The plot of the dream is very simple: A toddler, after having a play date, does not want to go home and throws a fit. But then a dream is never just that simple.
The child was a flaxen-haired boy with lots of curls and he was lying on his back, pressing his palms and calves into the low-carpeted floor, screaming. Screaming. Screaming. He sounded like the young man they scooped out of a crumpled car and loaded into a Medevac ‘copter that night before the morphine kicked in. I wonder if, in my dreamstate, my cortisols or adrenaline kicked in? So in the dream the child stopped screaming, stayed still lying on the floor. I stood over him and said kindly, “I know how much this hurts. I know you are in so much pain. But tell me, does this make it better?” The child said nothing. I told him, “You are not welcome here again.” I looked at his mother and she nodded her consent, she understood, and the dream was done.