Oh, I had moments. From the Lake House is my first book, so my only experience with publishing has occurred in the middle of pandemic/social unrest/fires, droughts, and floods/democracy on life support. Just being alive on planet Earth right now is exhausting and anxiety-provoking. Releasing a book is exhausting and anxiety-provoking. There were moments when reaching the end of the workday was cause for celebration.

My Work Life Transformed

The COVID lockdown instantly transformed my professional life as an academic coach at a large university. On that surreal Friday afternoon on March 13, 2020, my colleagues and I turned off the lights and closed the doors to our offices. “See you in a few weeks, I guess?” We would not return for 16 months. And thus began my pivot to work from home, eyes glued to my laptop with hours of daily Zoom. I coached more students than ever who were more overwhelmed and stressed out than ever. Sensitive, empathetic types like me readily absorb the emotions of others; let’s just say that I went on an excessive amount of mental health walks to counter said absorption.

Oy.

I’ve worked full-time for over 30 years. I’ve packed thousands of lunches while simultaneously gulping coffee and guzzling breakfast as I dash out of my house. For more than three decades, I’ve entered a professional building first thing in the morning and exited late afternoon. I’m not privy to the goings-on around town during the day. Perhaps people shop, go to the gym, visit the library? I have no clue, as for a staggering 1500 weeks or so, I’ve been held captive in a building each workweek for my entire adult life.

When COVID shut the world down, working from home was initially jarring. Should I still set the alarm? Can I really wear yoga pants? Dare I throw in a load of laundry midday? It didn’t take me long, however, to savor the newfound freedom working from home affords. I discovered that I could like my work while keeping myself in better balance: I could fix myself a nice lunch, chat with a neighbor on one of my mental health walks, squeeze in more yoga, and get more sleep. Divine! The transition back to campus has been . . .  interesting.  

Anywho.

Countdown to Pub Day

I started my new work-from-home lifestyle right in the thick of book release preparations, and almost exactly when the contract with my publicist began. By April, she and I had to completely revamp publicity plans when it became clear that the world would stay in lockdown mode well beyond my book’s release date. By day, I was immersed in my intense—and becoming more intense by the week—professional role at the university. Evenings, I immersed myself in From the Lake House. I wrote and submitted essays to online magazines, attempting to build my author’s platform (which, evidently, I should have been assembling much sooner. Such a Luddite). I submitted my book for reviews. I prepared for interviews. I signed on to a blog tour, which required more writing. I took social media lessons. For real! My publicist connected me with a social media guru to show me the ropes and usher me into the post-modern era.

#stilllearning

And in the moments between? I logged many miles walking my neighborhood and nearby trails, clearing my mind and relishing the break from my computer screen. I took hundreds of photos of flowers, trees, and my cats. I supported my mother as she managed her own COVID stress. I read the steady stream of hard news, and when I thought I would snap in half, I’d pick up a book or five and lose myself in someone else’s words.

For light, stress-free distraction, I binged each season of the Great British Bake Off (and then I started baking for fun. Ten pounds later . . . ). Anyone needing to rekindle their faith in humanity ought to watch this lovely show featuring ordinary people working their hearts out creating beautiful confections, hoping the judges will find them pleasing. Kind of reminds me of what we authors do: we write our hearts out, hoping readers will find our work pleasing.

A Pandemic Book Release

How did launching my book fit into the COVID lockdown? In many ways, it helped. No, I could not host any live book events, but friends from all over could attend my virtual party. My local bookstore was still closed to the public when From the Lake House was released, but they were gracious with me. I’ll never forget waiting outside the entrance on a scorching North Carolina afternoon—mask on face and pen in hand—for a dedicated employee to wheel copies of my books out to me where I signed each one. When I finished, she wheeled them back inside. Not exactly the book signing event I’d imagined, but hey, all those copies sold out.

Working from home allowed me to arrange podcast interviews without calendar acrobatics. It allowed me to call my publicist and publisher without closing my office door to block out noise from a lobby teeming with undergrads. Simply put, swapping the frenzied office environment for the solitude of my home gave me more chances to reflect: “Holy cow. I published my book!”

