Not long ago I developed, what remains for now, a mild version of Parkinson’s disease. In case you are unfamiliar it is not only about shaky limbs. The symptoms include stiffness in the joints, softening of voice, degraded penmanship, and diminished facial expression, to name only a few. There has been progress on managing these with therapy, exercise, and medication. But this is not what this post is about.

It is about the dreams.

Ordinarily most people will dream dreams that are usually quickly forgotten in the light of day. Perhaps a snippet or two will remain so that you can say, “I dreamt XX happened” or “I was in a maze of buildings and couldn’t find my way home” or similar remembrances. However, the actual movements, distortions of the dreamscape, the story thread, and the irrationality of the images are near impossible to remember.

Not so with Parkinson dreams. With or without medication, Parkinson dreams are EPIC. And remembered. Full color, sound, and dialogue are equal to a big screen movie. They a populated with real people, family members long gone or still alive interacting on some subliminal theme. Often the players are of distorted ages sometimes in the same dream they will be adult, teen, or children but you know who they are and don’t question the juxtaposition. Former friends pop in an out with criticism or thanks for some unknown event.

The point is that the dreams have staying power. If unpleasant, waking from them carries the disturbance even after you have identified that the emotions were generated by the dream and have no relevance to the present. It takes a bit to shake the feelings.

For the most part, Parkinson’s dreams are enjoyable sagas pinned to some ever-changing storyline. People come, people go, ideas and thoughts intermingle. Waking to identify that you had encountered individuals from years ago, maybe even family who passed, can be uplifting if the context was good.

The broken mirror reference is the main theme of the latest four-star dream of mine. The scene is set at a family gathering 30 or more years ago. Faces are whirling around mixing incoherent babble with actual words interspersed from time to time. I recognize most of the people, I recognize the house we are in that I lived in in the 1980s. The scene abruptly changes to the interior of the barn I had built adjacent to that house. I recognized the structure, but it was different. The three stalls were missing, the tack and pump room was still there, and the three saddles were right where they were supposed to be. The leather was getting dried out which worried me, yet I was amazed that the condition was a good as it was. I pictured saddling Squire the American Standard horse that I rode many times. I was petting him lovingly. I was joined in the barn by two young girls measuring fabric to cover beds where the stalls had been. I didn’t know them. Two of my sons, of the appropriate age for that time, were stacking hay. The water pump and electricity were still operable, but I couldn’t remember how I had installed them and marveled that they still worked after all this time.

But I digress, back to the mirror. It was beautiful, incased in what looked like a women’s makeup compact with colorful knitting on the outside, however, when opened the mirror was cracked. Additionally, there was a medal with an inscription laying atop the mirror. I couldn’t read the text, but I did know it was a heartfelt message for me. I said, “thank you” to the giver who was unknown to me. I can still feel the warmth from the exchange.

Not all Parkinson’s dreams are as lasting as each other. They are like movies; some are worth watching and remembered others are duds and quickly forgotten.

I have decided that I like my new dream possibilities. Talk about making lemonade out of lemons.

Good night, all. Sweet dreams.