My Little Indian Boy

In May of 1997, I was diagnosed with a brain tumor. I was told that it was most likely benign and slow-growing, but it would eventually press on the brainstem and become life-threatening. I was also told that my tumor had already grown to a considerable size and that it needed to come out very soon. The doctors went into some detail about what I should expect, and they gave me several booklets to read, including one which was about 30 pages long. Lots of information to digest.

The surgery would be long, at least 12 hours and possible over twenty. Two surgical teams would switch off throughout the day until the job was completed. After the surgery, I would be in ICU for several days and in the hospital for ten days to two weeks…if all went well. I would be 100% deaf in my left ear. I would be paralyzed on the left side of my face. I would experience nausea, dizziness and pain. There was a significant chance I could lose the senses of taste and smell. I might go blind in my left eye. There was a 1-5% chance I could “stroke out” or bleed to death. And there was the chance of infection and other complications, too. My doctor told me that it would take a year for me to recover. A year! And he said I would probably never have the same level of energy, that I would always tire easily and that I would probably never again be up for anything strenuous. I was 31 years old.

The surgery was scheduled for July 1. I was terrified and extremely nervous. I was afraid I was going to die, and I didn’t know what life would be like for me if I did survive. For several weeks, I dreaded the surgery. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Then, all too quickly, it was June 30.

I was living in Morgantown at the time, and the surgery was to be performed at WVU Hospital. My parents drove up from Fayetteville to be with me. My aunt and uncle were driving in from another part of the state, and my sister was coming from Baltimore. As instructed, I went to the hospital on the 30^th to confirm that everything was go for the next morning, and much to my surprise, I was told that a crucial member of one of the surgical teams could not be there on July 1 and that the surgery had been rescheduled for the 15^th.

To be truthful, I was greatly relieved. It was like waking up on a snowy winter day when I was a kid and finding out school had been canceled. I was off the hook, at least for two more weeks. I was afraid I was going to die the next day, so two weeks was like the most precious gift ever.

That night, I had a vivid wet dream that I remember to this day. I was walking somewhere in America. It was before Europeans colonized the continent. I was in a large meadow with nothing but wilderness all around. There were no towns, or roads or even trails.

Eventually I spotted a young Native American boy ahead. He was in his late teens or early twenties. He was very slim, and he had long, straight black hair. He wore a headband, a skimpy loincloth and perhaps some moccasins, but that’s all. He was very poised and self-possessed. I had never seen him before, and yet we looked at one another with recognition. I was glad to see him. We began to walk toward one another. And we maintained eye contact. It was as if we were meant to meet in this meadow.

When we were finally standing face to face, we didn’t say anything. Instead, my little Indian boy embraced me. I felt at home in his arms. He then effortlessly lifted me up into the air. An overwhelming sensation came over me. I let go of all of that pent up fear and anxiety. It was at this point that I experienced an intense orgasm and the dream was over.