D-Day.

Last night I had one of the worst dreams I've had in a while. It was even worse than the one I had a few weeks ago--all thanks to reading the bizarre Geek Love before bed--when I gave birth to a purple blob, with eyes, and I was trying to figure out how to feed this amorphous creature that I couldn't hold still because it kept slipping through my arms.

I dreamt that my gastroenterologist had sentenced me to death, not as some sort of punishment but because none of the medicines were working and I refused to get an ostomy. So, he said, that was it. I'd have to die in one week. There'd be no point in me living past that. I spent what felt like days in that dream, dreading death, mourning the end of my life, stressing out about all the things I needed to do before I passed on. And then suddenly it hit my dream-self that I could just choose, um, not to die. It wasn't my doctor's decision. It took days for me to come to this realization. And then the day came and I didn't die. I was just fine.

I woke up so scared I thought about waking Jason up, too, just to tell him about it. But Addy woke up first--at five a.m. For the day.

Someone who didn't wake up at 5 a.m.--help me interpret this. I have no imagination today.