More than once in my life, I have thought about writing a book. At first, it was fiction. Creative writing has always been easy for me and story lines have a tendency to just pop up out of nowhere. But I have never been able to write more than a handful of pages before abandoning the project.
After Abigail died, I had an epiphany that I should write a book. A memoir. I would document all of my thoughts and all of the events and all of my feelings so that others would know what I was going through. So that maybe, just maybe, they would get it.
I had read such a book written by a mother of a stillborn baby shortly after Abigail's death but unfortunately, it was devoid of emotion, which I found odd but maybe that was the only way she was able to write. There were facts of her pregnancy, facts of her daughter's death and birth. But no emotion. I wanted to know what she was feeling. Did she ever scream or yell or hate the world?
Did she ever feel like I do?
And then there was Elizabeth McCracken's book (An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination) which was, in my opinion, fantastic. It isn't my story but maybe others who read it will get it. Unfortunately, I have found that unless you have been through it, you don't and never will get it but maybe you'll be a bit more understanding.
I can only be myself.
Rich, the girls and I all visited Abbey at the cemetery back in March. The girls like to run around and collect rocks to place on her headstone. Rich and I have never suggested that they hug the headstone but they all do. I suppose it's their way of connecting with her. I can't recall the exact question that was asked but I do remember the answer: "You're here because of her." I don't know everything but as I sat there on the dry winter grass under the wide blue sky with my face turned to the sun, I knew that much was true.