Sharon visited me again last night, and I didn't want to lose the wonderful feeling, so I re-entered the dream several times even after waking up to go to the bathroom.

In my dream, we were married, but things had become strained enough that we were living apart. She was still bedridden, but in this timeline, I'd chosen to keep working when things got critical, and she required full-time care. We didn't keep the house, but with the money from its sale, and with her disability income, she was able to get a pretty nice place of her own. I would still come over to visit occasionally, but seeing her lying in bed was so depressing that I couldn't manage to stay for long.

On one such visit, however, everything changed. She was there in bed as always, but it appeared that her condition had worsened. She was lying there so still and rigid that she looked like cemetery statuary. Her face had taken on a deathly pallor and her entire body had the appearance of marble. I tried to make small talk, but it felt pointless. How could I talk to a statue? But then she surprised me by getting out of bed and making her way to the kitchen. 

"Do you want some tea?" she said, as if there was nothing unusual about her instant resurrection.

"I can't believe it!" I said, "You can walk again! How long have you been hiding that fact from the world?" I was elated, but also concerned about the financial angle of how such a drastic recovery would affect her disability income.

"Oh, they know," she said, winking at me. "I'm a special case."

I suddenly had a memory of us on the day of her original diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis. We were sitting in Dr. Forner's office in Chico, anxiously waiting on the results of some tests. I still remember this comic from the New Yorker that I was thumbing through nervously to pass the time as we sat there. It made Sharon laugh. Silly cat.

After an interminable wait, the silver haired neurologist breezed in and told her, "You have MS," as if it were nothing more than a mild case of sunburn. He recommended some pharmaceutical drugs and was off to make his three o'clock tee off. 

One thing he did say was that she had the Relapsing Remitting kind of MS, but we later believed that he was simply making that diagnosis in order to push the drugs that were available for that type of MS at the time.

"He has get his quota in order to qualify for more pens and wall clocks from Teva," Sharon said conspiratorially. 

She took the drugs briefly, but the course of her disease was unaltered, and she saw no point in enduring the injection site reaction and other side effects. Within 3 years she was in a wheelchair and by 2010, she was completely bedridden--a straight course of decline with no remission, only relapses and exacerbation.

"I bet you want to kiss Dr. Forner now," I told the ambulatory, recuperated Sharon. "He was right. You do have the relapsing remitting kind."

"He was still a jackass," she said, smiling as she said it.

I couldn't believe it. I had a walking, talking, sassy Sharon back. I felt so bad for having abandoned hope. I hugged her, and we talked about throwing a party. 

"First things first," she said.

She had me lie down on the bed with her. Things progressed, and soon my hand was exploring her nether regions. Cheeky monkey, I thought, she had trimmed down there. No more 70s afro-pubes, just a well-groomed little strip. 

"You like it?" she laughed. "The nurses do such a good job with me. I get anything I ask for."

We were interrupted by a knock on the door, and able-bodied Sharon jumped up to answer it. It was a couple of people from DBSA. Apparently, word had gotten around, and there was going to be a party. People started arriving with dip and condiments. 

"This is a special dip," one girl told me, standing a little too close and whispering in my ear. "It has been infused with my meds." She showed me a prescription bottle with a long list of herbal ingredients, most of them psychoactive.

"I think I'll have to pass," I said, scraping the dip off my plate and back into the serving container.

LeeAnn from group had brought a dog with her, a mangy stray that she'd recently adopted. It was a kind of lab/sheep dog cross, very sheddy and incontinent. He immediately peed on the floor, soaking the carpet, which was already being covered with clumps of black hair. 

I started to worry about the fact that LeeAnn appeared to be homeless, and wondered about the extent of Sharon's hospitality. She surprised me, however, and said that everyone could stay, as long as the dog got walked regularly.

"Don't worry," Sharon said. "The nurses will take care of the cleanup. They do everything."

After a few days, the party wound down, and it was just me and Sharon again. I'd stayed there a couple of days, and I was feeling nervous about whether or not she'd take me back after I'd been absent for so long. We were discussing the logistics of me perhaps moving back in with her full-time when a nurse showed up for Sharon's hair coloring appointment.

"Just tell me what color you prefer," the nurse said, pointing to a photo of various shades of blonde hair, curled and highlighted.

"I'll try the highlighted part," she said, pointing to a lightened section of the wavy locks in the picture.

"Good choice, Mrs. Golding," the nurse said.

She got out her hair dye and began asking me whether or not I'd be availing myself of the services of their nursing staff. 

"We still have some psychiatric options available for spouses," she said. "The Covid funding has almost run out, but you still qualify if you are living here full-time."

That was the million dollar question. I woke up before it ever got answered, but I had the sense that Sharon was willing to take me back despite my having strayed from her during the worst of her illness. I can't describe the feeling that it gave me, knowing that she was better and that we might soon resume our lives together.