I am in a large room, like an expensive hotel lobby. There is a large black bowl like structure, fountain size, but without a fountain. There is a big woman bullying me. She is making me dump containers of ice into the bowl structure. It will overflow and I will be blamed. Another woman whispers to me: “You have to sing a song about abuse, so that people will know that she is making you do this.” I know songs about abuse but at that moment I can’t think of any. Then I do. I remember a song my mother sang, this verse:

“Two little babies, crying for bread. With none to give them, don’t you wish that you were dead. Don’t you wish you were a single girl again.”

I wake up. The song is about a young woman, married, whose husband is drinking up his paycheck. She and the babies are starving and he beats them. Not a pretty picture of marriage, is it?

I wake up. One way to think about dreams is that each person in the dream represents an aspect of ourselves. So WHY is my inner bully showing up? I don’t like this!

That day my friend goes from the hospital to a nursing home for rehab. I speak to three people on the team, because my friend has a cardiology appointment the next day and I want to be sure that she will be taken to the visit. She is going to a nursing home 40 minutes away.

On the appointment day, I call the rehab just after 9 am when the internet says they open. There are three choices: two halls and a main office. I leave a message on hall one. I call back and leave a message on hall two. I wait another ten minutes and call the office. No answer, I leave a third message. I wait until 9:30 and call again. This time that inner voice with gumption is fired up: “I need a call back by 11:30 or I will drive up there, I need to know that my friend has transport to cardiology for her 12:45 appointment.”

I get a call back at 10:30. The rehab person introduces herself. “Oh, we can’t transport her because she just got here yesterday.”

“You don’t understand,” I say. “This visit is to make sure her heart is ok after restarting a medicine. It is not optional.”

“We can’t transport her.”

“I am sick, I can’t transport her. What is your name? What is your position? Who is in charge of the facility? What about her heart, your facility has no concerns if her heart is poisoned?”

“Just a moment.” Papers rattle. “Oh, we DO have transport arranged. Someone else wrote it down and I didn’t see it.”

“Oh, thank you so much. I was so worried!”

I go to the appointment, masked. The driver says my friend was a last minute addition. The visit goes well. I am on the tail end of a cold, not covid, and I am very tired from trying to be sure that my friend gets good care. I think THAT is what the dream is about, the inner strong voice who is not going to let my friend be abandoned, be bullied, be ignored. She is too ill to fight for herself so I am fighting for her. And I am formidable.

For the Ragtag Daily Prompt: gumption.