By Elizabeth McCracken
"This is the happiest tale on the earth with the saddest ending," writes Elizabeth McCracken in her strong, inspiring memoir. A prize-winning, profitable novelist in her 30s, McCracken used to be chuffed to be an itinerant author and self-proclaimed spinster. yet by surprise she fell in love, received married, and years in the past was once residing in a distant a part of France, engaged on her novel, and expecting the delivery of her first child.This e-book is ready what occurred subsequent. In her 9th month of being pregnant, she discovered that her child boy had died. How do you care for and get over this type of loss? after all you don't--but you cross on. And when you've got ever skilled loss or love an individual who has, the corporate of this striking publication can help you cross on.With humor and heat and unfailing generosity, McCracken considers the character of affection and grief. She opens her middle and leaves all of ours the richer for it.
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Extra info for An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination: A Memoir
I mulled the idea over. To give birth in a farmhouse seemed appealingly Little House on the Prairie. ” my friend Wendy told me when I asked what she thought. “It’s your first pregnancy! ” She probably had a point. ” my mother wanted to know. ” she asked. But I loved Sylvie’s optimism. Why not be optimistic? Everything was going so well. My friend Patti told me I should be the poster girl for Advanced Maternal Age pregnancies. I felt great. I ate intelligently, if a little heavy on the chocolate mousse.
We were ready for Pudding. And then the calamity. Every day of my second pregnancy, I thought of Pudding, of course. But I tried not to think of the exact circumstances of his death. At first I was worried I’d stay in bed weeping, and then I thought: If I remember everything, I’m done for. If I remember, I will walk to the nearest hospital and ask for a nice bed in the psychiatric wing, I promise to be quiet, I promise I will not ask for narcotics, just keep me, nurse, for a few months. In May you can transfer me please to maternity.
Bergerac had typed boy, the heart working away in all of its miraculous clockwork gadgetry. But there was always something Ground-Control-to-Major-Tom about the experience. Deep down, I believed, in the way of moon-landing deniers, that it was all well and good to show me this dim grayscale picture on a screen, but you call that proof? Surely it was a hoax, it had to be a hoax: it was easier to believe it was fake than to accept it was possible, real, done. Now: my hand, my stomach, his back. A human being.