I know it has been a long time since I’ve checked in here. I do see that there are a number of people who still check the blog regularly … or new people who do! And I am very grateful to all of you who do so!
I could probably come here far more often to write, but I’ve come to feel that all anybody wants to hear about is Michaela. I don’t know, sometimes it seems as though some kind of a betrayal if I write about other things. What if Michaela is out there reading this. If I keep posting blogs about other things, will she think I am not thinking about her anymore? I know, that is probably dumb.
The fact is that things are quiet regarding Michaela’s case right now. I know the police are still working on it, but they don’t tell me everything they are doing, and they don’t need to tell me everything. We used to get together for lunch semi-regularly, but I have been working full-time the last couple of months, and I work pretty far away, so that hasn’t happened as often.
And here is the other thing, and these are the things I hate to say because I don’t want anybody to take this wrong, but sometimes I just have to step away from it a bit. Anybody who has suffered grief knows this. There are times when it is inescapable, when it is a huge monster that sits on your chest and makes you unable to breathe. There are times when the holes of loss are so huge in the fabric of our lives … times when an aching loneliness is all there is. These are horrible, horrible times, and yet I know their value. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, and if you can survive grief without letting it kill you off, or kill a part of you off, it enables you to love more deeply, because you know the cost. It increases your sensitivity to the beautiful things in life.
But still, the thing that makes us able to survive grief is the fact that it wanes as time goes by. I woke up sobbing the morning after my mother died. Now when I think of her, there is an ache, and tears the well up in my throat and my eyes, but it is a gentle sorrow, rather than that sobbing that tears me apart and the grief that … well, I’m going to have to keep looking for the words for it, cause I haven’t quite found them yet.
One of the things you don’t get when your child is missing is really being able to move through the stages of grief and go on with life. But in some way, you have to create that illusion, just in order to survive.
So I’m working, and I’m taking care of my family, and I’m dealing with life, and believe me all of those things can be hugely challenging all on their own! I am trying to work on my book. I am no longer writing the true story of Michaela’s kidnapping and life afterwards, but I am working on a novel. I think it will be a really good book, but for now, I can tell you that it’s my therapy. It is where I pour all my feelings, all the pain that has nowhere to go. The main characters are loosely based on me and my youngest daughter. The me character does have a missing child, and as far as that goes, of course it is based on Michaela, although the missing child in the book has a different name, and not everything is based on fact. As for the story itself, it revolves around the themes of loss, and how it impacts us … hopefully in the case of my real family, even though we suffer our difficulties, we find positive ways to deal with the aftermath of loss. But what if it caused us to miss a step along the way? What negative effects might that cause? More to the point, what are we to learn from grief, and if we don’t learn it the right way, in what ways might its lessons come back?
Right now the name of the book is Waiting for the Sky to Fall, although I’m not completely satisfied with it. If you have any ideas for the title, let me know.
So I can come back here, just to let you know I’m still alive. There are lots of things I’d like to talk about. I am still struggling with religion, and questions of faith. I just finished reading a really good book, called Cutting for Stone. Actually, I listened to the audiobook, from audible.com. I do that a lot these days because I spend so much time commuting. The story is about twins born in a mission hospital in Ethiopia, and the narrator has just a light accent that was beautiful to listen to. But the writing was so good. The prose was spare, not at all flowery, and yet it managed to convey such depths. It’s a test of an author’s talent to write about sex. There were only two important sexual encounters in this book, but Verghese conveyed them with taste and delicacy. (Unlike A Discovery of Witches, an absolutely horrible and horribly written book!) It has some important themes that are also expressed with delicacy. The twins were delivered by their father, a doctor, who almost killed them during childbirth, in an attempt to save their mother’s life. Well … I can’t tell you how that theme develops, because then I’d be telling you the plot. You will just have to read just about to the end of the book to see that for yourself.
So here I have been blabbering on, and not really saying anything. So that’s another thing … I have actually written several blogs, which I haven’t published, because I felt as though I sounded like a blabbering idiot. But oh well. Sometimes that’s what I am.
Anyway, thank you for being here, and thank you for caring.
Love you all.