Life has gotten in the way of my career since September. My mother’s health declined, and then on Tuesday, November 29th, she fell and ended up with a compound fracture to her right leg. Both bones broken and exposed, and one hell of a wound. Her multitude of health issues affected her ability to heal (including diabetes), so the surgeon gave her a 50/50 shot of keeping her foot. Almost 17 weeks later, she’s getting close to being able to bear weight again. The massive wound is down to a flesh wound, and we are hoping the surgeon takes the rods out of her foot soon. Last fall, my parents were also taken advantage of by the person who bought their farm and were essentially run out of their home of 30 years by a hog confinement they were tricked into allowing. That’s a long story, but Karma is a vengeful bitch. When mom fell, we already knew they were moving near us (finally!) because the toxicity of a hog implement 600 feet away from their home wasn’t an option. Because of mom’s injury and the need for care, we set her up in a facility near me until the wound healed. For a few months, Dad drove up on weekends to see her. I suddenly found myself responsible for her care, all of their finances and legal paperwork, as well as getting them ready to move out of the house I grew up in. Compound that with Mom being stuck in a nursing home (which has been a great place for her), and I felt pulled in about a hundred directions. I hated the idea of her sitting there alone, so I spent a lot of my days with her. Getting back to any kind of routine was impossible, and my head was full of everything BUT writing. And there was the daily worry about this day being her last one, or an infection setting in.

I’m an emotional person, and I think that helps my creativity. But it also means I live my life on a rollercoaster, and a lot of my emotions have been tied up with my parents’ issues and hurtful accusations from people I never dreamed could be so callous. Anger, sadness, confusion, absolute fear of mom dying, feeling alone, and then back to anger — and the worst part was the inability to understand how much everything effected me. My husband has been a constant support system, encouraging me to get back to writing because I have a television deal in the works. “Everything’s about to happen to you,” he’d say. “You can’t waste this opportunity. You need to get busy on the next book because the production team is going to sell this, and then they’re going to want season 2.”

I knew he was right, and I tried. I plotted, wrote a scene or two, plotted some more. All here and there, when I could fit it in between the 900 other things going on, including the voices in my head. I lost so much sleep imagining how I could defend myself to people who’ve already made up their minds and will never see things any different. That’s a battle I had to walk away from, because it dried me up emotionally, and nothing’s going to change it.

I kept telling my husband that I’d used up whatever creativity I had. I couldn’t even visualize writing another book, much less one that would be better than the last and worthy of the exceptions of my (very understanding) publisher and excited production studio. I kept trying to work, but every time it looked like I’d be able to get back into a routine and find some spark, the Next Terrible Thing happened.

Finally came the cat bites to my index finger and thumb, and a fast moving infection that could have easily cost me my finger. I had emergency surgery and then spent 4 days in the hospital feeling helpless and finished. And then the surgeon tells me it will be 6 weeks to 3 months before I have full range of motion. At the time, my index finger was still very stiff from the extreme swelling in the tendon. How in the hell was I supposed to work?

Thankfully, I was able to get away from normal life for a while. I made it to the state swim meet to watch my daughter, and then she and I took a much needed vacation to Florida to see my closest friends. Maybe that’s what saved me. After we got back, things seemed to stabilize. A routine emerged. I started wanting to read again, and I started making more and more notes for the new book. I decided to try dictation because of my hand—although I got very lucky and my fingers work fairly well, and I can type. But talking into the mic about the book seemed to jumpstart something, and without even realizing it, I WANTED to write again. And I had ideas! Ideas for Hyde and Seek (Erin Prince #2), for a new indie series, and maybe even another Cage Foster novel.

This week, it all clicked. Between dictation and typing, I created a scene by scene synopsis and wrote 10,000 words on the new book. I hated to stop each day because I enjoyed it so much. That’s a feeling I’d forgotten.

When I told my editor, she declared the lights were back on.

And that’s exactly right. I’ve struggled to explain how I’ve felt this winter, using words like dull and numb and stupid, but she hit the nail on the head. My creative lights had gone black. I didn’t think they would come back on. But they are bright as day right now, and I’m taking advantage of it.

The point of this post isn’t to get a bunch of sympathy or brag about my writing and the television opportunity (although some people are going to take it that way, and those are the ones I’ve realized add nothing of value to my life). It’s to tell you that we all go through extreme lows. Most writers are emotional people, and when that balance is upset by stress and life’s jackhammers, you’re going to stop being able to write. And that’s okay. Give yourself the time to walk away from the keyboard and replenish. Fill up your well, as my editor says. Because eventually, things will swing back up. You’ll see daylight again, and you’ll want to create. Take care of yourself first, and the rest will fall back into place.

