He was meditating profoundly but his thoughts eventually melted into his physical plane. He was the only one on board the left wing of the airplane. He wondered; {how much did it cost to fly a plane from Mexico City D.F. to Los Angeles?}

He felt blessed for surely the cost of his plane ticket did not pay for the fuel, much less for the courteous and respectful attendance of Mexicana Airlines.

The flight attendant offered him whiskey. Joseph remembered that such drink used to be his favorite; ole Jack Daniels, Tennessee No. 7.

“No, thank you.” He said. His days of alcohol abuse and drug use were long gone or so he thought as his thoughts evolved from his teen life through his military exploits and into his previous service to God. He needed a shot of whiskey every three months to cure his ailment.

The flight attendant again offered him whiskey. Elder Lezama-Medina took his shots. Suddenly the right wing motor froze and flight 940 from Mexico City to Los Angeles, went down into the chasm of the sea below.

Maria, his Nursemaid tried to awaken Joseph. “Mr. Medina, please wake up.” Joseph tried to follow her voice into consciousness. He was responsive and awoke to Maria’s content. “Joseph?” she called, “Do you know where you are?”

“I’m in Mexico City North Mission.” He answered. “In D.F. aren’t I?”

“No.” she said, “You were brought into La Casa Mental Health Center in Norwalk, California two years ago. Your plane never made it to Salt Lake City. It crash landed. You barely reached Barstow. You’ve been in a coma for the past two years.”

“…two years…was my Mission all just a dream?”

“Excuse me Sir?” said the flight attendant. “Please wake up. We have arrived at LAX. Put your seat right up and prepare for landing.”
 
Joseph Lezama had been dreaming a dream within a dream, a Duran Dream slip stream, self-induced to survive death. In the dream he was referred to as Medina, his paternal great grandmother’s maiden name that he chose for a covert op mission in Mexico where he was disguised as a Latter-day missionary; a mission within a mission. He flashed in his mind.
 
He had been assigned to eliminate a faction of gangsters that had escaped him from Los Angeles in 1992. Now it was 1994 and as usual, success but he was emotionally comatose.  His mind re-flashed. The pills in his mouth disagreed with him. He knew where he was.

​​

“Maria?” Joseph called and his blood pressure dropped as he hit the floor. Cynthia came from around the nurses’ station.

 

“I have his charts.” she said, “He suffers from bi-polar disorder. He’s not aware of what happens to him; not even a slight cold. What were you both discussing?”

 

“He was depressed bordering on deep sadness.” Maria answered. “He has a fever.”

 

“Let’s get him into his room.” Cynthia suggested and when they did,

 

“I’ll get the antipyretic.” Maria suggested.

 

“It’s Ok. I’m carrying Tylenol and a bottle of water.” Cynthia informed. “Maria, is that all that is going on with him, a fever?” Cynthia questioned.

 

“No. This happens at least once a month. He’s afraid of something I refuse to believe. I think however I only served to aggravate the issue.” Maria confessed.

 

“I want to know.” Cynthia said. “Whatever you did you’re the psychologist. I’m just the care technician.”

 

“He was one of those Mormon boys who left home to preach the Gospel of Jesus Christ in a foreign country.” Maria explained, “He had a girlfriend. She didn’t wait for him, so he lost hope in all things...all things.”

 

“But the things he says to me and you?” Cynthia questioned.

 

“He’s just playing when he does that.” Maria revealed with a tear knowing she was in denial.

 

“How did you make it worse?” Cynthia asked.

 

“I made him believe he never left, that he was in a comma for two years when it was only two months. I tried to make him believe that Jacquie never existed, that she was just a figment of his imagination, and that he never went on that mission.”

 

“Who’s Jacquie and what’s going to happen when he finds out?” Cynthia asked.

 

“Oh, he already knows.” Maria answered, “Jacquie was that girlfriend. He just plays dumb. He won’t talk about it, especially when we’re near the subject in our conversations. He’s holding it inside and it’s tearing him apart in a remorse and silent depression that affects his blood pressure. If he continues like this, he’s going to die.”

 

“What should we do?” Cynthia asked. “I admit that I love the attention he gives me and the things he says, it’s so real.”

 

“That’s the problem.” Maria explained, “He doesn’t care anymore if he has his heart torn to pieces. It’s like if he’s standing in front of a gun and his heart is the target. He believes in what he feels emotionally. That’s why I jokingly insult him now and then so he can at least playfully defend himself and get a grip.”

 

“How much did he love that girl to end up in such a state? I could never do that to him. He’s really beautiful.”