Last night I had a dream. We were at the hospital: you, me, your mother and brother. I don’t know why we were there. For a friend, maybe: someone giving birth, a happy thing. No one seemed to be upset. But it was something, because you began to show signs of an allergic reaction, hives on your legs and feet, and your mother had to stay, nurse Felix and take care of whoever it was. She sent me with you, to go ahead, go to the front desk and get checked in. She would catch up. So we did.
You didn’t say much, uncharacteristically; you just held my hand as we started walking through lobbies and hallways, in and out of buildings, searching for signs. It was a very large hospital, and unfamiliar, and I realized that I couldn’t find anyone to ask for directions. We just walked along in sunlit, silent corridors, craning necks around corners.
This is what I always think of when I dream of hospitals, I guess. We don’t go to them often; the occasional checkup or shot for you or your brother, an odd ear infection. Your first allergic reaction. In real life they’re mostly waiting rooms, good memories, stickers and antibacterial handwashes. Once as we waited I walked you around the lobbies, chatting at the old women slumped in chairs, naming all the fish in the seawater tanks. But in my dreams, this is where my mind goes: to hospitals without people, of buildings so empty they no longer seem manmade. They have a silence that could even make you silent, as you walked with me.
We never found the front desk. I didn’t look down at you, but as we walked you were getting sicker, coughing more. I should have felt panic, but it was not that kind of dream. As the dreamer, I was not trying to make myself scared, just lost. I am terrible at dreaming because I am terrible at visualization; I do not look at anything, only think about things. Besides, it was all wrong. I am the one who will get sick, I am the one who will someday be at this hospital, dying out of sight. Thus the dream did not end, because I could not imagine it.