jen groeber: mama art

4 kids in 3 years: reflections on motherhood, art and life.

A Dream About Love

I had a dream about my brother Butchie last night. He was wearing footy pajamas, the kind that zip up the front, all fleecy and precious. The kind my children now wear. My brother wore them throughout his whole life until he died two years ago at the age of 50.

And although we dressed him in Toughskins corduroys and groovy turtlenecks in his teens and twenties, later in his life he was dressed mostly for ease and comfort, in fleece pants and sweatshirts from Old Navy, size 10. Those and the footy pajamas we called bunny sleepers.

Butchie, sitting in a chair with a groovy outfit, 1992

Butchie, 1992

The memory of this dream is vague. My kids woke me up midway through, and although I tried to claw my way back through the haze to see him again, only snippets remained.

In the dream my brother Butchie and I were in a bowling alley, which is weird because we didn’t even bring him to church. He had to use the bathroom. The bathroom was the locker room in the rink at a local school where I live now. And I think I can piece together the bits and pieces of how these fragments all exist together in my brain.

My seven-year-old son had a play date last week and the parents emailed to ask if they could take my oldest bowling. And it unsettled me. I know them, but I don’t know them. I’ve never been in their home or hung out with the mom. I said yes, of course, because I knew my son would love bowling and I do trust these parents. But still, I felt like I wasn’t being careful enough somehow.

And the locker room in my dream was from a birthday party last month at an ice rink. I watched as my kids skated around on the ice and then tucked into the bathroom with my two girls while the boys remained on the ice. And somehow in this time, my oldest went from happily chasing his pals on the ice to sprawling face down on the ice apparently crying. When I slip slided out to see how he was, he stood and skated away from me angrily. There was something going on and I was powerless to fix this.

Cabot in front of a window with pajamas on, January 2015

January 2015

And the footy pajamas in the dream were the pjs of choice for an especially cold Maine night this week with no heat in the upstairs bunk room. We bundled the kids into their footy pajamas, tucked flannel sheets around them, piled on down comforters and old quilts and baby blankets smelling vaguely of moth balls. The kids all immediately fell asleep and then slept hungrily, curled into heated balls under the covers with only their chilled cheeks and knuckles peeking out of the corners.

Me, brother, sister, sister, Butchie  1976

Me, brother, sister, sister, Butchie

I used to worry over my brother, Butchie. I had plans for how to rescue him from a fire, what to do when he choked, ways we could escape every threat, whether by wheelchair or wagon. I felt he was my responsibility. Perhaps we all did.

I vividly remember bringing him to the bathroom at a random restaurant down the shore for a family reunion in 1994. I was 23 and he was about 30. Some of the family hadn’t seem him in 25 years, others rarely spent time with him at all.

By the time I navigated him through the restaurant to the bathroom he’d had diarrhea all down his legs. And there I was in a stall of the ladies room using toilet paper and paper towels to staunch the tide. I was both prepared and utterly ill-equipped. We may have left stains of poo on the carpet, or I may be remembering another time. I remember waving my mother over, “Get the car, get the car,” as people around us looked to see where the horrible odor was coming from.

I’d totally forgotten about that part of the reunion until a recent return home for a funeral-cum-reunion. Digging back into piles of photos from that time 20 years ago in preparation for my return home must have brought it all back.

These are the pieces of a dream then. A bowling alley, an ice rink, a restaurant bathroom, footy pajamas. An inability to make things better, responsibility beyond our ability to respond, a  powerful, powerless, crappy, gut-wrenching, defining love.

In the dream my brother spoke words and I was totally taken aback, even in dreamlife it was a surprise. In life, he’d never spoken words, but rather communicated through guttural cries, whistling screams, pinching, pulling, pointing, clapping. In my dream his voice was sweet.

All he was doing was repeating back to me words I was saying while I crouched next to him while he sat on the toilet, just like I crouch next to my youngest when she’s on the potty in a restaurant. I can see his lips moving, almost remember the words, but not quite. Me. Him. Me. Him.

In the dream I crouched there next to him, his footy pajamas pooled at his feet, our faces so close in that intimate way of siblings, caregivers, parents. I watched his lips and basked in the wonder of his words.

And then through the mist, my daughter padded up to my bed in her footy pajamas and patted my face, “Mama? Mama. It’s time to get up now.”


14 comments on “A Dream About Love

  1. Burns the Fire
    February 17, 2015

    Crying. Thank you.

    • jgroeber
      March 1, 2015

      I could write about my brother every day. Especially now that I’ve had children of my own. What is that about?
      Thank you.

  2. Amy Reese
    February 17, 2015

    I think that’s really cool that he spoke to you in your dream and you got to hear his sweet voice. I think he’s telling you everything is ok with him now. The mind works in mysterious ways, doesn’t it, the way it pieces things together. Thanks for sharing your marvelous dream.

    • jgroeber
      March 1, 2015

      It’s amazing how people stay with us. All that energy can’t just go away, so it comes out in our lives, in our children, in our dreams, if only we can be quiet enough for a moment to hear them. Or at least that’s what I hope. I’ve already told my kids that after I go, they only need to listen carefully and I’ll be there somewhere.
      Thank you for being here now.

  3. lingeringvisions by Dawn
    February 18, 2015

    I’m always happy when those who have passed visit me in my dreams. Like Amy I think it is beautiful that he spoke to you and i too think it is a way of communicating assurance.

    • jgroeber
      March 1, 2015

      Thank you. Yes. And love. I think those dreams must tie into the love we always carry in us for the ones who’ve gone before us, too.
      Sweet dreams. 😉

  4. Perfection Pending
    February 19, 2015

    I can’t articulate how beautiful your writing is. Why I’m not reading.every past is just beyond me. You have a way of connecting us all to the past and the present and feeling like h there is something more that we should be seeing in the everyday things that happen to us. I mean it. Beautiful.

    • jgroeber
      March 1, 2015

      Oh, you are not reading every post for the same reason I’m not replying for over a week! (Oh, the shame.) You’re a busy mama. So thank you for taking a minute from the motherhood treadmill and visiting me here. Know that believing that people might read what I write gives me the permission to set aside those minutes (in the car line or at the grocery store) to reflect on these moments and collect them.

  5. talesfromthemotherland
    March 16, 2015

    There are so many reasons that you are one of my very favorite writers, but this post is one… most certainly.

    I have come to love Butchie, and the pictures you share, only make me care more. I can only imagine the many facets of love that you experienced in that complex relationship, Jen, but the beauty of this story his heart wrenching.

    Finally, I’ve been working with an amazing PT (who works in myofascial release) and she has talked a lot about dreams, and how important it is that we finish them… that we are working out things in those dreams, and we should particularly never be pulled from “nightmares.” I hope you are able to finish your dreams, friend. xox

    • jgroeber
      March 30, 2015

      How much do I love this comment? It’s like it’s own complete piece of writing.
      And I am so glad and… appreciative? Heart-warmed? That you get it. Butchie and being his sister and the whole thing. Perhaps there’s a common bond in the care-giving of siblings and parents at a too early age (although no age is ever going to be easy or right, I suppose.)
      Now I’m off to chase my dreams. We shall see who comes to me tonight.
      Hope you have sweet dreams, too. xoxo

      • talesfromthemotherland
        March 30, 2015

        I meant to let you know, that shortly after reading this piece, I had such powerful dream about Butchie… so real. These stories of your brother haunt me, in the best of ways.

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This entry was posted on February 17, 2015 by in Memory, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , .

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