Life-saving snooze
Thursday 26th February 2009
Perfect weather for a funeral, I thought, trying to hold back the tears as my sister Beverley Butcher's coffin was lowered slowly into the ground. The sky was grey and the drizzle was making my hair go frizzy. As someone dropped a red rose on top of her coffin, the grief hit me like a sledgehammer. The big sister I adored was never coming back. The emotion tore up my throat and I let out a loud sob.
'I told you she was ill,' my mum, Barbara, whispered, handing me a screwed-up tissue.
Tears streamed down my cheeks, as the vicar's words were muffled by the rain.
'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…'
By the time he'd finished speaking, Mum and I were in hysterics.
'Bev's gone,' Mum sobbed. 'We've lost her.'
The pain inside was like nothing I'd ever felt before. It was smothering me, making it hard for me to breathe. I started screaming….
Next thing I knew, I was sitting upright in bed, tears pouring down my cheeks and dripping off my chin. I looked at the clock. 6.45am. Next to me, my husband, Rick, 44, was still fast asleep. As I tried to block out that horrible ache of grief in my chest, the realisation hit me.
It was just a bad dream. Bev wasn't dead. Well, not when I'd seen her yesterday anyway.
'Thank God,' I gasped, as I slumped back into the pillow with relief.
I smiled as I thought of Bev, 51, probably still tucked up in bed at our dad John's house.
But as I rolled over and tried to get back to sleep, something nagged away at me. Bev hadn't felt well yesterday. Dad had phoned in the afternoon, to say she'd been sent home from the sweet factory where she worked.
'Would you mind popping to the chemist for her, love?' he'd asked. 'She's come down with a bit of a cold and an upset stomach. She thinks it's flu.'
'OK,' I'd sighed, rolling my eyes.
Talk about drama queen.
But the chemist was only a 15-minute drive away, so I'd picked her up some Diarolyte sachets and popped them round.
'Thanks, love,' Dad had said. 'Bev's in bed if you want to go up.'
'I won't disturb her,' I'd replied, handing him the sachets. 'Just make sure she takes a couple of these.'
To be honest, I hadn't thought anything of it. Until now. But the dream was so vivid, I couldn't help wondering if it was a message. Perhaps Bev was more ill than we realised. I grabbed the phone, unable to hide the panic in my voice. When Dad spoke, I couldn't get the words out fast enough.
'I'm worried about Bev,' I babbled. 'We need to get her to the doctor's.'
'How did you know?' he gasped. 'She got worse in the night. She can hardly move now.'
'I'm on my way,' I said, slamming down the phone.
Five minutes later, I was running up Dad's front path. Please don't let it be too late…Dad was waiting for me at the door.
'Have you called the doctor?' I demanded.
Dad shook his head, so I raced up the stairs to Bev's room. When I saw her lying in bed, screaming in pain, my heart sank.
'My legs hurt,' she shrieked, kicking back the covers.
I saw a red mark on the bottom of her leg. It wasn't a rash, just one blotch, but for some reason, it sent alarm bells off in my head. Was I overreacting? Probably. But after that dream, I wasn't going to risk anything. So I went back downstairs and called our GP.
'I'm afraid no one's available to come out,' the receptionist said. 'Your sister will have to come in to see a doctor.'
'But it's serious,' I pleaded. 'I think it's meningitis.'
Just saying it out loud made it seem even more real.
'I'm going to phone an ambulance,' I said, before hanging up and dialling 999.
Then, I sat with Bev until the paramedics arrived 10 minutes later.
'I had a terrible dream,' I told them. 'I think it's meningitis.'
The paramedics looked at me like I was mad, until they pulled back the covers and saw the red mark.
'You might be right,' one of them frowned, as they loaded Bev into the ambulance and we tore off to Blackpool Victoria Hospital. By the time we got there, more red marks were appearing and after doing some tests, the doctor confirmed it.
'You did the right thing,' she said. 'If you'd left it just a few hours longer, we might have lost her.'
'Thank God,' I gasped. 'And all because of my dream.'
But Bev was by no means out of danger yet.
'I can't promise you she'll pull through,' the doctor warned. 'The next 48 hours are critical.'
So I sat by Bev's bedside as she drifted in and out of consciousness. She'd developed blood poisoning, so her feet were purple and swollen, and it was touch and go. She was pumped full of drugs to help her beat the condition. I could hardly believe that just hours before, I'd been dreaming she was dead, and now we were facing the prospect she really might die.
It must have been a warning, but had it come too late? Finally, after four agonising days, there was good news.
'The drugs seem to be working,' the doctor said. 'She's on the mend.'
To say we were relieved was an understatement.
Bev was moved out of intensive care and onto a ward, and two weeks after that, she was well enough to come home. It was only then I told her I'd already been to her funeral.
'What do you mean?' she asked, confused.
'I dreamed I was at your funeral,' I explained. 'And it was awful. I was crying and Mum was crying and…'
'I always knew you were psychic!' she interrupted.
I thought back to when my daughter, Jessica, was born 14 weeks prematurely, back in 1994. I'd woken up at exactly 12.30am, dreaming I was having a heart attack, and the next day the nurses had said that Jessica's tiny lungs had collapsed during the night and they'd had to resuscitate her. At 12.30am on the dot.
'It's just a coincidence,' Rick had insisted.
'Maybe now he'll take me seriously,' I smiled.
Since Bev's lucky escape, I've dreamed I was holding my dying Jack Russell, Bella. When I took her to the vet the following day, she had a really bad case of gastroenteritis and if I'd left it much longer, I could have lost her. Whether it means I'm psychic or not, I'm convinced my dream saved Bev's life and now Bella's. So who am I to complain about a few sleepless nights!