Chapter 4: Dreams and Madness

DREAM

Monica faced her husband with tears in her eyes. Chandler's gaze was soft and in his voice, she could hear how he attempted to be reassuring. "Don't be afraid."

Monica shook her head. "I'm not afraid to die…." She whispered. In truth, she was almost resigned to it. Anyone who wanted something too much was bound to get burned some time; in dodging this adage for as long as she had, Monica knew she had been luckier than most. "I've been dying a piece at a time every day since you came into my life, and when you went out of it again…"

Chandler's expression furrowed quizzically. "What are you talking about?"

As if he didn't know! Well, she would make it clear. Monica smiled at the man she had married sadly, helplessly. "I love you."

Chandler seemed surprised by this declaration, which confused her. "You love me?!"

She nodded. "My love for you is a puzzle for which I have no answers. I can't control it – and now I don't care. I don't care to." She looked him in the face bravely, solemnly, her voice dropping to a near-hush in earnest, as if she had but limited time to get the words out. "I truly…. deeply….. love you, and no matter what happens next, I want you, need for you, to know…."

Hesitantly, Chandler leaned forward. Monica stretched towards him and their lips tentatively met. Throwing her arms about him, Monica urged the kiss to deepen, even as tears of anguish pricked at her eyes…..

END OF DREAM


Monica jolted out of the dream sharply, her eyes flying open, even as she managed to keep her body perfectly still where she was lying on her side. Over her shoulder, she could hear the easy rise and fall of her beloved Chandler's apneic breathing. Even while he was in slumber, she scolded him, though half-heartedly: her husband had never had the best breathing patterns, especially in sleep; she would have to either look into finding some way to help reduce his sleep apnea or get Chandler to research a specialist himself.

Far more pressing to Mrs. Bing, however, was whatever the hell that was that she had just awoken from. Sitting up in the double bed they shared, Monica gazed down at her husband and partner which crippling tenderness.

All these subconscious musings about death, and love delivered with such crippling pathos, it was almost soap-operatic, like a scene out of Joey's infernal Days of Our Lives. That Monica loved Chandler with all her heart was not in doubt, but as to the discussion of death, not being afraid to face it….

Her mind snapped back to Joey, as she recalled a memorable conversation she, her dear friend and her then-boyfriend had had in Apartment 19, during the first year she and Chandler were dating. Joey had been troubled by a dream he had had, one that had apparently depicted him cuddling intimately with Monica in Chandler's place, doing a crossword in the same way that Monica still liked to solve puzzles with her now-husband: snuggled together.

Joey's dream hadn't been a wet or arousing one, as far as she was aware or that he had let on. Joey had even made a point to claim that his dream of cuddling had not been. The memory made Monica laugh now, rather than the bashful and bemused reaction she had displayed in that moment. It had been hard to even feel too flattered because, then again, Joey tended to be attracted to anything with an endocrine system – in this, the man had always been far from subtle. In some ways, as a hopeless romantic, Joey was even more pathetically obvious than Chandler had been, if not quite as needy as Chandler had come off as before she had fallen in love with him, thus giving her husband quite a boost to his confidence.

At the time, Monica, and Chandler too, had tried to be helpful to Joey by postulating what the dream of her and Joey together in a romantic sense had meant, if anything. Sure, in real life, she had had a brief crush on him the day they had first met, only for hapless Joey to bugger that up, even as it had ultimately been for the best. But dreams were rarely that simple, or so Monica had told herself.

Now, however, some years on, Monica could only shake her head in disgust. Scoff. Even a disturbing dream like this didn't have some deep meaning! Dreams didn't mean anything! They were merely a manifestation of subconscious thought, disparate musings and bits of memory twisted and jumbled together…..

…. Weren't they?

Monica rose out of bed as softly as she dared, her mind in a fog, padding from the master bedroom on tiptoe so as not to wake her spouse. After checking to see the twins were asleep and settled, she moved to the bathroom, pulling the door to before turning on a light so she could splash water on her face.

Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror, almost taunting.

That dream wasn't supposed to be telling her anything! If it was, it would have been clearer, wouldn't it have? Monica shook her head. Phoebe would be deeply offended, if she ever heard Monica give voice to these thoughts…

…. Phoebe! Maybe she could go to Phoebe about her worries! Monica knew her close girlfriend had always kept a dream journal; maybe Pheebs could offer some insight…

…. Or maybe Monica should do the sensible thing and book an appointment for counseling, rather than using a massage in place of a shrink's couch. For all her quirky wisdom, Phoebe was a masseuse, not a therapist.

