I've lost my mother 10 years ago and I don't recall a single day passing by without thinking about her and remembering a charming word or an endearing gesture of hers. Yet, since she passed away she has never visited me in my dreams, not even once. Even when I go to bed upset or blissfully happy… nothing happens, I seldom dream, if at all.
I know that I'm dreaming in the middle of a dream though. Most of my nocturnal visions are senseless. They are, I would like to think, the offspring of a late dinner or an unstoppable urge to use the bathroom. They are neither good nor bad, they are just the type I forget the moment I open my eyes.
In order not to feel deficient about the lack of my night imagery I entertain another possibility. I'm such an avid daydreamer my brain remains thoroughly satiated with imagination. When darkness prevails my mind simply needs to rest and sleep. I do dream when I change beds, however. When I stay in a hotel I have learned not to even bother trying to get some shuteye on the first night before the break of dawn. Instead I turn the muted TV on and bathe my eyesight with the flickering images. It's very bad when I travel overnight to Damascus for instance. I return home tired and irritated with vague memories of bland dreams.
Alcohol has no verifiable outcome on my capacity to dream. Nonetheless, in good company or when enjoyably alone and after the consumption of the precise amount of spirits my mental acumen is greatly enhanced and sharpened. Some of my stupidest ideas and those rare brilliant ones floated on the rocks of an amber glass. I have become such a master of defining and riding my limit I seldom make the mistake of overindulgence. Well, I do from time to time, but luckily instead of getting drunk I just fall asleep. You would think that I should drink one too many when I'm staying at a hotel for an overnighter. Nah, it wouldn't work. It's true that I sleep like a log at first but not for more than a couple of hours. Then I would stare into the darkness like an unwise, unthinking and unblinking owl until nature calls and I fly out of bed.
Medications on the other hand have unpredictable side effects on me. I avoid prescription and over the counter drugs at all cost if possible. But when I succumb to illness and am forced to take something I end up spending my night naked in a valley of macabre nightmares or fully clothed in a tub of ridiculous dreams. They come in short bursts with a vortex of sweating and high fever. When I read the warning labels on some of these drugs I wonder why are pharmaceutical companies allowed to abuse the sick in such an inhuman way. In particular, I am disgusted with the "Do not take with alcohol" warnings. Why is it OK to mix their chemic filth with water and milk but not with alcohol? In defiance, I didn't heed their advice on several occasions when I was sick. I'm fully convinced that double vodkas had helped me recover much faster than their mysterious inorganic chemicals. It's a worldwide conspiracy and a cover-up operation codenamed Nincompoop Asclepios with high ranking officials involved and in the pay. For most illnesses and diseases a stiff drink or two is the best medicine. Well, that and laughter of course.
I had been anesthetized quite a few times over the years. Just remember that I've broken all four of my extremities at one time or another (I said four not five so wipe that wicked grin off your face). I've also been under the knife once or twice and experienced the amazing effect of general anesthesia. I remember someone asking me to count from 10 to 1 as the drug was introduced intravenously. Why are doctors so obsessed about rendering such a "smart" image of themselves? He could've simply told me to count from 1 to 10 with the same immediate effect. Asshole! Anyway, I stopped at 8, that is I counted down 10, 9, 8… then oblivion. Yet, during another visit to the operating room and as another smart surgeon was trying to put my left arm back together in one piece, I clearly remember leaving my body behind and sitting on top of the ceiling mounted surgical light. I heard the chitchat of doctors, boring, very boring. My vantage point also provided me with an optimal angle to stare at the full breasts of the pretty nurse. I didn't die and come back. My experience was less farcical and certainly more meaningful. I left my body, sat on top of the light fixture, heard a stupid conversation, enjoyed the sight of a cleavage then returned in time to be whisked out on a gurney.
Having been a timid young man, sedatives and anesthetics greatly helped me overcome my shyness with women. I was heavily sedated after a procedure when a gorgeous nurse held my wrist to check my pulse (or whatever). My immediate and innocent reaction was to grab her butt and squeeze. The funny thing is that I did the exact same thing the next day when she came during her shift to check my pulse (or whatever). I was fully awake and she knew it but didn't seem to mind. I told her about my dream of the night before and she giggled and asked me to stop it. Ahhh, women in uniform… but that's an entirely different story, one I will gladly recount when I wake up eventually.