Blessings on my memoir.

I don’t even know where to start when I’ve not written in so long.

My husband Michael and I were in California visiting my parents. While we were there, I coordinated an 85th birthday celebration for my mom. It was a production—a live digital video virtual party (is that even the right way to say it?)—so my five siblings from all over the US could participate. This is not my forte, in case you don’t know—neither the organizing nor the “digital-izing.”

A few times, when I woke up at the crack of dawn, as I tend to do, I worked on an essay about D-day—the day my son Matthew was diagnosed with a brain tumor. I plan to submit the piece to a literary magazine, but every time I looked at it, it seemed more and more flawed and I was close to trashing it.

Writing-wise, the week was a bust.

Except.

Except that I asked my parents to read part of my memoir manuscript–the story about how ill-prepared I was as a person and a mom for a rumble with a brain tumor.

I asked them for two reasons. First, I want them to know the full story—the parts that they could not have known being 500 miles away at the time; the parts of my pain that I never shared. My own husband, who lived our drama with me, didn’t know about some of that pain until I asked him to read it last fall.

The other reason I asked my parents to read my manuscript is that I want their blessing on it. Not on my story, but on their story within it—who they are and how they raised me, which made me the parent I was and the person I am.

There’s nothing really unflattering about them in it; my Mom and Dad are the nicest people you ever could meet, and I was raised to be nice. But when you’re faced with a serious life challenge, “nice” doesn’t cut it. And I didn’t know how not to be nice because I had no role models for it. It was on-the-job-training for me.

It’s very possible the book will be published after my parents have died, which is why I asked  for their blessing on it now. And I got it. Thank you, Mom and Dad.

So I haven’t done much new writing. I didn’t finish that essay. I didn’t submit to any magazines.

But I crossed a threshold and I’m energized to get back on track. I have a memoir to finish.

 

Can’t do it this week. Sorry.

Well, flock, I’m blogging to tell you I’m not going to blog this week.  I just don’t have it in me.  There haven’t been enough functional hours of the day lately for me to be able to write.  Big chunks of time are eaten up by my “not serious” health issues.

Plus, I’m heading out of town this week to visit my parents.  They can’t wait to heap an overdose of TLC on me, and I can’t wait to be heaped upon.  By the time most of you read this, I’ll be basking in their love.  How lucky am I?

I’ll answer that question for you by explaining the picture.  I’m sure you’re wondering.

When we talk on the phone, my Dad often says how much he wishes he could give me a hug in person, especially since I’ve been sick.  Earlier this year, he got on this kick about sending Python hugs.  So he asked my Mom to sew a stuffed Python to his exacting specifications, including crooked, wacky eyes and a wiggly forked tongue.  He named it Loopy, and mailed him (her?) to me so it can give me hugs- like a stunt double.

That’s how lucky I am.   Could not be luckier.

Still it’s kinda not right that my 80-something parents will be fussing over me.   I thought it was supposed to be the other way around.  Sadly, someday I will gladly return the favor.

With the holidays almost upon us,  I wouldn’t hold your breath for my regular Friday blog, but as soon as Mom and Dad and Southern California whip me back into shape, I promise I’ll be back at it.  Because I really do love blogging.

As I write this, I have a huge sense of relief.  Thanks in advance for your understanding.

Y’know – I do believe I’ve written a blog after all.