Dread
A Short Story - September 2022
Dread
Three weeks before her 85th birthday, Greta McCumber had a stroke. It wasn’t catastrophic, but enough to put her in the hospital for two weeks and for a planned month-long recovery in an assisted care facility where she could get daily physical therapy. Her children and grandchildren visited her in the hospital daily at first, then almost daily, which was fine, but for the first time that Greta could remember she felt infected with a strong sense of unease. There was something about a stroke that was more unsettling than any other illness she had battled. The sudden unpredictability of it seemed deeply unsettling to her. “My defenses aren’t used to such an abrupt attack!” she mused as thoughts swirled in her mind during one of the many idle moments she had lying in her hospital bed. It was during those many quiet moments that these unfamiliar feelings began to intrude, weighing on her little by little, hour by hour.
Unlike many, Greta had never feared getting old. She didn’t fear many things, actually, so it was no surprise that she took her passing years in stride. As the decades passed and her children grew, each stage of her life framed special memories - some good, some not so good, that she felt confident in leaving behind. No regrets plagued her; no longing to be 25 again, to feel the magical rushes of first loves, first solo trips abroad. She’d been there and cherished every moment, but held no desire for repeat performances. There were things she wished she had done differently, sure - small regrets, maybe even a few that weren’t so small, but on balance, she was pleased with the paths she had chosen in her life. When obstacles were placed in her path or, sure, when she placed them there herself, she would deal with them and move on - it’s what she did, and something she felt proud of - her ability to carry on in the face of adversity.
When her husband died in 2010, her family and friends were there for her and helped her through a very difficult year. That life event was the ultimate test of her resolve and she found that she couldn’t quite handle Harold’s death in the same manner she had handled all the other misfortunes that life had thrown at her. Her health took a little dip around that time, but she maintained a positive outlook the best she could and eventually recovered both physically and mentally, moving on with her life. Her health, in fact, had been decent throughout her life, which was likely a major contributor to her overall contentment.
At first, she attributed her unease to being in the hospital, which, she thought, is such a nasty place that she barely noticed the dark feelings creeping in. Still, it was obvious to her that something was wrong. When they first snuck in it happened only at night - just before she fell asleep and then, within a few days, these dark thoughts found a way in any time she woke up during the night as well and then in the early morning before dawn. In the final days before she was to leave the hospital, this sense of unease, of dread grew even stronger. It no longer confined itself to hours of darkness and began to invade her daylight hours as well. Her family began to notice she wasn’t smiling as much and didn’t seem excited to be leaving. They shared concerned glances, and private conversations on their drives back home about whether she might be experiencing depression, but decided to wait and see if it passed. Greta considered asking to speak to a hospital staff psychologist but continued to brush it off as a side effect of being stuck in an institution and surrounded by sickness and sadness. As usual, as she had done all her life, she mustered on, counting on brighter days she was sure were just ahead.
On the morning of the move to the assisted care facility, Greta was too busy thinking of what her new caregivers were going to be like and dealing with family that were by her side to have any time for dread. In fact, it was almost lunchtime before she remembered her dark thoughts, but as soon as she did, they paralyzed her.
She was scheduled to be discharged at 2:00 pm, so by 11:30 am, she and her son, his wife, and one of her grandchildren were heading down to the cafeteria in the hospital basement. She had skipped breakfast with all the excitement and was very hungry. As they wheeled her out of the room, one of the nurses she hadn’t seen for a few days greeted her in the hallway, “How are you feeling, Mrs. McCumber? You look so good.” The question, an easy enough one to answer, hung in the air as Greta considered it… How am I feeling? Something she hadn’t reflected on since the evening before. And that was all it took. A wave of dread, heavier by a thousandfold than any she had felt previously, crashed down upon her as if it had been building for hours behind a wall that finally gave way.
Without answering the nurse, whose words seemed to transform into echos then die out completely as if she was falling down a well, Greta slumped in her chair, her neck going limp, arms and hands falling to the sides off the edge of the wheelchair, her head lolling to the left then down in front of her as if someone or something had drained the life from her in a fraction of a second. Her son, who was pushing the wheelchair stopped immediately, “Mom.. mom! Are you okay??” he spoke in a frantic but hushed tone close to her head at first, then moved quickly around to her side, into the hospital hallway, holding onto her shoulder while glancing all around them for help. The nurse who had spoken with her was a few yards away carrying a tray which she quickly placed at the nurses' station and then ran over to them. Greta’s five-year-old grandson, Charlie stood back, confused, scared, and started to cry.
