My second book Getting Beyond… is almost finished. It is about my marriage, and the problems that threatened it both mine and my husband’s. Neither of us was perfect.

Writing is rewriting. The moment I think I’m finished, and I share the rough draft, I see something is missing. Writing is rewriting, editing again, and then it needs to be published.  I’m very nervous, on the edge of my chair about publishing it.  The last time I did this, things did not go well. (See my blog Kidnapped July 4, 2019) I can’t even put the thoughts in sentences – they come out without rhyme or rhythm

Self-publication

Is it self-flagellation or

Self-aggrandizement?

Determination to get the story out

A story that needs to be told.

Years in writing and rewriting

To make it communicate and

Come out right.

I spent all day Saturday, putting emotion into the chapter that described the worst day of my marriage. It put me in tears, probably tears I should have cried years ago. I didn’t cry then, I just carried on and cared for our newborn infant. I loved my husband, but alcoholism caused him to neglect those he loved. The story Getting Beyond… tells the story of how we got beyond all of that, to raise our children together, and enjoy a happy retirement. I dream that sharing our experience, strength and hope will help other couples.

I left the hospital early with my first baby because we didn’t have money to pay the bills. An excerpt from that awful day in March of 1976:

“After thirty of driving minutes we arrived home safely. Bob carried Alice in and carefully placed her in a bassinet someone had given us. I was too weak to carry her. I sank down into the waterbed, totally exhausted. As soon as he’d gotten me in the bed, Bob left and went to the local pub. As the door clicked shut and I drifted off to sleep, I thought, he’ll be back soon

      I woke up to the baby crying and no one else in the house. I tried to get up, but with my stomach muscles cut open from the C-section, I couldn’t move. The water sloshed underneath me as I struggled to get up. “Bob, Bob, help,” I called out, but no one answered.

      I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth, muttering, how can he do this? All while the screams of our hungry baby reverberated in my ears. I turned on my side and  grabbed the board on the edge of the bed. Slowly I pulled myself up and wobbled towards the bassinet holding onto furniture along the way. Every step felt like my abdomen was on fire.

       Finally I reached the bassinet and stared down in the crinched up eyes of my red-faced baby. Thoughts panicked through my mind. I ‘m not even sure I know how to pick her up correctly. What if I don’t support her head right?  In the hospital, they’d just handed her to me, I hadn’t picked her up by myself. She was a newborn.”

Luckily my mother lived only an hour away. I called her and she came to help. She was one of many who helped us learn to love.