My daughters, my son and me were strolling around a marketplace in some foreign country. Perhaps India, an African country, South-East Asia? We stopped at a stand that had all kinds of different wallets in a handmade rush basket. My son told me he had just bought a clipping purse: 'It took me a long time to find one in plain black, dad. Hope you get more lucky.' Usually clipping purses are more square shaped but the only black one I found was an elongated one with a black tassle dangling from it. 'I'll just cut that off when we get home', I thought. And bought it, while my daughters went for more colourful purses with handknitted beads and fine stitchwork.
Next moment I was in a hospital where I knew my children were walking around and so was I. In one of the pavillions I was walking around in my hospital gown when a nurse grapped me by my sleeve, dragging me and urging with handgestures, facial expressions and in a language I did not understand: 'Come, you must come. With me. Now!' Apparently the staff was ordered to find me because they could not reach me by phone.
We half ran through long, empty and pure white corridors and the nurse pointed me to a door: 'Open'.
To my surprise there were over a dozen people there, staring at me, not knowing how to look. Was it my birthday and this a surprise party? I smiled and took the only empty seat in a room. Next to a young female nurse who acted as an interpreter. One by one different specialists told me the findings of the tests they performed on me. I patiently listened to them all, occassionaly thanking the interpreter. Until she stammered: 'And the conclusion...the conclusion is...You have two, maybe three days to live.'
My immediate response was a big grin and happily exclaiming: 'Great! That's more than one!' Before I asked: 'Has anyone called my mom to tell her?', not realizing that even in my dream my mother had passed away some years earlier.
My next thought was to get dressed, see my children and to spend as much time with them as was left.