Although limp and nearly lifeless to those looking at her from the outside, Greta was far from dead. The darkness that had penetrated her thoughts was now surrounding her, tightening around her body, consuming her. She could feel the dread wrapping around her skin, she breathed the thick black murkiness of it into her mouth and down her throat into her lungs, tasted the bitterness of it on her tongue. And yet, she was conscious, aware of what she was experiencing, aware that her body was limp and useless, that her son and grandson were by her side, that doctors were rushing over… and to all this she held very little concern. This dread that cocooned her was, as crazy as it seemed to her at that moment comforting, no, not comforting…she grappled to find the right way to describe the feeling… it was somehow empowering.
Within this other place, wrapped in the weight of dread, awake but not awake, she heard a male voice - low and calm that rose from somewhere below her, gathering volume and strength as it repeated the phrase slowly, “Don’t ignore me, Greta. We’re companions now, you and me.” And within this void where there should have been fear, she instead somehow found comfort, and she opened her eyes where she saw the blackness extended in all directions. She could still hear the distant echoes of the nurses and doctors down the hall right next to her, and could almost make out a few words… was that word “stroke?”... so she tried something - she reached out her left hand to see if it could break free of whatever was binding her in this place.
To her surprise, it lifted effortlessly, or at least it felt like it lifted, as she couldn’t see it, and when that happened she heard a change in the echoes from the people down the well, a hush then a commotion. So she lifted her right hand and this time she brought it all the way up and touched her nose with her index finger and there was another commotion as the echoes grew louder. And then the low voice came again, this time louder and closer and this voice didn’t echo - it was powerful and confident, “This life of ours will change now that I am part of you.”
This time Greta decided she would talk back to the voice. After all, she figured, it was her head he was invading - HER space in which he trespassed. Plus, in the very short three minutes or so since all of this had happened something had become very clear to Greta - the crushing sense of dread that had ruled her life for the past week was completely gone, so whatever it was that was invading her mind and keeping her tightly bound in this space was either a very misguided angel or hell’s most inept demon. She thought for a moment, then spoke into the darkness. “Let me say this, whomever or whatever you are,” she said as loudly as she could. “You don’t scare me. Not here you don’t.” There was a pause and something that sounded like a gust of wind leaving a small space.
“Not here, no.” said the voice. “But once you’re back in your world you’ll be consumed with dread. There you will be surrounded with all the talk of another stroke and the damage I’ve done, and…”
“So YOU’RE my stroke?? Is that what this is all about? Look, I think we need to get something clear here. I can move my arms, see??” And Greta raised both arms and the echoes from her people and the doctors grew in intensity again. “And I can probably move my legs, too!” And with that she moved her arms and shook each leg and the echoes grew even louder. “So I’d like to know what this is all about because I’ve got a room full of people who are waiting for me and I was hungry a few minutes ago and probably will be again once I join them and..”
“SILENCE!” said the stroke.
“No, I don’t think so.” Greta said through a chuckle and she shuffled her feet a bit. “You’re in my head and I’d like for you to leave now. And while we’re having this little chat, why in the hell of hells are you a man instead of a woman?? I don’t even think I want to know the answer to that one, so don’t bother with that. This is going to be very simple. I’m late for lunch. Please don’t visit me in my waking or dreaming or… sleeping life anymore. I’m normally a really upbeat person and you’re a real downer, no offense, so I’d appreciate it if you found someone else to pick on or better yet channel your energy into something maybe a little more constructive.”
“But…” the voice said.
“No need to apologize,” Greta said, “Oh, and by the way, thanks for the hug. It was… supernaturally cozy. Really quite nice. You have a nice quality about you after all, see? You are a GREAT hugger! Now run along and find someone else to hug. - maybe that can be your thing.”
And with that Greta closed her eyes and, within a few seconds, she began to feel the weight of dread slowly lift from her. The echoes around her began transforming back into voices and the light slowly crept back into her world. She could feel herself laying in a hospital bed again. She heard beeping sounds and a cacophony of hospital people bustling about. She blinked her eyes open and slowly focussed on her son was sitting in the chair next to her bed. His head was resting on his hands, his eyes closed. She tilted her head and saw that he was holding her hand. She gave his hand a gentle squeeze then looked back at him.
His eyes shot open. “Mom!” he exclaimed, sitting upright in his chair.
“Hi sweetie.” Greta said with a warm smile.
“How… how do you feel??” Her son asked, leaning in close to her.
“Well, …” she paused for a moment, contemplating her answer this time more than usual. She smiled at him, then glanced around the room, taking it all in, feeling the lightness of her body on the sheets, the brightness of the lights overhead, and an undeniable sense of peace. “I feel good Paul. I feel hungry. Whadya say we try again to get some lunch?”