Can We Talk About Something Else?

A pretty good metaphor for writing memoir.

I’ve been working on a project for the past few weeks, and the more I work on it, the harder it gets. I wrote a blog a while back declaring my intentions to self-publish my memoir on my first daughter’s stillbirth by Thanksgiving. Obviously, I’ve missed that self-imposed deadline, but it’s not for lack of trying. It’s because the story has changed so much since I first wrote it that I’ve had to make some massive edits and additions.

That’s the thing when it comes to writing about your life: life doesn’t stand still. It’s always moving forward. There are those rare moments when we find ourselves in stasis, but they are few and far between. Anyone who’s been through a traumatic experience knows all too well that the world will allow you a few moments to grieve or process, but after that it’s back to the speed of life. You get pulled back in by work concerns, or the hot water heater goes on the fritz at home. In some way, big or small, you will be pulled back into the flow of human existence, and in that flow you will eventually find yourself farther along than you realized, looking back at a moment that’s etched in time yet somehow different, always different.

And when you are able to look back and see those differences, you will want to talk about them. To sound them out. You do this because you want to make sure you’re seeing things – and yourself – clearly.

The truly gracious people in life are the ones that allow you to talk things through. They give the audience you need for however long you need it in order to see you make a breakthrough. People like that are godsends.

But there are also people who don’t want to hear you rehash something you’ve talked about a million times before. There are some people whose view of life can be summed up by one great edict: get over it.

“Can we talk about something else?” they’ll say, and they’ll mean it. They don’t want to hear you reassess your life.

They are not bad people, the ones who don’t want to listen, who don’t want to talk. Some of them have known deep and lasting pain, and simply see no good in dredging it up. To them, talking is like perpetually cutting open a scar. There’s no use in it. Let the thing heal and move on.

For others, though, they have never known what you know. They can’t handle you talking about your past because they don’t have a corresponding event in their own history to give them perspective. And perhaps they’re intellectually honest enough with themselves to know that they can’t really speak to or understand the kind of things you’re processing, and so they don’t want to waste your time. Maybe. The alternative certainly isn’t too pleasant.

I bring this up because, once again, I’m diving into my past in an effort to understand it. I’m pulling up painful memories two-fold: those memories from the actual experience of Ruthanne’s birth and the memories of writing the memoir the first go around. It’s exhausting on multiple levels; it takes a kind of concentration that I can only manage for so long before I have to resurface and do something else for a while to catch my breath, then plunge back into the deep, dark waters of recall. And all of this effort has me thinking and thinking and thinking about my life, what’s it meant, where it’s been, and why it matters.

And not surprisingly, I’m talking about some of the same old things again.

You may see some familiar topics pop up on this blog from time to time while I’m working on this project. You may wince and say to yourself, “Geez. Can we talk about something else?” If so, I can’t say I blame you.

But for me the answer is simply No, we can’t talk about something else, because, for as much as I’ve tried to deny it, this is the defining event of my life so far. Everything that has happened since relates back to the moment we looked at an ultrasound of a perfectly healthy baby girl and saw a still heart.

I may not always talk about it, but it is there, beneath the surface (and sometimes waaaaaaaay beneath the surface), and I can’t change that.

What I can do is learn from it. And I thank you in advance for giving me the space to do so.

6 thoughts on “Can We Talk About Something Else?

  1. Keep talking Jason until you have said all you need to say about the pain and the fact that “THIS TRAUMATIC MOMENT IN TIME” has set the stage for your future as well as Rachel’s and the children you now have.
    We ask WHY but only God knows that answer. I feel your pain and I, like you, need to talk about my daughter and her death at times…just to get through another day and see what God had/has for me in this tragic event.
    So, I say, KEEP talking Brother!!!! Some of us will always be here to listen!
    God Bless you as you go back in your memories and relive it all.
    In Christ!
    Linda Taffar

  2. Keep talking son, as much as you want for as long as you want. That’s how we remember her, keep her fresh in our minds. Your Dad and I still talk about her just like it was yesterday. We find it easier to talk about it but not easier to accept the fact that we lost her. We’ll listen for as long as you need to talk and we know that you would listen to us as well. If people don’t want to listen, they don’t understand.
    When we reach heaven and can see her face to face, we’ll stop talking but until then, talk on, son.

    • Thanks, mom. I’ll be done with the book sometime around Christmas, I hope. Guess I’ll just toss it into your Christmas gift, along with the book about Pop Harold.

      Love you.

  3. I know exactly how you feel. One night after flying a mission in Iraq, I went to the phone bank on base to call Cait like I did every night. Only this night, she answered the phone in tears and told me that she had just miscarried.

    I have never felt further away from where I should have been than at that moment in a dirty plywood shack surrounded by 50 other people talking to their loved ones.

    To this day I do not know if it was a boy or a girl. Maybe one day I will work up the nerve to ask her.

    I can’t think of anything worse than losing child. So you so whatever it us you feel you have to in order to live…not get past, but live.

    • David -

      I had no idea, man. I can’t imagine what that had to have been like for you, sitting on the other end of that phone line. God, that must have hurt like heck. I hurt for you, brother.

      Thanks for reading and sharing that. Truly.

Tell me what you think...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s