No, I couldn’t come up with a better title for this post. Once you read it, you’ll know why.

I haven’t written in a while and that means both personally and professionally. 2019 introduced a series of unfortunate events into my life worthy of Lemony Snicket. If you’ll indulge my whinging for a moment or two, I’ll tell you why.

January 2019. Life is good. I’m working on edits for Book 2 of my series which I’m absolutely certain will be coming out in May. I’m looking into attending two writing conferences, Avon’s Kiss Con in Chicago and Book Lovers Con in New Orleans.

And then, one day my oldest son stops by for supper and announces that he’s getting a divorce and moving back home. Like a cheap GPS my brain goes into “recalculating” mode.

February 2019. My husband hasn’t been feeling well and I finally convince him to book a doctor’s appointment. It isn’t until the end of the month, after x-rays, CT scans, and multiple lab tests that we are (sort of) told that he has cancer. What I mean by that is that we saw a word we didn’t understand on the online results for one of his labs, googled it, and realized he had cancer.

March 2019. Without an “official” diagnosis my husband is referred to an oncologist who schedules another CT scan, an MRI, a stress test, and a PET scan. While sitting at home one night, shell-shocked and trying to pretend everything was normal in front of the children, my husband’s doctor called and asked him to report to the hospital the next day. He was going to be admitted.

April 2019. We finally have a diagnosis and it isn’t good. My husband has diffuse large B-cell lymphoma. The cancerous mass is wrapped around his descending aorta, invading the pleura of the lungs, and reaching back, finger-like, into his spine. There is a “hot spot” of cancer in one of his shoulder bones. His lungs are full of fluid and will need to be drained. He is stage IV. He spends almost 2 weeks inpatient and receives his first chemo treatment on a Saturday.

May 2019. My husband’s lungs have had to be drained six times just so he can breathe. The chemo exhausts him and the drugs give him insomnia. He’s crabby because his beautiful red hair is falling out. Half-way through the month my 93-year-old father in law falls at home, breaks four ribs and punctures his lung. Due to his dementia, the only person he behaves for is my husband. We rush to the hospital where my husband doesn’t dare leave him alone too long.

June 2019. My husband visits his father every day and comes home mentally and physically exhausted. We think his lungs need to be drained again. I get a random email telling me that I will no longer be working with my amazeballs editor at my publisher. Book two will not be coming out until 2020, a year and a half after book one. I have no idea if my editor left the company or if it was decided in a meeting that my book was absolute crap.

Not impressed with 2019 so far.

Several years ago, during a random Wednesday lunch meet-up, a friend of mine who worked as a home hospice nurse slid a book across the table and asked me to take it. She’d gotten it from a patient but never got around to reading it before the woman passed away. Looking at it now just made her sad, but she knew how much I loved books, so she asked me to take it. When I got home that day, the book somehow slid down behind my bookcase and I forgot about it. Two years later, when rearranging furniture, I emptied the bookcase and pulled it from the wall to discover the book waiting there for me.

I read it cover to cover that night and it grabbed me by the FEELS and shook me. I can’t explain the sense of awe I had, the eagerness to turn the pages, and the warmth of feeling seen and understood when I finished it. I walked around with peace and equanimity for days because of that book.

The now long-dead hospice patient left margin notes and underlined passages that I read and re-read for days. I even convinced myself that it was destiny that this book should come into my hands the way it did and disappear and reappear just when I needed it most. I decided it was my duty to pass the book along just as my friend’s dying patient had and just as my friend had. I considered leaving it on a table at a restaurant, at a bus stop, or even handing it to a stranger on the street.

And then I happened upon the Amazon reviews.

Other readers found it “vain,” “precious,” and “self-indulgent.” They complained the book was nothing but navel-gazing without any AHA moment at the end. Reviewers called it a disjointed manifesto about the fear of aging by a rich, spoiled, author. I felt physically attacked by these reviews.

Doubting myself, I was now embarrassed that I’d loved it so much. Gone was the notion of passing this golden nugget around, I put it on the top shelf of my closet next to my old college textbooks. Slowly, I forgot the excitement, the peace, and the book.

This week, while doing some major housecleaning as we make room for one of our baby chicks to return to the nest, I found the book. Pages yellowed, a little dusty, but I recognized it right away. I’m tempted to read it, trying to catch lightning in a bottle once again. But the book and I are both older now, and I fear neither of us has aged well.

Have you ever loved something deeply, truly, down to your bones LOVED something, only to be stunned to find out not everyone felt the same way?

I love spinach, my husband hates it but that doesn’t bother me half as much as other people’s reactions to this book. What once felt like a gift, now feels like a curse – I can’t bring myself to throw the book away, yet I can’t pass it on for fear of the reaction and judgment.

Whoever that woman was (I never knew her name), I thank her for passing the book along so it came into my hands. Perhaps, like the original owner, I’ll wait until I’m on my deathbed to give it away and just hope for the best.