Being Vulnerable

Thank you to all family and friends who have been so supportive of my book. To those who have actually bought and read it, I am overwhelmed by your generosity and scared to death of what you might think.  The writing in Wild Specific Tangent is not the most vulnerable or raw material that I've written about my flaws, illness, and recovery, but it's honest. Though I'm no Pollyanna, the sense of gratitude that permeates my book really became a lifeline; it saved me in a battle against the major depression and anxiety that accompanied my illness.

In terms of revealing the naked despair and anger I felt between 2011 and 2013, I could only bear to open up more fully about those emotions in the last two years, at some distance from the events themselves. I'm not yet ready for the children to read about my most difficult moments, especially since my exercise addiction and illness developed in part because I was "running away" from aspects of motherhood, from the problems I could not solve for my beloved sons and daughter.

Why this book then, why now?  Two reasons. First, ever since 2012, I've been carrying a sense of my own mortality, and wanted to leave this legacy for the kids no matter what. Second, for my father to read while he and my mom have time and patience to get through such a book.  You see, my father was diagnosed with Parkinson's (and later Progressive Supranuclear Palsy, or PSP) around the same time that I was extremely ill with burning scalp syndrome.

I remember vividly one winter day when my parents were with us to take care of me and run the household. My mom encouraged Dad and me to go for a walk around the greenbelt. We dutifully bundled up and held on to each other as we staggered over the blacktop trail, Dad struggling with the early loss of balance and I with weakness.  The small hill up from the bridge seemed like Everest. We talked about our mutual shock and difficulty with new realities, and why - since we were not afraid of death - we should struggle so much to keep on living? We arrived at no conclusions, no philosophical end game, but put one foot in front of the other until we found our way home.

Mom said, "How wonderful that the two of you had a walk together in the sunshine!"

Dad and I just looked at each other and smiled. We kept our topic of conversation to ourselves.  Since that time, we've both worked hard to 'keep on living,' to make the most of the time we have with loved ones.  I've made a nearly full recovery while Dad and Mom have fought heroically to maintain quality of life, hosting family get-togethers and holidays in Montana and California, sustaining their five children and (almost 13!) grandchildren as the PSP makes swallowing, talking, reading, and walking progressively more difficult.  If my goal in life is to make my parents and my family proud (which it is), then this is the right time to make a book.  It's not the great American novel, or a "heartbreaking work of staggering genius," but it's true, and it's ours.