tube feeding schedule. The sheer physical exhaustion triggered severe sinus inflammation, culminating in an agonizing ear infection. Completely depleted, I went to bed and drifted into a vivid, transcendent dream.

In this dream, I found myself riding an open-air tram through an unfamiliar, serene, softly lit city at night. A gentle, warm breeze brushed past as the tram crossed a bridge toward a grand architectural building. Once inside, I entered a reception area designed like a peaceful living room from back in the 1970's or 80s, complete with ambient lighting, vintage furnishings, thick shag carpet, and soft drapery.

There, lying on a sofa along the wall, resting comfortably, was my father. He wore his familiar attire: his favorite blue button-up shirt with the front pocket and pressed black slacks. Seeing him whole and at ease brought an overwhelming sense of relief. We immediately fell into effortless conversation, reminiscing and laughing just as we always had.

Shortly into our reunion, a physician in a traditional white coat and vintage stethoscope entered the room. He gently examined me, radiating calm and reassurance. When he finished, he turned to my father and playfully requested a check for his services. My dad laughed, reaching into his pocket for his wallet, while the doctor lightheartedly attempted to listen to his chest. Jokingly joining in, I said, “Ah, just knock the dust and cobwebs off him—he’ll be alright,” filling the room with shared laughter.

Just after the doctor left the room, I walked over to the sofa and leaned down to embrace my father. The moment felt entirely real—the texture of his shirt, the warmth of his shoulders, and the familiar security of his arms around me.

Tears streamed down my face as I whispered, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he replied, holding me close.

“I miss you so much,” I told him.

Gently stroking my hair, he offered the steady reassurance I needed most: “I know, baby. Everything is going to be okay.”

When I woke up, the transition back to the physical world was emotional, yet accompanied by profound comfort and peace.

Remarkably, when morning arrived, my ear pain had completely resolved. The inflammation and infection had vanished overnight. I firmly believe my father visited to offer comfort, bringing healing grace so that I could regain the strength needed to care for my son and family.

Departed loved ones rarely communicate audibly in my dreams, typically relying on symbolic telephone calls. Whether my spiritual receptivity is evolving or his presence was simply strong enough to bridge the divide, I remain deeply grateful. Love endures far beyond the boundaries of time, space, and physical separation.

Read more reflections and dream accounts here: Midnight Musings