OK, here goes:
In 1990 my schizophrenic son was released to my care from Dammasch State Hospital in Oregon. He was a college student and had a psychotic break after being dropped off at a mall dumpster by his father, The Scum of The Earth (a whole other story on Scum will be in my autobiography). It was winter and he wandered around in Portland until he happened into a construction site where he found an exacto knife and made a big hole in his arm on the inside of the elbow. A policeman found him just watching the puddle of blood and talking to himself. Flash forward to 1992. He has tried to commit suicide maybe five more times by them in various creative ways and is living with me. His older brother Greg is also living with me, kicking heroin and replacing it with alcohol. He is keeping an eye on Brian--we are trying to keep him alive long enough for them to find the right drug cocktail to allow him to have some peace from the voices. My life is, well, tough, because I am also raising four girls who are middle school and teenage.
SOOOO, one night I am having a perfectly normal black and white dream when suddenly a big V-shape of color interrupts my dream with a completely different scenario. I am walking between two sets of cushioned folding chairs, like a church aisle, only it isn't a church. There is an open coffin ahead, banked with orange and red flowers, and I am holding the arm of a young man who is wearing a suit. I recognize a mortuary viewing when I see one. I look at my son, fully expecting it to be Greg, who has been my support during this last year while Brian has tried to stab himself in the chest, jump out of the car, overdose on meds, etc. It is not Greg, it is Brian who is holding my arm! I AM SHOCKED! WHO IS IN THE COFFIN?
I am in complete dread as I walk slowly up. My mother? OMG--not one of the girls!!! The casket is gun-metal gray with white satin lining. I look inside and it is GREG who is dead! He is clean-shaven, wearing a navy blue suit with a navy and red speckled tie. My gut wrenches and the V-shaped wedge of a dream disappeared upward and my black-and-white dream returned to the screen.
The next day I told everyone I knew what I had seen. I had great fights with Greg over rehab, one even taking place in the middle of the street over the top of my car. "Get back in the car or you know what will happen!" I screamed as surrounding motorists screamed back "Do what she says, MF!"
Eighteen months later I got the call from a detective that Greg was dead. My other three sons flew out to Utah to get the body. They purchased the casket, they bought his clothes, they had a viewing there for his friends and came back. I was unable to help being crushed by grief. We had a viewing at Lima Mortuary in Santa Clara, California. My son Brian held my arm and walked me into the room. We walked between two groups of cushioned folding chairs and there was the gray casket and the red and orange flowers, the white lining. There was Greg wearing the same navy suit and tie I saw in my dream. I had told no one about the details of casket, clothes, none of it. He was even clean-shaven (like I preferred) even though he had a Fu Manchu beard when his friends let him die rather than call 911 and have their paraphernalia seen by cops.
The dream helped me prepare psychologically because when that moment arrived in real life, the moment I would see his handsome lifeless body (the first one I had ever seen), I was resigned.