I promise.

11 years ago in June, my oldest brother was killed in a car accident. She was already diabetic and overweight but until that moment, everything was stable. But the stress caused her slow decline. I was pregnant at the time, and she was healthy enough to help us paint my daughter’s room. After Grace was born, Mom was a huge help in taking care of her those first weeks. Grace is almost 11 now, and Mom can barely get around.

Since she went on dialysis, I’ve felt as though I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, just waiting for her death to push me off. Her kidney doctor didn’t think she’d make it two years on dialysis because of her heart condition, but until the last couple of weeks, she’s done very well, and he admitted she surprised him. But she’s still very sick, and we could lose her any day. I try to take it one day at a time and be grateful she’s still here, but it’s a struggle.

I truly thought we were going to lose her this time. Shortly after she was admitted to the University of Iowa Hospital two weeks ago, it just seemed like all her systems were shutting down. I had a conference to go to, and it was too late to cancel the hotel or airline. We stood to loose thousands, and she insisted I go. She said she’d be hurt if I didn’t. Walking out of that room that night was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, and I really thought she’d die before we got on the plane the next morning.

But yet again, she rebounded and is out of the hospital. But she’s still sick, and the reality is we’ll be lucky to get another couple of years for someone her age on dialysis.

So much of my life is spent waiting for the worst to come and fighting against that. I know I should cherish every day, and I honestly try to. But every time the phone rings, my heart stops.

How do we continue to enjoy and live our own lives when someone we love so much is in such a perilous condition? I feel guilty when I’m not worrying about her, and then I feel bad because I’m not giving my husband and daughter my full attention.

And in the back of my mind, there’s always the single, terrible question: what will I do without my mom?

There aren’t any answers, and I know I’m not alone in going through something like this. Watching our parents age and suffer is an awful thing, and I’m lucky I’m close enough to her to help take care of her. But there’s another part of me that’s angry, at both her and life for putting such a good person through such terrible things. She’s only 74, and she deserves better. I think of all the time I spent with her that I took for granted, all the little memories that have evaporated over the years. I should have cherished those moments, stockpiled them, journaled about them.

But that won’t lessen the pain of losing her. So I’ll continue to take things a day at a time and be grateful for whatever time she has left. I’ll also use her health issues as a motivator for my own life, so that I continue to get healthy and avoid the issues she’s dealing with. I don’t want to put my own daughter through this some day.

And to anyone with diabetes, please take care. I know weight is usually a mental issue, so seek therapy if you possibly can. Don’t underestimate what it can do to your body, and don’t underestimate the power of stress. Find healthy ways to cope, seek therapy or other help as needed. We only have one life, and we need to cherish it!

Fear of death is something I struggle with, and it’s a topic I tried to explore with Lucy Kendall. Why am I so afraid? Is it a lack of faith? I don’t think so. I believe in God and some kind of an afterlife, even if I’m not sure any single religion is correct.

I think the real crux of it is the idea that one day, I will be no more on this earth. That my own body will just cease. I will be dead. I go through periods of mild panic attacks, usually in the middle of the night, when for just a very brief, heart stopping moment, the truth fully dawns on me. Dead.

And yet, I am strangely drawn to anything morbid. Research is easy for me. Crime scene photos don’t bother me (unless they’re children). The whole idea of embalming and how long a body can last is fascinating to me.

But I hate funerals. I hate seeing them in the casket, all waxen and usually nowhere close to looking like themselves. Dead people in pictures don’t feel as real. It’s easy to see them as an object, something that’s not going to happen to me. Seeing the reality, surrounded by grief and the powerful scent of funeral flowers, I can no longer pretend.

Like all parents, I don’t want to pass my hangups on to my kid. I’ve been very upfront with Grace about death, and her attending a funeral has been a point of contention between my husband and me. He believed she was too young, I thought she needed to have the experience before someone she knew and loved passed on.

She attended our friend’s funeral. Before we left, I told her what to expect, explaining how people often are embalmed and then we pay our respects. I wanted her to understand that death and the body she may see was nothing to be afraid of. It’s a part of life we can’t dwell on, and we were there to honor him.

Grace handled it well. So did I, once I realized the casket was closed. Selfishly, I didn’t want to see that good man like that, and I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to calm my daughter’s fears if she got upset, because deep inside, I’m scared too. But she did witness the mourning process, and she understood the gravity of the situation.

I still fear death, and I still don’t know exactly why. But hopefully, by being open and honest with Grace, I won’t pass on the same fears to her.