How did launching my book fit into this particularly wrenching time in history? Honestly, at times it was hard. For one, even if self-promotion came easily to me, which it doesn’t, publicizing my book amid so much collective trauma felt tricky. COVID deaths kept rising, RGB died, absurd lawsuits riddled the election, insurrectionists scaled the Capitol. It’s all so beyond comprehension.

Also, From the Lake House is about loss and grief, so I’ve always known it would attract a select audience. And, because my book focuses on the sort of grief that is particularly dreadful—infant loss—that audience is even more niche. All I could do was hope my ultra-select audience would have enough remaining emotional bandwidth to pick up my book despite the steady flow of existential crises.

Takeaways

With From the Lake House out for a year now, I’ve gained some insight. For one, the amount of work to publish a book is extraordinary. I plowed through a marathon of tasks to transform the germ of the idea for my memoir into an actual hard copy years later. I’d naively thought that the most challenging part of the process was writing the manuscript itself. Indeed, reworking and editing a manuscript can go on and on. The sheer number of folders and subfolders I created to track my progress in finishing my book attests to the reality that writing is truly a process.

Once I signed on with my publisher, She Writes Press, an entirely new set of assignments emerged: back and forth with the copy editor, proofreader, and cover designer, requesting endorsements for my book, submitting it for reviews. And then the check-ins with my publicist as we reimagined marketing my book in a world on edge. Indeed, it takes a mighty crew to get a book off one’s computer, cleaned up, beautifully packaged, and into the hands of readers.

Another realization about publishing as I mark my first year: marketing efforts are ongoing. Or they ought to be. Or they ought to be if an author wants to continue to sell books. Self-promotion was an abstraction back when I started the publication process. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Stay active on social media! Offer giveaways! Pitch yourself and your book here, there, and everywhere! Keep building your platform! With a year under my belt and with the advice and modeling of fellow authors everywhere, I understand that unless Oprah or Reese come knocking on my door, it’s up to me to continue the sales momentum. Me! An academic coach with a degree and a lifetime in education will also grow marketing skills! #stilllearning.

Final Thoughts

Here’s the best takeaway at the one-year mark. I’m a private person who published a personal story—by choice!—and as my book’s release date neared, I battled self-doubt: Will I be judged? Did I share too much? Is my writing good enough? Once my knees stopped wobbling, I discovered that my pre-publication angst had been worth it. What a thrill to connect with readers and to hear how my book touched them. I’d ultimately wanted From the Lake House to help others impacted by infant loss, and I’m genuinely honored that it is doing so.

It’s a privilege to know that sharing my story may have shifted a perspective or opened up a reader in new ways, just as countless books I’ve read throughout my life have done for me. The gratification I feel in adding my book to the ocean of others—and watching its ripple effect—has been an unexpected joy. That’s enough to inspire my ever-strengthening marketing muscle.

The post From The Lake House: A One Year Anniversary appeared first on Kristen Rademacher.

I’m certain I’m in good company in feeling that most of the last twelve months have been a blur. Almost immediately after my book was released, I took a hard pivot to start the fall semester at UNC-Chapel Hill, where I work as an academic coach. Fall semester always requires extra oomph to get programs up and running, and students tend to swarm my department with energy, excitement, anxiety, and overwhelm. Thanks to COVID, we offered all of our services remotely this fall, so students swarmed our computer screens instead!

I’d like to give Zoom a shout-out for allowing me to continue to do the work I love. No joke—I know that I’m privileged these days. I’d like to also thank Zoom for my new eyeglass prescription, the constant strain in my neck and shoulders, and the feeling I have at the end of the day when I desperately want to crawl out of my skin. In the late afternoon, I emerge from my house for a restorative walk, bleary-eyed and strung out. 

Despite living out life at my desk in my tiny home office for the last umpteen months, I’m happy that I made several meaningful connections with terrific people and organizations around my book. I’d love to share two interviews with you and invite you to an upcoming author event. 

1. Open to Hope

I was so thrilled to meet Dr. Gloria Horsely and Dr. Heidi Horsely—a powerhouse mother and daughter team who head up this fantastic organization. Open to Hope is a national online community offering inspirational stories of loss, hope, and recovery. In this interview, I talked with them about the disorienting nature of grief and the two primary tools I used to move through it: journaling and communing with nature. The interview was recorded on video in October and is about 15 minutes in length.

