Dreams of screwing up have beset my nights. For example, last night had me helping to build houses in the first dream, just simple wooden structures. I wasn’t in charge, but had joined the project after it was long underway. We were building on a high steppe rich with emerald green grass. The steppe ended on a cliff. Below in a a hazy blue distance were landmarks from a city. Beyond, an ocean breathed with rolling swells. Peaceful and comforting, I was happy to be in those surroundings, proud to be part of that project.
But, I suggested a change to where we put the houses. Then I acted on it. Only framing had been done (bizarrely, we seemed to be building without foundations, which is probably a clue for me), and after I moved the houses, they all began collapsing, like slow motion dominos falling over onto one another. I realized the last would fall over the cliff, so I rushed over to keep it up before that happened. So there I was, holding up part of a house frame as I teetered on a precipice. End dream.
The anxieties continued in the next dream. This had something to do about testing and storing blood. I was involved in helping assess how doctors did this. Yes, it’s all a little surreal. Each little package of blood had the doctor’s name, a date, and a patient’s number. Details of my role were vague but again, I decided I could change it into something better and proceeded to screw up. My wife then informed me as I was screwing up. I laughed her off, then realized as I walked off that she was right. By trying to improve it, I’d cut open the bag, not in a way that was acceptable, but some other way. All the blood was then gone. Alarmed by what I’d done, I kept trying to figure out a way to fix it, then started complaining about the system. It was the system that was at fault.
Trying to hide my error, I walked away from everyone and everything. No answer was coming to me, though. I then thought, this is a dream, just go back in time and stop myself from doing that. I laughed at that in the dream, and then reconsidered the bag. It had been blood; now it was full, but it was water. A doctor came by. Tall, lean, and dark, he gave me a contemptuous look. I thought he was going to say something and readied myself to reply, but he kept walking. Saved, I thought, walking quickly away.
At this point, I was alone in large, white room. Bright with light, rows of small desks that were as white as the wall, ceiling and floors precisely filled the room. Stopping at one, I worked on the bag. I was surprised to discover, yes, it was water, and the bag wasn’t cut. All the information was intact; there wasn’t a problem. “What have been worrying about,” I asked myself, looking around. Nothing was wrong. It had not been blood in the bag, but water. But, I thought, how did I mistake such completely different substances? One was clear, the other red. And why were doctors collecting bags of water from patients? I then realized that I was completely mistaken about the nature of the bags, that these were prepared to be given to the patients.