Monica finally dismissed this. She still didn't believe the dream was supposed to have any deeper meaning that was profound or even logical, but it wouldn't hurt to hear the judgments of a layperson before considering going to a professional. Besides, with the confident way in which she carried herself, Phoebe often passed as a professional in a great many areas – an out-there professional perhaps, but even so, she hadn't been able to initially fool her old boyfriend Gary into thinking she was an undercover cop for absolutely no reason. Joey may be the actor, but when Phoebe committed, she performed to the hilt. Indeed, Phoebe Buffay was one of the few amateurs who could make it sound like she knew what she was talking about without risking bringing harm onto anyone.

Decision made, Monica went back to bed, sleeping fitfully. With the sun still rising, she dialed the masseuse parlor the minute its offices opened and booked an appointment.


"Maybe you've come with a challenge, then?" Phoebe's eyes twinkled with mirth and perhaps even a tad bit of harmless mischief as she led her dear friend – practically extended family – back into the rear room where a flat table with a hole cut in one end awaited. "I was surprised to get your call. Thank goodness the office knew enough to assign you straight to me!"

Monica grinned gratefully. "You're the only one who touches these muscles. To get out the cricks." She mounted the table, lifting her shirt up beyond her midriff.

"Hmm…. So I see…." Phoebe hummed, frowning. She began to work a massage into her shoulders, and Monica let out a moan. Even if she had possessed a contortionist's ability to massage herself, Monica would never have attempted it – to hear her husband tell it, she gave the best "terrible" massages. Phoebe would concur, and had in fact once, years ago. Bringing unto herself unnecessary pain to compound the disconcertment in her mind would not do, Monica thought.

"Say, Pheebs…." Monica spoke towards the floor, where she was currently face-planted into the massage table, her head laying limp and relaxed thanks to the pull of gravity towards the floor. "You still keep that dream journal, right?"

"Oh, yes," Phoebe bubbled happily. "Mike's finally started one – it only took me months of encouraging him!..."

Monica nodded absently, letting out a sigh of relief as Phoebe worked her way down to release the tension in the small of her back. "Do you really think that dreams mean anything?"

She felt Phoebe pause above her, if not quite tense, at the question. Monica then felt her friend swing off from where she had been straddling her back, and kneel by the massage table, ducking her head under to look her friend and patient in the face even as her hands continued to perform a kind of pattern dance up and down Monica's spine.

"You've had a dream. Tell me!"

Haltingly, Monica did. She told Phoebe about her pathos-filled confession of love to Chandler. She expressed her bemusement at how shocked Chandler had been, in the dream, to hear it. She relayed how her dream self had apparently not been afraid to die, seeming quite confident in the knowledge that she had spent living moments feeling as if she were dying.

Phoebe asked really probing questions, and Monica imagined she was acting somewhat like her therapist as well as her masseuse, even as Monica had never been in to see a therapist to even know what they were like.

"What were your surroundings in the dream? Could you tell where you were?"

No, it was amorphous, Monica reported.

"Can you analyze why you would have said what you said? What do you think it means?"

Monica tried, but gave up. She honestly didn't have the slightest idea, except to imagine that if she was desperate enough to let Chandler know that she loved him, then it appeared to have been uttered in anticipation of something dire – something like death. What exactly that something was remained unclear.

Phoebe was pensive for a time. In the interim, she finished Moncia's massage, then dug through her purse until she found her dream journal. She jotted down Monica's dream in a separate entry after asking Monica to repeat the subconscious musing, taking copious notes.

"You talk about dying, about not being afraid of it…." Nibbling on the end of her pencil, Phoebe suddenly brightened with inspiration. "What if you are not afraid of dying yourself, but rather are no longer afraid of a part of yourself dying?"

"How do you mean?" Monica quibbled, frowning. "What part of me?" A beat, and then her eyes bugged out in horror. "The dream better not be suggesting that I will no longer care about cleaning! I can't become a slob! I can't!" The very thought was anathema to her.

Phoebe chuckled. "No. It would take a lot for you to no longer care about Hazmat-level hygiene." She pursed her lips. "I do know the desire to become a mother has always been a major part of who you are. But you would be terrified to let that urge die in you…."

At this, Monica blanched. The thought of losing either Jack or Erica, never mind her husband Chandler, petrified her. After waiting forever for them, yearning for them, the family she loved more than anything….. well, if she lost any one of them, or God forbid, all of them, then she truly would not be afraid to die. Death would be a welcome respite, in the face of such cataclysm, she could say with confidence.

"Here's a thought:" Phoebe spoke at last. "Maybe you saying you are not afraid to die speaks to how you are no longer afraid to confront a dream that has died within you." She studied Monica meaningfully. "Call it a dream within a dream, if you will. We encounter dreams in sleep, but we also harbor dreams, especially when we're awake. Your dream has always been to become a mother."

"…. Except I now am a mother," Monica pointed out, befuddled, even as just saying so caused a smile to alight onto her face and tears fill her eyes.

