My daughter Daney, almost ten years old, was stuck in a cluster of grand mal seizures. She was tired. She was sore. She missed a lot of school.
It was terrible, watching this kind, bright, lovely girl suffer.
I worried how she'd get through it. I worried how I'd get through it.
Of course, I had stopped going to writing group. I had stopped writing.
Until Christy (who knows I'll try anything she tells me) challenged me to come up with a few new pages. Which, somehow, I did: a story I thought had nothing to do with anything. A story that ended up having everything to do with something--of seeing suffering, without being able to stop it.
That first draft, it was rough. I was writing it on two hours of sleep, between ambulance rides and hospital visits and EEGs. I was was writing it with Daney tucked into bed beside me.
The voice came out hollow, realistic but cautious, sad, and slow.
Exactly the way I felt during those dark winter months.