The Message

I stare at the peeling paint on the ceiling within the outline of a faint water stain. The apartment I live in is mediocre. That’s the best word for it. Nothing is nice, though nothing is broken, either. I don’t mind it, but it did take some getting used to. I used to live in a fancy high-end building. I was a laboratory technician. The position paid well and I had no one but myself and my cat to take care of. Then, I was diagnosed with a rare condition about a year ago, at age twenty-five. That’s when everything changed.

My cat jumps up onto the bed where I lay. He climbs over my frail form, doing his best not to slip, until he’s able to settle onto my chest. I love the way I can feel him purring. I reach up to stroke his orange fur. He is happy. He reminds me often that it’s the simple things in life that make it worth living.

I glance at my left arm, where my control panel lights up the skin of my forearm, broadcast from the chip implanted in my arm. I see from the time tracker that it’s nearly time to go. I take a deep breath, lowering my arm to enjoy the comfort of my cat a while longer.

It is 9 am. I now lay upon a white-sheeted bed within a dim room. It is quiet save for the sounds of the computer and medical equipment. The technicians are setting up for my treatment. I wait patiently. I’ve done this dozens of times. I know what to expect and even look forward to it.

“Are you ready?” Ms. Benibra asks. She is my usual program technician.

“Yes, I am,” I tell her.

She nods and asks where I’d like to go. I’ve made my selection from the catalog. While there are thousands of dreamscapes to choose from, I no longer care about the location much.

“I’d like English Garden number 3,” I say.

Ms. Benibra smiles and begins the start up sequence. I watch her lined, middle-aged face as she concentrates. I know she does this for multiple patients throughout her day. It’s become a stale routine, no doubt, but she never fails to give me a warm smile.

It isn't a gentle transition. One moment I’m in the medical bed and the next, I’m somewhere else. The position of my body has changed. I’m standing. It’s jarring, but I’m used to it. The partly cloudy sky gives a gentle warmth. The air is fragrant and refreshing. I immediately feel uplifted. I take a deep breath and begin walking the packed sand path.

I’ve spoken to many other patients in the waiting room. Everyone sees treatment as an escape from their mundane lives. Their greatest wish is to be transported to some form of paradise; a beautiful and pristine location in the world that they’ll never be able to visit. It’s what they think they’ve always wanted. But I know better.

I look around me at the glorious garden setting and scan for the exit. I don’t mean to stay. I go straight to the archway that leads beyond the boundary of the program. There are warning signs urging me to stay inside, but I ignore them all. My technician knows not to pay any mind when she gets an error notification. I’ve explained to her what I’m doing and she see’s no reason to stop me.

It never ceases to amaze me how my mind fills in the blanks. Just as in a dream, the world takes shape in strange ways that don’t always make any sense. It was frightening at first, but I’ve learned that nothing inside the dream-state can harm me, though I never know what I’ll find.

This time, it’s my Grandma’s farmhouse. I smile. The two-story white building isn’t exactly the same as it was in the past, but that’s okay by me. The most important parts are right on; the white picket fence, the roaming chickens, the sunlight on the grass, and the marigolds. I squat down to caress one. I love the way they are velvety soft and also rubbery at the same time. I pluck an orange mound of petals at the stem and take it with me.

In the kitchen, I find my Grandmother making cookies. I know it’s based on my memories of her. I love getting to go back in time to be there with her again, smelling the cookies as they bake and hearing her voice. She tells me to sit down and slides a plate of cookies before me. I take a bite, savoring the familiar flavors of the gooey chocolate chips and delicate buttery crumb. She tells me stories. I laugh with her. I love the way she makes things feel right, even when they aren’t.

This is what it’s all about. Moments like these. Except, this time, I can appreciate it for how wonderful it is. I have revisited so many memories. I have gone so many places. I have faced so many fears. The program gives me the freedom to do and be and experience whatever I want, even when my body is failing me in the real world.

The program has taught me a lot. Because I disconnect from my body, I’ve discovered the heart of who I am. It isn’t my name or my gender. It's not my body or abilities. It isn’t even my thoughts or stored knowledge. It’s my consciousness. It's the part of me that is aware that I’m in a dreamscape, the part of me that feels pain and joy and knows the difference. And no matter where I go, I’m there as the witness.

I am alive.

My Grandmother sits down with me and holds my hand, the one that still contains the marigold. She looks into my eyes and tells me that everything is just as it should be. I like the way that sounds, even if she’s just the imagining of my mind. The way it makes me feel is real. I’m real.

