I finished writing the book about my parents and sent it off to the publisher. I would say it was a book about my Mom, but it actually turned out to be a love story. Between them. Between me and them. Between Baby Girl and them. It ended up being a story about family, about secrets and love and anger and strength. About the terror and unfairness of losing your parents in the way that I did. About the support my husband and brother gave that held me up when I was about to go under. About figuring out how to manage the intense emotions that sprang up in me and made me feel so very much alone. It wasn’t about sharing my pain with you all – it inadvertently became that. A much needed outlet for all that I felt. I am grateful for the tenderness you all showed me during that endless wave of vulnerability and grief. There are so many of you to thank.
I was lucky, I have a great friend who publishes books and other media all the time and she gave me the name of her publisher, whom I called a year ago and talked to at length about my book and she in turn explained all about getting published. She charges a flat fee and does all the hard work for me… formatting, spine width, layout, editing, cover, and marketing. She walked me through getting accounts with Ingram and Amazon. She told me how to buy an ISBN number. I had to write an author bio and send her a picture of me. I still need to do a dedication. I talk with her each week about the progress the book is making and where in the process it is. It should be done within a month or six weeks.
Exciting news, to be sure. But yet… why do I feel deflated? It took me a year to write that book, to live through the memories and emotions again was particularly tough. For the longest time I couldn’t get past the section where my Dad passed away. I had to stop. Go back. Write a bit more. Stop again. Reading my brother’s obituary of my Dad made my cry all over again. Writing about his last week had me tearing up with my throat closing and feeling very small and alone and inadequate. What if I wasn’t enough for them? Even though I tried so very hard to be everything and anything they needed, I still have doubts.
Writing about the course my Mom’s life took from beginning to end and all the hard times along the way had me screaming silently in anger and pain. She would have hated knowing how it turned out for her. It shouldn’t have ended that way. It should not have been that way.
But it was. And now I’ve done it. It’s going to be “out there” for all the world to read. And that’s a good thing. That’s what I wanted. To share their story, their love and their lives so that it might help someone else going through the same agonizing experience. So that someone out there might feel a little less alone after reading it. A little more justified in their feelings. A little less helpless and weak.
I read that there was a lot of backlash about Bruce Willis’s wife not living in the same house that he does, in order to “better manage his frontotemporal dementia.” I can totally relate. And she said that nobody who hasn’t walked this path gets to judge. She is so right. I would love to send her my book because I truly feel her pain. I would love to read the memoir she wrote. I am so glad that she is speaking out, a person who can truly make something of a difference in this terrible fight. Who would ask for this? Nobody. Who gets to say how any individual family handles it? Nobody except the people in that situation.
I have been ultra quiet lately. Reading a lot. Resting. Thinking. I don’t know if I have another book in me. The writing of that one was so rough and I am depleted. I don’t even feel victorious, even though I probably should. I have been a bit bored. A bit melancholy. Wondering if I deserve all this free time. Wishing for them to be back in my life. Pondering what I should do next.
I am worried. What if I left something important out? Something that I will remember later that was crucial to the story. What if I didn’t depict the anger and pain, the unbearable loss, the grief and the frustration accurately enough? What if nobody can relate to it? What if I did all this for nothing?
The publisher says it’s good. And I should probably believe her.
I really hope that someone out there will read it and think to themselves “wow, these feelings I am having about this situation are authentic and justifiable. I am so glad I read this book.”
That’s all.
And maybe someday I’ll write another book. About a totally different topic. Maybe about all these years I’ve spent teaching riding, maybe about the struggles of raising my Baby Girl, maybe about Bruno – like everyone wants me to. Then again, maybe not. And that’s ok – I accomplished what I set out to do and that is enough.
