Do Not Go Gentle by James W. Jorgensen

caused friction between us kids. No one likes to be told, ‘You need to be more like’ someone else.”
    â€œTrue, but there’s nothing wrong with praising someone’s success,” Eileen insisted.
    â€œI know. Like I said, I’m not saying what I mean, at least, not very well.”
    â€œBecause you rarely tell anyone how you feel. Not even me.”
    Jamie looked back at his wife. “It’s not because I don’t want to, my love. It’s just the way I am.”
    â€œWell, as I’ve said before, you need to try.”
    Jamie reached across the seat and held out his hand. Without looking, Eileen grasped it and squeezed. After a moment, Jamie said, “Okay then. I’ve been having nightmares.”
    â€œLike the one that woke me the other morning? You’ve been having more?”
    Jamie nodded. “Aye. It seems like every time I’ve been sleeping since this started, I wake up fearful, angry, and sad—like something terrible happened or is going to happen.”
    â€œDo you want to tell me about them?” Eileen asked softly.
    Jamie looked out at the Dorchester streets. Dorchester was one of Boston’s largest and most populous neighborhoods. They were driving up Dorchester Avenue, the main north-south thoroughfare that ran the entire length of the district, from Uphams Corner in the north to Lower Mills in the south. It was a diverse neighborhood—thriving business districts in Uphams Corner and Fields Corner, a Boston U campus and the JFK Library in Harbor Point, industrial sections in the north, and a variety of residential neighborhoods throughout.
    The demographics of the neighborhood varied as well: a large Caribbean population in western and central Dorchester, Vietnamese in the eastern sections, the “Polish Triangle” in the north, and the Irish enclaves to the south. A large Cape Verdean community even resided in Uphams Corner. Jamie had lived his whole life here, other than his years at Notre Dame. His family roots went back generations in the Cedar Grove section. Jamie never ceased to marvel at Dorchester’s diversity and the juxtaposition of stability and change. It suffered from a high crime rate, especially murders, which were a primary force in Jamie’s love of his career—defending this neighborhood from those who would destroy it.
    â€œIs it that hard to share?” asked Eileen.
    â€œNo, just wool-gathering.” Jamie recounted his nightmares, and then snorted softly. “Silly, huh?”
    â€œNo, not at all. Nightmares may seem silly when you talk about them in the light of day, but they can be overpoweringly real when you’re having one. If you ask me, your nightmares come from your fear of being sick, of not being ‘superman’ and able to run on full power for sixteen hours a day.”
    â€œI thought about that,” admitted Jamie, “but the first nightmare was the morning I first woke up feeling bad, not after it lingered.”
    â€œMaybe your body was telling your subconscious that something was wrong.”
    â€œMaybe.”
    As they parked in the clinic’s lot, Eileen turned to her husband and smiled. “I know, my hard-headed Irish love, you don’t buy into anything you can’t see or feel.”
    Jamie just shook his head in response, and then staggered as he got out of the car, much to Eileen’s concern. She marched over, grabbed Jamie’s arm and held tight, despite his glare.
    They walked into the clinic offices and exchanged small talk with the front staff. They had been coming to this clinic for years and knew everyone well. As they walked to the seating area, a male voice cried out. “Jamie Griffin. You really
must
be sick to visit the doc.”
    â€œAh, sweet Jaysus.” muttered Jamie softly to Eileen. Then he turned toward the speaker with a smile pasted to his face. “Well, Max, that explains why