2. Charlotte Readers Podcast

Landis Wade founded and hosts this podcast where authors give voice to their written words. Landis is a kind-hearted soul AND a fabulous interviewer. Back in November, we talked about my bundles of introverted nerves when my book was released, the meaning of the title, and how grief evolves years after a loss. What a treat to talk with Landis, and what a gift he is to NC (and beyond) authors. The podcast episode is about 45 minutes in length.

3. Page 158 Books (live, virtual event: March 11^th at noon)

Page 158 Books, an independent bookstore in Wake Forest, NC, will sponsor an author event for Carol Henderson and me. Carol is my former writing coach and friend, and we’ll discuss our experiences writing memoirs about baby loss. Carol is a prolific writer, and I absolutely love her work. I’m also indebted to the writing group she created that became the fertile ground for my memoir to take shape. Sue Lucey from Page 158 Books is a champion of independent bookstores and local authors and will moderate the discussion between Carol and me. Please grab some lunch and tune in to our live conversation on March 11^th at noon! Details and registration for this virtual event can be found here.

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My heart is united with all mothers who’ve lost a pregnancy at any stage, and with those who have lost an infant.

17 years later, here’s my remembrance:

I Remember

I remember the drive to the hospital. The sun was low, the air was frigid, and my mind spun wildly. When had I last felt her move? My right hand lay on my belly, bursting to the brim with my awaited baby. My other hand lay on the stick shift, cupped underneath my partner’s fingers as he navigated traffic and tension. We were told to get to the hospital, not because of broken water, not because of contractions, and not because my labor was scheduled. We were told to get to the hospital because it had been too long since I’d felt the stirring of limbs in my womb.

I remember the ultrasound machine. I lay on the table in a triage room with my eyes closed and my round tummy covered with cold gel. While the technician slid the wand back and forth, searching, I listened to every sound the machine sputtered but never heard the woosh-woosh of a heartbeat I’d grown to love. I remember the curly hair of the technician, but not his face or his voice. His words, however, pierced a hole right through my gut and are seared into my memory forever. Your baby died. I rolled my head away from him, this grim reaper of a man. I rolled onto my side and asked him to leave.

I remember checking into a hospital room where my midwife administered drugs to induce labor. Hours and hours passed without a single cramp. Friends, family, doctors, and nurses came and went all day with plaintive eyes and tender hugs. Briefly, I played cards with my brother. I’m playing Rummy in a hospital gown with my forever-sleeping baby inside me. Surely this is a dream. The longer my partner and I awaited labor to start, the more my fervent hope—I will soon awaken from this nightmare—seemed plausible.

I remember when my uterus finally started to writhe with contractions. I remember my partner holding my hand and music softly playing from a small speaker. I remember how the pain ebbed and flowed and ebbed. And then it stopped. The midwife laid my swaddled baby girl in my arms with such aching reverence. My tears pooled into the crook of my neck as I held my beloved child against me. My partner wept.

I remember the drive home from the hospital. Without her. Blasphemous. What to do with my hands as my partner steered the car through busy city streets teeming with life? I couldn’t bear to lay them on my empty belly, the place she’d lived for 40 weeks, so they hung limply by my sides. In the driveway, I hesitated to leave the car and enter our house. Crossing the threshold into our prepared nest without her would be a surrender, a submission to my fate. And to hers. The story would be over, my life would change trajectory, and I would not be able to hit rewind. But, by lingering in the car, I could delay the last scene. I adjusted the car’s vent. I leaned back into the headrest. I waited.

I remember the very next morning. At my kitchen table with my mother, I silently ate toast, sipped earl grey tea, and then swept my entire house. It was something to do before returning to bed. I remember the phone ringing and ringing and ringing. The deliveries of food and flowers and cards. Staring through the sliding glass doors at the barren trees. Barren, just like me.

I remember saying her name aloud, self-conscious at first until finally letting Carly fall from my lips became natural. She deserves to have her name spoken.

