The horizon was dark when I first looked out the kitchen window. A storm was moving in from the west. I went about my Swiffering, returning to the window time and again to check the storms’ progress. Every time I looked, the storm was closer. Close enough to see that this wasn’t your typical tempest. It wasn’t in the sky at all, but churning low over road and pasture like an ominous black haboob; black like oblivion.
The dream came to mind off and on that day. The Tempest. One might think a dream like that a warning, if one believed in such things.
I told my husband the dream over morning coffee.
That night he had a stroke.
We were watching Jeopardy in our side by side recliners when he had a terrible bout of coughing. After that, he wasn’t the same. He couldn’t move his right side. His speech was slurred. I called 911 right away.
I forgot all about the dream for a couple of ICU days. Then it dawned on me; the dream had come true. Or was it coincidence?
He’s home now, walking without aid, every day a little better. He can’t write or drive yet, his speech is improving. He’s cooking again and he fixed our leaky faucet.
We’re in good spirits, so aware of how it might have been, so aware of how much we love each other and so
thankful for good medicine, EMTs, nurses, doctors and scientists, friends and loved ones who helped us survive the ominous black haboob.