"True. But you only became a mother in a way that you didn't envision," Phoebe reminded her, the weight of her point hanging in the air. The masseuse's smile was sad and laced with far too much sympathy. "You and Chandler worked it out, after needing to get creative. But to do so, there was left a dream unfulfilled, a dream that you had to let die." Monica's eyes widened as she got the meaning conveyed by Phoebe, who smiled knowingly. "You had to watch your dream of becoming pregnant with children die. Have you and Chandler properly grieved that death? Acknowledged it?" At Monica's thoughtful, shaken expression, her friend shrugged. "We don't just grieve people, or pet animals, you know. We can grieve lost dreams too."

Monica chewed on her bottom lip. She had to consider, on some level, if Phoebe was right. While she and Chandler had evolved, gravitated eventually towards the idea of adopting their children, it had been a journey. Despite telling Chandler she felt really good about the route they ultimately took, had either of them really processed the grief left in the wake of that decision? The circumstances that had pushed them there? She wasn't sure.

Hugging Phoebe gratefully, Monica left the massage parlor with her mind untethered and adrift in a fog.


DREAM

He was staring down at the beautiful face of the love of his life. Tears were flowing freely down her cheeks, her expression scrunched up in agony. Monica now wailed, as if in the pangs of something horrible.

"AHHHH! Chandler! Help me…!"

END OF DREAM


Chandler sat bolt upright in bed, jerked awake and out of the nightmare. Swinging his legs out and off the side of the mattress, he hunched over and placed his head in his hands, breathing hard. He couldn't shake the disturbing image of his beloved in distress, his wife in what was clearly debilitating pain, from his mind.

Was it cancer? Burns? Or heaven forbid something far worse? Chandler didn't know. The most he had been able to discern was to see how Monica had been dressed in something white – not a wedding dress. Something more akin to a hospital gown, thus alluding to her plight being more medical in nature.

One more possibility entered his subconscious, his subconscious which had just been so thoroughly rattled, and it was hard not to dismiss it out of hand. Rising, Chandler fished around for his bathrobe before pulling it over where he had gone to bed in nothing but his boxer shorts. Thus clothed, tying the sash around his naked form, he stalked from the room. Pressing his ear to the jamb, he briefly listened for any sounds from his little ones. Silence. Good – Jack and Erica were more and more managing to sleep through the night. Upon hearing nothing, he padded down the stairs to make himself a pot of coffee.

If Chandler had glanced back, he would have seen his wife stir, lifting herself from the pillows to catch him slipping out.

Monica tried to go back to sleep – for all of a minute. When she rolled over and felt how Chandler's side of the bed was beginning to grow cold, she threw back the down comforter and rose lithely from their bed to seek out her husband.

She found him in the artificial glare of the kitchen, at the table. His coffee mug was untouched, with steam still wafting off the top.

Placing her hands on his shoulders, Monica was careful not to let her fingers wander into anything resembling a massage. "Chandler? Come back to bed…."

To her soft crooning, there was no response. Monica waited, trusting that Chandler would come to her when he needed to talk. When the instinct didn't happen nearly fast enough for her liking, she gently prodded him, "How can we be married without being honest with each other?"

She was guilting him into talking, perhaps, but the tactic had never failed her before, either in the serious or the more lighthearted moments. "It was only a dream," Chandler huffed.

Monica dipped a kiss into her husband's next. "Bad?" she murmured. "What was it about?"

Chandler nodded. "Kind of like the nightmares I used to have about my parents, just after they got divorced…." He lifted his head to glance at her. "Except it was about you."

Me? Monica thought, bewildered. In the years she had known him, she had learned and accepted her partner's flaws, understanding that most of them had originated in childhood trauma that Nora and Charles/Helena had put their son through. "What….. what happened?"

Chandler gulped, refusing to look at her now. "I think…. you die in childbirth."

Monica sucked in a sharp breath. She full-on gasped, in fact, hugging herself, her arms instinctively encircling her womb even as it was painfully flat. It couldn't be, it wasn't possible. She and Chandler were both pretty much infertile, or the closest thing to it; Dr. Connelly had told them so….

Still, even so, Monica breathed out anxiously. "And the baby?..."

Chandler was silent for an excruciatingly long moment before rumbling out, "I don't know."

Monica bit her lip, her thoughts whirling. As described, Chandler's dream could line up with the theory Phoebe had floated, even as this dream had manifested itself in a way that was more grotesquely explicit. Unless…. That wasn't the theory at all and Chandler's dream was warning him about something else….

Monica distracted herself by pressing earnest kisses into her husband's neck, working her lips up his skin. She reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his. "We'll talk about it in the morning…." she cooed. "For now, come to bed…."

And taking him by the hands, helping him rise to his feet, Monica led her sweet Chandler with purpose back up to their bedroom.

Husband and wife gave into sleep only after an ardent round of making love.