The Dream
I recently dreamed that my daughter, Carrick, was perched on the edge of a dock on a lake. I stood behind her. As she slipped into the water, it dawned on me that she was taking a swimming test and I was the only one observing her. Her back arched and her arms plunged in a graceful butterfly stroke, but her head did not emerge. Her skin suddenly blanched, and I sensed she was in trouble. I jumped into the gray chop, landing beyond where her efforts had carried her. As I faced her, she sank feet first, her long hair swirling in the water. She was just inches away but it seemed an infinite distance. I felt responsible, as if my thinking that she might drown had made it happen. I wanted to change the direction the dream was taking, but I couldn't do it. I knew that she would plunge faster than I could dive after her, and that I would not be able to bring her to the surface even if I managed to catch her.
I woke up. My chest felt raw and empty, as if my ribcage had been ripped open. At first I thought the dream was about my feeling that I have something to lose again. But as I've thought about it, I realize that my subconscious was confirming what I've learned the hard way. I cannot “save” my daughter. If she wants, I can only try to help her learn to swim. When it comes to addiction, that's all anybody can do.