I must be getting anxious about the upcoming surgery, even though I don't expect it to be difficult. Last night I woke at 3 a.m. and tossed until 6 a.m., when I briefly fell into dreaming about anxiety-filled situations, e.g. I was taking care of a grandchild at the movies and when I came back to our seats from getting him a snack, he wasn't there. Freud? Meaning? Ah, you say we don't need Freud for this one? You think?
I'm always amused afterward by the kinds of thoughts I dwell on when I have insomnia in the middle of the night (as opposed to not being able to fall asleep, when my mind is more ordered). What I was thinking about at 4 a.m., for example, was not death but a)how much I dread fasting before the surgery, and b)what I'm going to look like in a bathing suit, and whether I'd have to wear one without cleavage for the first time in my life. I'm going to have to buy a new one, and I hate shopping for bathing suits, I remember saying to myself petulantly. Not exactly a Jean-Paul Sartre level of cognition about being and existence. And it doesn't help at all to tell myself that I shouldn't be sweating the little stuff. Because at 4 a.m. it doesn't feel little, period.
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