I remember the reentry into the world. I was like a naked ghost—simultaneously exposed and invisible—while I made my way down the aisles of the too noisy grocery store, while I fumbled through the litany of questions when ordering pizza, when standing in line at TJ Maxx, a pair of post-pregnancy jeans in hand.

I remember the arrival of spring ushered in early morning choruses of birdsongs, young forsythia and dogwood buds in the wooded trails, and sprouts of daffodils everywhere. Has spring always been this lush? I felt closer to my missing daughter when surrounded by signs of new life in the natural world. Maybe she was as near to me as the bluebird overhead. I found a way to comfort myself.

I remember the first anniversary of the day she was born, and the day we’d said goodbye. I donated children’s books in her name to a Ronald McDonald House. I sat in the sunshine sipping hot cocoa and wrote her a letter. I made it through the first year. I miss you. My heart is broken, but it still beats. I will always remember. 

And I do.

The post Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day appeared first on Kristen Rademacher.

Have a listen to the interview here!

And be sure to check out all of James’ work at his website here, and on social media (his handle is @JamesMillerLifeology, though for Twitter he is @JamesMLIfeology). He interviews an array of truly interesting people, and does much more!

Thank you, James Miller!

The post An Interview with James Miller of Lifeology appeared first on Kristen Rademacher.

In my e-interview with the Spiritual Media Blog, I discuss the unique grief of losing a baby and the strain it puts on a relationship. I also discuss the serendipity that led me to write my memoir, From the Lake House.

An excerpt of the interview is below, and the full interview can be found here.

What is the grief of losing a child like?

A parent who’s lost a baby also has to endure a solitary grief. While friends and extended family can be a tremendous support, they likely had only a brief—if any— chance to form their own connection with the baby. The mourning felt by friends and family is mostly on behalf of the parents, not due to their unique, personal bond with the child. Bereft parents are often left to carry the remembrance of their child’s brief existence on their own.

The post Spiritual Media Blog Interview appeared first on Kristen Rademacher.

My First Pub Date: Hand-Wringing and Epiphany

In the weeks before the release of my memoir, I took to my bed. 

Yes, I know how dramatic and affected I sound, almost as bad as if reporting an attack of the vapors. But truthfully and for a brief stint, my rational, even-keeled self left the room, leaving behind a puny me who climbed into bed midday. Not for long stretches, but for an hour here and there, smack-dab in the middle of the afternoon.

Anyone who knows me knows that this is unusual. I’m not a napper, and, once I’m dressed for the day, I don’t reunite with my bedroom until the sun is down. Plus, I work full time! But there I was, fully dressed in my work-from-home-COVID-attire, under the covers, watching the blades spin from my overhead fan.

Why?

In a word: anxiety.

My memoir was coming out. People might actually read it. Have mercy.

I would not describe myself as someone who suffers from unbearable anxiety. Gold-star worrier? Yes. But has my proclivity to worry prevented me from living my life? No. The running narrative in my head can be draining at times, but I can usually quell it with a long walk, a good book, or a talk with a friend.

Granted, when March hit, and it seemed that all the threads keeping our frayed world together began unraveling, my garden-variety flavor of anxiety heightened. Fitful sleeping, spontaneous tears, and increased irritability. Still, who hasn’t been out of sorts with the steady stream of hard news and disruptions in our lives?

My knees, already weakened by the summer’s tumult, wobbled more as my memoir’s once far-off release arrived. My emotional reserves were dry. I’d told a friend that it’s one thing to write a personal memoir, but it’s entirely different to hand it over to an audience. As this was my first published book, I had yet to experience the anticipation of its reception. How had my worrying mind failed to consider this?

From the Lake House: A Mother’s Odyssey of Loss and Love is my memoir about a series of losses in a short period. My baby was stillborn, my already strained relationship imploded under the weight of grief, and my identity shattered as I had to face a future without being a mother. In my book, I laid out in plain sight the mistakes I’d made and the pain I’d endured. 

This is what memoirists do. We tell our stories with honesty and candor, right?

