Sob to your mother

This morning, just before I woke up, I dreamt my mom had died. It was really bad; pretty much all I remember from the dream was that I was collapsed in the parking lot of what I’m guessing was the funeral home, just sobbing, you know those great big racking gurgle-y sobs that only the very young or the very devastated can manage to produce. Yeah, them. I also remember feeling completely hollowed out, like someone had taken a melon baller and scooped out my insides, perhaps to display at a macabre brunch with festive sprigs of rosemary and thyme. Sure enough, when I woke up I was on my back (see the July 23 entry for why this is relevant; sidebar: I picked the right date out of the entire list of entries on my first try. Freaky, huh? We now rejoin our abnormal conversation). The intensity was such that I almost called my mom the second I got out of bed. But I took stock, assured myself it was a dream, and prepared for the rest of my day. Occasionally, my thoughts would drift back to the dream as I worked, but mostly I was too damn busy. I got home, was catching up on some email, and decided I really should call my mom. I was talking to her, telling her about the dream when it happened: I started bawling. I do not know what it was, maybe a combination of the various stress factors I have been under lately, but I let loose. My mom asked me if I was okay, and I told her that I was. Because I am. While I am not sure whether the dream was representative of something else in my life or not, I’m all right and even luckier to know it. Oh, and if anyone thinks this means they can call me a big sissy girl for crying on the phone to my mommy, I’ll let Betsy and Priscilla speak to you about that. Kisses!