For Those Who Dream in Color - A Poem of Understanding

For Those Who Dream in Color

I sat in a dream,
Seeing it go by in front of me for so very long,
Until I realized I was not alone in the dream.
Others were there, painting the sky blue,
And adding sparkle to the raindrops.

I woke up and knew:
The dream was not mine alone,
For it was encompassing many others —
Friends, family, and the unknown.

Even in dreams,
I am never alone.

I dream to be unshared.
But I'd be by myself, alone,
Solitary in my thoughts.
For some reason, that unsettles me.

Alone, it would be a colorless void,
Without all the others,
Those who bring their own dreams
Into mine, which is co-owned.

Perhaps the dream is a mirror,
Reflecting fragments of us all,
A mosaic of borrowed visions
That no one can claim alone.

The painted dream has many colors,
Provided to the heart and mind,
Even for those of us who seek to stand aside,
Those of us who are emotionally colorblind.
Solitude suits us well, or so we believe.
But we do not dream in isolation.
We dream of scenes, colorful and plentiful,
Noisy with the voices of others in colored tones.

Eye-catching, vibrant,
in the painted dream.
Living and alive, colorfully.

Copyright 2025 M. W. Van Dyke
All Rights Reserved

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Afterword

Philip K. Dick once asked whether machines could dream — and if so, what those dreams might reveal about their humanity. This poem turns that question back toward us. For Those Who Dream in Color is not about artificial dreaming, but about the communal nature of human dreams. Even when solitude tempts us, our visions are never truly ours alone. They are painted, mirrored, and mosaicked by the presence of others — friends, family, strangers — who lend their hues to the canvas.

Where Dick’s story probes isolation and artificiality, this poem affirms connection and shared imagination. Dreams, like colors, cannot be contained by one mind. They spill outward, co-owned, noisy, and plentiful.

Life as a Family Caregiver Day 5909: Still Here

Day 5909: Still Here

I guess I’m one of those long-term family caregivers that some seem to think fall outside the norm once the years are added up. But those years began at the start of the Alzheimer’s diagnosis — well, near enough. I was there from the “he’s going to eventually need someone there… and then will need care” stage.

Twenty years ago, I knew nothing about dementia or Alzheimer’s, and certainly had no inkling of what caregiving would entail. Doctors and specialists were throwing out timeframes and life expectancies — five years, ten at the most, and so on.

In terms of shifting from being “involved and watchful” to becoming the primary caregiver for my father, today is Day 5909. The progression was slow. Slower than anyone expected. Definitely outside most of the medical professionals’ pie charts and pizza slices.

My dad was active. He walked every day — in parks and malls. He read a book a day, usually sitting at a booth in McDonald’s. Not the same McDonald’s. He varied them. He spent time at the library too. Always had seven books in the trunk of his car. Always. His Alzheimer’s progression was remarkably slow. It amazed the professionals. It didn’t amaze me or my family. Everyone used to say my dad would probably live “forever.” He was in better shape than most of us, we said, smiling.

Then COVID hit. That changed everything. The lockdowns changed everything.

I’ve learned over the years that it’s not progression — it’s progressions. There are rebounds. Some stick. Some don’t. Some you can force, others you can’t. Diagnoses can change. Depends on the doctor. Alzheimer’s one year, and five years later, another doctor says “more like vascular.” There are no definitives in my experience. Of course, my dad exceeded all expectations. Some have credited me with that. I agree — humbly. I’m not a miracle worker. It was always a cooperative effort from the early days. Not so cooperative now. But I’m more stubborn than my dad is… now. And I’m more dedicated than any of the medical professionals.

None of that would have worked if my dad wasn’t my dad. Still my dad, deep down. I know this better than anyone. Of course, some give him all the credit and barely give me any. They don’t know — they haven’t been here. They’re running on memories.

When my mother was battling cancer, my dad gathered all the family photos, had most of them duplicated, and created three sets of albums: one for Mom, one for my sisters, and one for us. My parents had long been divorced, but Dad did that for her. For the family. To prepare for what was coming. It wasn’t inexpensive. My mom loved those albums. My eldest sister and she even wrote notes on the backs of some of the photos. More than I probably realize.

My mother passed in July 1999. What happened to those albums, I can’t say with confidence. Dismembered is the word that comes to mind. In the modern world of digital photos, such things are no longer treasured or cherished. That I will say.

After some health issues of my own, I began digitizing photos and putting them online so they wouldn’t be lost. To share and remind others of the good times — and of people no longer with us. I was meticulous in scanning, organizing, uploading, and tagging people on Facebook. It wasn’t just a few photos. It was many. A flood. And not just of family.

That’s when I learned a valuable lesson: don’t tag people in photos. Ever. Turns out the significant other of a person doesn’t appreciate it when those tagged photos include an ex-girlfriend. Seems some genders really don’t like that. Ruins the other gender’s weekend.

Five to ten years, they said.
We’re still here.

I didn’t follow their plan. Didn’t go with the flow. Didn’t just “let it happen” because it was expected. See, I know my dad. I know how he is — and how he was. I know him better than anyone. He’s not a statistic. He’s not, and never was, an average. Neither am I.

Taking care of my father hasn’t been hard. Not really. Not for me. Some people have it much harder. Some have wanderers and screamers. Some care for multiple people. Some, like me, deal with catheters. Others don’t. Some have kids and family on top of caregiving. Some do it solo. Some have help. But all of us get woken up at 3 a.m. for something we really didn’t want to deal with.

It’s not levels. It’s degrees.

To another person, caring for my dad would be a true burden. For me, it isn’t — even if I have bad hours and bad days. I still want a good night’s sleep. Haven’t seen one in almost two decades.

Some people decline and progress, and no matter what you do, you can’t forestall it. You can do everything right. Sometimes it’s just the way these diseases unfold. Other times, it’s that — and that deep down, they’re done here. No joy of life. Nothing keeping them here.

As a caregiver, you must be a realist. Hard to do when you love someone. Even harder when you’ve grown to hate who they’ve become. Me? I love my dad. Not because he was the best father. He wasn’t. But he was always there for me — even if not emotionally. He was there when I was down and out in Beverly Hills, I like to say.

I love my father because he is my father — not because I love the idea of him or the memory of him. He wasn’t the best dad. Never threw a ball with me. Never showed up for a school play. Never taught me to tie a tie. Scared me as a kid sometimes. But he was there when it mattered. Even after the divorce, he was there.

When my fiancée died and I broke completely — spent time in a hospital — he brought me home when that was done. He gave me time to rebuild. Not with hugs, but with space and time. That outweighs all the missed school plays and ballgames. It does to me, at least.

We each do what we feel we must as family caregivers. We all have our own paths to walk. I didn’t take the five-year path. My dad didn’t either. That made the difference. The ten-year path was still there, but we took the bypass.

We’re still here.
I’m still here.
Day 5909.

I didn’t expect this. Not at all.
But I don’t begrudge it.
I only begrudge some smells — and when the nappy is extra juicy.
That, I think, is fair to complain about.
But yes. It is true. I do count the days. Obviously.