Yes, but the problem with the above equation is that I’m equal parts private and introverted. When I imagined friends, neighbors, and colleagues reading my book—actually rummaging through the nitty-gritty of a sorrowful season in my life— a nearly crippling doubt took hold. Is publishing a terrible mistake? Is my book too personal? Why did I expose myself? And if that wasn’t enough, Imposter Syndrome showed up. Who do you think you are, calling yourself a writer?

Thus, I took to my bed.

“Aren’t you supposed to be working right now?” my Significant Other would ask when I’d made a few SOS calls.

“Yes,” I’d reply, pulling my quilt up to my neck. My ever-loyal cat, confused by my midday behavior, curled up beside me.

I’d spell out the litany of fears, but my S.O. didn’t understand.

“Hasn’t this been your goal? To publish your book? And you’re already getting positive feedback. I wish you could celebrate your achievement!”

Me, too, I’d think, covering my head with a pillow.

Oh yeah, that was another thing. In addition to battling all of the above trepidations, I decided to judge myself for them. I’d see fellow authors on Facebook, champagne flute in one hand and their book in the other, reveling in their hard-earned accomplishments.

What’s wrong with you? I’d chastise myself. Be happy.

There I was. Locked in a self-designed, looming pub date Room-of-Doom. I was convinced that if there was a key, I didn’t have it. I felt trapped and tiny and terrified. So how did I finally escape and clear off my mud-colored glasses?  

Days after my book’s release, I led a workshop (virtually, of course, thank you COVID) on stillbirth at the Compassionate Friends National Conference. This is an organization that supports families grieving the loss of a child. Telling my story and also attending other presentations throughout the weekend lifted me out of my small perspective. Brave souls from all walks of life bared their pain and offered a hand to the newly bereft. In full-Zoom-display, there was humanity at its best: vulnerable and generous people united in caring for each other. To participate in a most intimate gathering and witness the human spirit’s resiliency is a rare privilege. I was grateful. 

The insight that crystallized for me at the conference was the importance of sharing our stories. They connect us, bring our pain into the collective light, and lay a foundation for healing. The very opposite—isolating ourselves in the dark—is where our suffering worsens and perpetuates. While trapped in my Room of Doom, I’d wanted to believe friends who’d told me that my book might be a source of comfort for others, but my amped up anxiety wouldn’t allow me to see beyond myself. The conference shifted me and provided the reality check I needed: We’re all in this messy and beautiful life together, Kristen. It’s not about you.

My anxiety subsided even further when I began getting feedback about my book. I could finally exhale. Nobody outed me as an imposter author. Nobody judged me (or at least not openly!) after reading about the most challenging events I’ve experienced to date. Even better, my book has been overall warmly received. Notes from distant friends and strangers thank me for putting my story out into the world. The general sentiment from these messages makes my heart sing: Your memoir will help others. 

Stillbirth is not necessarily a topic folks are clamoring to explore, and I’ve always understood that my book won’t be a draw for everyone. In a world that has been turned upside down and that seems to spin more erratically than ever, From the Lake House is not quite the beach-read some might crave at the moment. But I’m still glad to add my story to the others out there that shine a light on a most precious and poignant truth: loss is a universal human experience. It’s not the only one, but it’s a potent one. 

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The post My First Pub Date: Hand-Wringing and Epiphanies appeared first on Kristen Rademacher.

For Her Father

Sixteen years ago, my full-term baby—my only child— was born still. Shortly afterward, I had a miscarriage, but the ache for my daughter was all-encompassing, diminishing my capacity to mourn any loss beyond her, even for the 13-week fetus who’d come and gone six months later.

I’m childless and a bereaved mother who never experienced the joys and trials of motherhood; I only imagined and observed them.

As one must do after a loss, I eventually picked myself up, walked forward, and moved my life in new directions. Time soothed the grief, though it will never come to a full stop. I expect that unexpected bursts of sorrow will find me for the rest of my days.

But that’s okay. I’ve lived long enough to know that our human hearts keep regenerating if we allow them to, and moments of sorrow are flanked by moments of joy, happiness, and delight. My life is good, and I’m okay.

I wonder if he is? The father of my child.

