by Bella Rum

Those glowing, red numbers on the bedside clock read 4:55. I woke from a dream about an hour ago. H and I had somewhere to be, something very important to sign, and it was time sensitive. The deadline was only a few hours away. We were at Dad’s, and I couldn’t find anyone to stay with him for a couple of hours. I resorted to asking my crazy aunt. Laughing hysterically, she ran into the woods. I finally told H there was nothing more we could do other than accept the consequences of not signing the papers.

It was a frustrating dream, but a sense of calm washed over me when I stopped struggling and accepted the futility of the situation. I gave up. I submitted.

In my awake life, submitting seems like the worst-case scenario most of the time. I usually rail against it: hold that hill, fortify, shore up, we can win this thing. But over the past few years, I’ve learned to submit to a few things for my own good. Medical things. The brain must override instinct occasionally, but I have a hard time with that. That fight or flight syndrome is a killer.

Don’t laugh, but I have that nasty procedure coming up soon. Yes, that’s the one. It really isn’t even that soon – not till early January. For crying out loud, am I having anxiety dreams already? Or was this another grief-dream or maybe a little of each?

Just warning  you, you will probably have to endure colorful, detailed accounts of my explosive experience. As you know, the prep is the worst part and a totally legit blog topic.