Sometimes when I’m in the program, visiting old memories, or even new and unexpected places, the characters around me will talk to me. Sometimes they tell me the oddest things. Once, I had a man tell me that the earth was going to implode in a few weeks. Another time, I was told that a particular medicine would heal my condition. They were both wrong. Now, I just grin or laugh at the strange things they say, knowing it’s all an illusion.

My Grandmother said many things during that session. Some of it was verifiably true, while other parts I wasn’t sure about, but near the end of my session her face became set and serious.

She said, “I have a message for you to deliver. It’s for your technician, Ms. Benibra.”

I raised my eyebrows and said, “oh yeah? What’s the message?” I was curious to hear what it was.

“She is ignoring all the signs. They can’t get through to her. Please give her your marigold.”

I frown and look down at my hand.

“This marigold?” I repeat, holding the orange flower out before me.

“Yes,” my grandmother confirms.

I shake my head. It’s strange, but I shrug my shoulders and tell her I will. She nods and tell me that I’m on the right track and she will see me again soon.

“Okay, Grandma,” I say.

She embraces me. I love the way her hug feels like pure love radiating into me. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a hug so comforting. When she pulls away, she gives me a big smile and tell me it’s time to go.

My eyes flicker open and I’m staring at the medical room ceiling once again. Sometimes it feels like I’ve been gone for days, when it’s only been hours. This time, I raise my arm and see that it’s been nearly two days, when it feels like I've been away less than an hour. Time runs strangely while one is inside the program.

Ms. Benibra’s face is suddenly there, staring down at me. She smiles, though I can see the concern in her eyes.

“It took awhile this time,” I manage to croak.

She nods.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. Sadly I must inform you that your condition has worsened.”

I already knew this. I could feel it. But hearing it makes my stomach feel a bit queasy. The reality is that I’m dying and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

It's difficult to get dressed, but Ms. Benibra helps me. Then, she motions to a waiting wheel chair. I take a deep breath. I knew I’d need a wheelchair at some point, but I didn't feel ready. I sit down.

As Ms. Benibra is pushing me out of the room and down the green painted hallway towards the exit, I remember the message.

“Ms. Benibra, do marigolds mean anything to you?”

I feel the wheelchair slow and stop.

“Excuse me?” she says from behind me.

I try to turn my head, but I can’t turn it far enough to see her face.

“A marigold,” I repeat, “you know the orange flowers that…”

“Why do you ask?” she says, interrupting me.

“It’s just, uh…it sounds crazy, I know, but during my treatment I was visiting with my Grandma. She told me to give you a marigold. It was nothing I’m sure, but I thought I’d tell you.”

Ms. Benibra is silent behind me. I wonder what she’s thinking. Then she comes around to face me with tears in her eyes. She kneels down to match my eye level.

“She told you to give me a marigold?”

I nod, wondering why she’s upset. I didn’t mean for my dream to cause her any worry.

"Yes, I picked one. She told me to give it to you."

Tears roll down Ms. Benibra's cheeks.

“My uh,” the woman stammers, “my daughter used to pick me marigolds...when she was just a little girl. All the time.”

I watch the woman’s face scrunch up in pain. I feel horrible. What have I done? I can’t imagine how such a simple thing could cause her so much pain.

“Thank you,” she says to me after a few more moments. “Thank you so much. You don’t understand how much that means to me.”

“You’re welcome,” I tell her, glad that the message was welcome after all.

Ms. Benibra pushes me the rest of the way to the reception room. There, she says goodbye and tells me she’ll see me next week. Another technician takes over pushing me outside.

“She been cryin’ or somethin’?” he asks me.

“Yeah a bit,” I tell him. “Something about her daughter,” I add.

“Oh, yeah I guess it’s that time of year again, isn’t it? Poor lady.”

“What do you mean? What happened?” I want to know.

“Oh, her daughter died this time last year.”

“Oh,” I say, completely stunned. It was just a dream. My Grandmother was simply a figment of my imagination. I didn't even know she had a daughter.

“And maybe,” the technician continues, “it is hard having you as a patient.”

I frown, a little hurt.

“Really? Why?” I ask. Was I that awful? I thought she liked me.

“Well her daughter had the same name as you.”

Later, I’m laying in my bed again with my cat purring next to me. The events of the day have left me questioning everything. I’m not sure of anything, anymore, and yet I feel peaceful. There is a simple joy in the realization that I don't really know anything at all. It means that all of my assumptions might be totally wrong. All my fears could be baseless.

In the stillness of my room, I find that I feel inexplicably happy. I feel opened up. I feel free. I am able to wait with an open mind and an open heart for whatever comes next.