Beautiful

"Where's the bowl?" Aiden yells, pounding his little fists on the counter.

"What bowl?" I ask gently, my headache worsening as I rub my temples.

"The bowl!" Aiden screams, "it was right here yesterday!"

I look tiredly at our marble counter, which is empty except for a few coupons from the mail and a half-eaten pancake sitting on a syrup-soaked plate.

I bend down to so I can see my four year-old son eye-to-eye. "Aiden," I say, "can you describe the bowl you saw here yesterday?"

Aiden rubs his eyes and sniffles. "It was the wooden one that Mr. Patterson gave me."

"Who's Mr. Patterson, honey?" I ask, trying to prevent another meltdown.

Aiden's eyes narrow. "Mr. Patterson's the man who comes into my room at night and gives me things, like my bowl."

As a young, single mother, this immediately flashed red flags inside my head. I took a few deep breaths, standing up again. It probably wasn't anything real. Aiden had been having vivid dreams like this for almost six months now, which had turned our lives crazy.

His young mind couldn't distinguish his dreams from reality, and I would have to wake up several times a night to reassure him there weren't any bunnies on our windowsills and no one had torn down his closet door while he was sleeping. Lately, it's been like when he was a baby. I'm tired all of the time from waking up at 3 am, and I’ve spent more money on coffee than food lately.

The countless visits to doctors and therapists, and the bottles of prescribed pills haven’t made a difference. Sometimes I’m wonder if I’ve failed as a mother.

I look down at Aiden’s messy brown hair as he sobs quietly, and then I look up to the ceiling. Why, God? I just want to help my son.

After a few moments, Aiden wipes his nose with his finger and looks up at me. “I just really want my bowl back, Mommy.”

I bend down on one knee and wrap my arms around him. “I’m sorry, baby,” I say into his ear, “I can’t get that bowl back.”

He cries into my hair, and I wish that I could protect him from his dreams just like I can protect him when he’s in my arms. I gently shush him and run my fingers through his hair until he calms down.

I lean back on the counter as I watch him run off, zooming a plastic airplane around as he goes. Tears start collecting in my eyes, and I look down at my feet. I’m going to fix this.

Smash! I sit up in bed, wide awake. I listen for the sound again, but I don’t hear anything. It must have been in my dreams. I’m about to fall back asleep when I hear a blood-curdling scream.

I jump out of bed and do what any other protective mother would do. I reach under my bed and grab the baseball bat that I keep there for safety reasons (I’m not a mugger, promise).

I race into Aiden’s room, bat raised. But instead of seeing a kidnapper hovering over my son’s bed, I see Aiden, standing straight up, staring out of his bedroom window. He’s screaming, but not moving. He’s rigid, his fingers twitching like he’s frozen in place. His glass of water is smashed on the floor, which had been previously on his bedside table.

I drop the bat. “Aiden?” I whisper. I’m afraid of breaking his trance, not sure what kind of meltdown it’ll trigger. “Aiden, honey,” I say softly, coming to stand next to him.

The moment I put a hand on his shoulder, he stops screaming. He turns around to face me, but I see that his eyes are staring past me, out of his bedroom door. “They’re here,” he says, his voice not carrying any emotion whatsoever.

“Who’s here?” I glance around, my hand trembling for the baseball bat. Then his head jerks to stare at me straight in the eyes.

“He told me,” he whispers. “You need to run.”

Breanna hands me another tissue. “I just don’t know what to do,” I sob. “No one else’s kids are like this.”

Breanna rubs my back, consoling me as I sob. “I’m a terrible mother,” I sniffle.

“Natalie, you’re not. You can’t control this,” Breanna reassures me. I look at my sister through red, swollen eyes.

“My son is in the hospital,” I say. “And I did nothing to prevent it.”

“You tried,” Breanna says. “These things just happened. You couldn’t have done anything differently.”

I rub my forehead. “You don’t get it. He thinks things I’ve never seen have always been in our life. He wakes up screaming and thinks I’m a monster. Last week, when I took him to the park, he was convinced that a clown with blood on its face was standing by the swings, holding a red balloon. There was nothing there, Bree!”