Good relationships buckle under the strain of losing a baby; weak relationships collapse. That was our story. We had not been strong enough to endure our double-punch losses, and we’d parted ways before reaching our daughter’s first birthday—aka the day she’d died. The flimsy stitches holding us together unraveled in our last months, and we ended our union with utter certitude. I marked her first birthday without him, and recall that in addition to lamenting my daughter’s absence, I felt guilty that her father and I were unable to grieve as a couple.

We were failing at parenthood, even in her death.

For years, I’ve navigated my daughter’s birthday and Mother’s Day with rituals that comfort me. I sometimes indulge my imagination with scenes of an alternate life where my daughter is growing up beside me. There she is on my lap, her chubby toddler fingers gripping a sippy cup while I read her a favorite book. Or, I watch her squeal with pleasure when she finds a dollar bill left by the tooth fairy. Or, I cook her favorite dinner while she plows through her homework at the kitchen table. Or, I ask about her favorite part of the museum, play, or concert we’d attended together.

Like me, her father is sentimental and very much wanted to be a parent.

I wonder how he’s stayed connected to her? What is her birthday like for him? What scenes of an alternate life with his daughter has he conjured over the years? Perhaps he’s imagined her growing up beside him in his garage, surrounded by tools that he wields to build and repair anything. He shows her how to fix a leaky faucet, build a deck, and remodel a kitchen. He buckles her up in his truck, and off they go, picking up lumber at the hardware store, selecting young trees to plant in the yard, singing along to his country music as they dash about town.

During our pregnancy, he and I joked that our daughter would have temperamental whiplash because we were so different. We’d already assigned each other roles in our family picture: I’d nurture her intellectual curiosity, and he’d give her practical life skills. She’d have a book in one hand and a power drill in the other.

Our daughter inexplicably died while we awaited labor, shattering our hearts and the picture of our future family. Her death broke us, too. We’d clung to each other in the early months as we made our way through the raw pain. But once we found our footing, our differences seemed to expand in her absence, and they ultimately drove an intractable wedge between us.

Without a baby to join us in our prepared nest, her father and I flew off in separate directions.

Where exactly he landed and what his life looks like now, I do not know. But of one thing I’m sure: we will be connected, through our daughter, forever. Despite our sad ending, he deserves a nod of appreciation. For me, our daughter’s birth and death reoriented my way of being in the world for the better: greater compassion, more profound appreciation for nature, simpler values. I’d so wanted to be a mother in the fullest sense of the word, but I’m so grateful for the gifts I’ve received without her. Inextricably linked to these gifts is her father.

I hope the years have been kind to him, and that time transformed his sorrow, too. I like to remember what drew me to him when we’d first met: his gregarious heart, creative ingenuity, and wry wit. Perhaps now, these very best parts of him radiate in all he does. And maybe he knows that these are the very traits our daughter would have loved in him, too.

The post For Her Father appeared first on Kristen Rademacher.

A Complicated Book Launch

What times we are living through. Who could have imagined that at the halfway point of 2020, we’d be immersed in a trifecta of profound crises: global pandemic, economic downfall, and a massive social movement.

Before I continue, let me acknowledge that I am achingly aware of my good fortune. Everyone I care for has remained healthy, I’m able to work remotely, and my skin color has never threatened my safety. I’ve stayed mostly at home since the COVID shutdowns in March, and when claustrophobia kicks in, I can get outside for a tree-lined walk on trails near my neighborhood. All things considered, I’m well. Still, life as I know it has been upended, and in one 24-hour period, my spinning wheel of emotions can land on any number of feelings. Anxiety, hope, exhaustion, and fear are but a few.

In the midst of this, I’m launching my first book, and the process has been . . . interesting. Most bookstores in my town are still closed with no clear plans on reopening, so I will not see my memoir displayed at a local bookshop, and I will not host a launch party where I sign copies of my memoir to flesh and blood family and friends. And oh yeah—will my book even sell, given the belt-tightening for so many right now?

As the countdown to my book’s release date nears, I’ve been gearing up and keeping up with promotion tasks as much as possible. But frankly, some days, my spinning wheel of emotions lands on overwhelm, especially when I dare to peek at the news. Though I want to generate punchy posts for Facebook, write another blog entry for my website, or enter my book into contests, my body does not always cooperate. Overwhelm leaves me with just enough wherewithal to sip a cup of tea on my front steps.  

