Over the past few weeks, I feel like the topic of grief, specifically grief surrounding stillbirth, has been present more so than usual. What's usual these days? Well, that varies. And I guess that's my point. These discussion and questions normally surround fresh grief and I look at myself, a 7 years member of this club, and wonder if I even have any right to give advice. My pain is no longer excruciating and raw. It's still here, only different.
I've always wanted to write a book. I was an avid reader growing up and I suppose my desire to write stemmed from constantly surrounding myself with books. I enrolled in a creative writing course in college and was quite happy to find how easy it was to create short fictional tales. I've dreamed up quite a few plots for novels over the years and even began writing the introduction to one that involved a rock star (because you know I had more than enough research on that subject) but I'm not a writer. I can write a blog but I don't know if I could ever write a book.
After Abigail died, I wanted to write a memoir. I don't recall my exact reasons for wanting to do so but I obviously had not yet come to the realization that I'm not a writer. I could never write a book like Elizabeth McCracken did. But now, 7 years later, some memories are foggy. Dates and timelines begin to bend and fold into one another. What will it be like in another 7 years? There are certain moments, certain scenes, certain emotions that will always stay with me but I fear what could be forgotten.
Over the past few weeks, I've found myself back to where I was more than 7 years ago. Crying at the cemetery. Wanting to take my anger out on the detour signs lined up on our street. Afraid to look at babies. I tell myself that I should just write out what I remember. Who cares about being eloquent or an awesome writer. Just write. Maybe that will be more helpful to others. And healing for me.
I don't really know where I'm going with this. A spattering of thoughts, perhaps....