Breanna’s about to say something when my phone rings. “I’ll go make you some tea,” she says, standing up. When she’s left the room, I answer it.

“Hi, this is Dr. Caddel. Your son is in stable condition, and we’ve prescribed some daily medications,” she says. “He’s been experiencing night terrors, and has been diagnosed with DRC, along with Depersonalization-derealization disorder. DRC stands for dream-reality confusion, is a disorder that makes it difficult to determine whether an event or experience occurred during the waking state, or whether it was part of a dream. Depersonalization-derealization disorder is when the patient feels like people and their surroundings aren’t real, like you’re in a dream. Surroundings also may appear out of their usual shape, blurry, or colourless.”

I cover my mouth with my hand, and for a moment, I can’t speak. “Ms. Zelinsky?” Dr. Caddel asks over the phone.

“S-sorry, I’m still here,” I manage to say shakily.

“We recommend that you make your way over to the hospital to see your son.”

“Of course,” I mumble. “I’ll be right over.”

I get a travel mug for the tea and hop into my car. As I start the engine, a wave of nostalgia washes over me. I remember Aiden as a baby, playing with coloured building blocks, smiling happily. I remember how when he’d sip his juice, he’d cross his eyes to make me laugh. I remember how every Sunday, we’d go to get ice cream, and I’d always let him have a lick from my cone.

I step on the gas pedal, and a determined look settles on my face. I don’t care what it takes. I’m getting my son back.

I open the hospital room door to see Aiden, who’s laying down in the hospital bed. He’s staring straight up at the ceiling, unmoving.

“Hey, Aiden,” I say, sitting down on the edge of his bed. He turns his head towards me, blinks a few times, then returns to his original position.

“Why isn’t he talking?” I ask the nurse.

He looks at me gravely. “His status has changed in the last few minutes,” he says, “we’ve had to plug in some IVs.” I look at the needles taped onto my son’s arm.

“What’s wrong with him?” I ask, my heart pounding as I look at my small son, lying motionless in the hospital bed, his small frame swamped by sheets.

“While you were on your way here, he woke up screaming and sweating,” the nurse says. “He had a high fever, and his adrenaline rates were skyrocketing.”

“But he’s okay now, right?” I say, my voice trembling.

The nurse looks at Aiden. “He’s unresponsive. He’s here, but not. Breathing, blinking, and brain activity is all over the place. It’s like he’s trapped inside of his own mind. When he woke up screaming, he was convinced that he had to go to a birthday party before the sun set. He said he had to hurry. Night was coming soon.”

I look out of the window, where the sun’s high in the sky. “It’s 11am,” I say shakily.

The nurse nods, squinting at Aiden. “We don’t know what’s wrong with him, Ms. Zelinsky. We recommend that you stay the night at the hospital, so you can be reported any further updates.”

I nod, and make my way out of the room. The world seems warped around me, sound muted yet screaming in my ears at the same time. The light seems too bright for my eyes, and I’m stumbling like a drunk.

Then, my knees give out, and I crash to the floor. The last thing I remember is the doctors crowding around me before I get pulled into the abyss, not knowing if I’ll ever make it out.

A small, soft hand clutches mine, and I can feel the energy transmitting through it. My eyes flutter open, and I’m staring at the faces of several people wearing medical masks hovering above me.

I turn to the side, and I’m staring into the eyes of my son. “Mommy!” he smiles.

I sit up, and realize I’m on the floor of a bustling hallway. “What happened?” I ask a nurse, who’s wheeling a stretcher over to me.

“You suffered from a vasovagal syncope. By the time we reached you, your heart had almost stopped. Then Aiden pounded on your chest, which made your heart start pumping again. He saved your life, Natalie.”

I look at Aiden, who’s sitting by me, playing with a pair of latex gloves.

I wrap my arms around him, hugging every inch of his DRC and Depersonblablah diagnosed body. I don’t care if he’s going to think clowns are standing by swings and bowls are missing forever. He’s my son, and he’s beautiful just the way he is.