There’s also the question of relevance. Not to be histrionic, but the number of existential dilemmas we face is dizzying. Humanity as a whole is groaning with illness and cries for justice, and democracy is on life support. With insecurity and upheaval in abundance, I can’t help but sometimes feel that promoting my book right now is wrong. “Hey, everyone! I know the world is utterly chaotic, but I’d like to draw your attention to my memoir and me! And in case you were looking for a fluffy read, the subject is about losing a baby.”

When it comes to a book launch in general, my temperament does not help the aforementioned trifecta. I’m well suited for the quiet life of a writer, but sales? Not so much. Both sides of my family tree are filled with busy and friendly introverts; we are private to a fault and do not crave attention. Though time-consuming and often grueling, writing the memoir has turned out to be far easier for me than promoting it. Can’t I just leave a box of books on my front porch and hope readers will find them?

One might wonder, given my aversion to self-promotion and the spotlight, why publish a memoir? Especially on the personal topic of infant loss?

In short, I wrote a book as a tribute to my baby girl.

The death of my daughter was traumatic and painful. I’d carried her for nine months, but her heart stopped beating around her due date for reasons unknown. I was devastated. The year that followed was a slog through a valley of sorrow and longing. I missed her presence within me, and I missed the life I’d imagined we would have shared. 

Grief is slow and wearying work, and I wrote about the hard days of mourning in my memoir. But I wrote about more than that. 

My relationship with my daughter’s father collapsed shortly after her death, so at age 40, I was childless and newly single. Since I’d relocated two years earlier to be with him, I had not yet formed a circle of close, local friends. In many ways, I was on my own.

Talk about a cascade of challenges. My daughter’s death and subsequent trials felt like a free fall. There I was, starting over solo as a relative newcomer navigating a broken heart and a ruptured identity. The reality of my life did not match the vision I’d had for myself: I was not a mother, and I was not partnered. Who then, was I going to be? Where would I fit in? And could I cultivate a new connection to my daughter?

My book centers on a season of pruning in my life, but as any gardener knows, pruning can bring new growth. Without my usual bearings to guide me, I had no choice but to look inside and reorient myself toward a different future. I wrote in my memoir about how I moved through this season by leaning on a mix of determination, blind faith, and moments of grace. 

Ready or not, global crises or not, a predilection for privacy or not, my book will be published. When self-doubt or overwhelm appears, I remind myself that sharing my story is one contribution I can make to our broken world. For those faced with the sting of grief or the ordeal of starting over, perhaps my book can provide hope. Maybe it will resonate with those who agree that from hardship, a wellspring of resilience and healing can be discovered. I also remind myself that I wrote my memoir to honor my daughter. Though she never lived outside of me, her brief life and abrupt death within me was transformative. I am grateful for the enduring impact of this small being, and in the end, that’s a story worth sharing. 

The post A Complicated Book Launch appeared first on Kristen Rademacher.

The Unthinkable

As a single woman in my late twenties, I rented the top floor of a two-family house within spitting distance of Cambridge, Massachusetts. My landlords, an elderly couple, both with polio, lived on the first floor. I adored them. We lived peaceably together for nearly a decade, sharing the Boston Globe newspaper, a washer and dryer in the basement, and occasional meals. Conrad and Liz epitomized grace and grit while living out their senior years with polio-pain and reduced activity. I can still picture them plugging along with their crutches and leg-braces, rarely complaining and always charming.

I’d sometimes visit with Conrad in his man-cave, a tiny room in the basement filled with relics of his younger life: darkroom equipment, assorted tools hanging from a pegboard, and posters of national parks. I’d sit on a dilapidated chair while he’d tell stories of his youth and of his travels with Liz. Conrad was effusive and enthusiastically rooted for me, hoping I’d settle down with a good man and have children if that’s indeed what I’d wanted. I had. So had he.

I’d assumed Conrad and Liz were childless because they’d married on the late side, or because polio would have made pregnancy and parenting too complicated. But in one of our man-cave chats, Conrad told me that years earlier, Liz had given birth to a full-term, stillborn baby. His usually twinkling eyes filled up as he recalled Liz’s strength and his own grief over losing their infant boy. I remember not knowing what to say, and—literally—not being able to imagine their trauma. My younger self simply had no categories for this sort of blasphemous loss. Plus, I’d still had an immature belief that life was somehow just and fair. Surely, contracting polio before Salk finalized the vaccine would have inoculated this couple to more tragedy, right? So, I stuffed their story into an abstract file titled “The Unthinkable.” The topic never came up in future conversations with Conrad or Liz, but I often wondered: Does Liz think about her son anymore?

Several years later, I relocated to North Carolina for an ultimately doomed relationship, and at age 39, I delivered a full-term, stillborn baby. I’d returned from the hospital empty and disoriented, migrating between my bed and the sofa in a numb stupor. Of the many calls I received in those early days, one that stood out was from Liz. We cried together. Though Liz was nearly eighty, her voice shook with emotion as she said she’d not seen nor held her infant son after his birth. Her nurses had advised that his image might haunt her for the rest of her life, so Liz delivered her baby sight unseen, and then went home. As Liz talked, I was balled under a blanket, barely able to process my shattered world. My post-childbirth body ached, my breasts were leaking milk, and the cradle loomed in the corner of the bedroom. And yet, I was lucid enough during our conversation to think: Thank God I held my daughter. Thank God I have photos.

My phone call with Liz was brief, but I’ll always remember her earnest and vulnerable tone. I can still hear Conrad’s voice in the background: “Tell her we love her. Tell her I love her.” As we hung up, Liz promised me that I’d find a way to heal and be okay.

She was right. Inch by inch, month by month, I found my way. Like Liz, I never had another child. And like Liz, I let go of the dream of motherhood and moved my life in new directions.

Sixteen years have passed since I lost a baby. I’m now solidly in middle age, and I no longer keep an “Unthinkable” file. Humans suffer all kinds of pains and traumas, and somehow we endure. I’ve come to accept that life is many things—mysterious, unpredictable, painful, and beautiful—but fair, it is not. And that’s okay. Conrad and Liz have been gone for many years, but I’m sure they would have agreed with my assessment. Especially Liz. Not only had she suffered the cruel effects of the poliovirus, she’d also given birth to a baby who’d already died in her womb. She outlived Conrad and spent her final years relying on the kindness of neighbors to check in on her. I’m certain she never complained. Compared to Conrad’s extroversion, Liz was quiet, with a palpable, resilient spirit. I see her in my mind’s eye: large wire-rimmed glasses, thinning white hair, and a sort of self-possessed Mona Lisa smile.

Before my own daughter’s death, I’d naïvely wondered whether Liz had thought anymore about her deceased son. My question had been plainly answered during the tear-filled call from Liz and gave me a preview of what lay ahead. While I’d said farewell to my daughter a week earlier, Liz had done the same with her son forty years before, and yet her pain quickly bubbled to the surface. Liz was eighty years old, and yes, she’d still thought about her son. Of course she had. I’m well beyond the raw, initial grief over losing my daughter, but I think about her, too. For mothers like Liz and me, despite bearing what may seem to be “Unthinkable,” we move forward, find new purpose, and feel happiness again. But, our hearts remain tender, and we always remember our missing babies.  

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Charlene and I met for the first time via FaceTime about five minutes before the interview was due to begin. This was several weeks into Covid lockdown. Because one of my cats is super-talkative when he hears me talk, I locked myself in my bedroom during the interview. A double lockdown situation!

Naturally, my computer would not connect to FaceTime, so I used my phone for the interview instead. There I was, sitting in the corner of my bedroom, trying to hold my phone steady so that Charlene could see my face while we talked. My cat scratched outside my door the entire time. Luckily, Charlene was non-plussed and we had a lovely conversation.

If you’d like to hear about how my maniacal journal writing led to From the Lake House, or about what I learned while rebuilding my life after a series of losses, please do have a listen. The interview is about 20 minutes long.

The post Interview about From the Lake House appeared first on Kristen Rademacher.