To my brilliant and kind and wonderful Readers,
I started this Substack for one reason only: To make up for a miserable failure in my life.
When Dad departed during Covid and before the vaccines, I fell apart.
Over a year of isolation in my home, and the loss of both parents crippled me emotionally. And my genetic disease was running roughshod over my body.
My son arranged a Zoom memorial for Dad and I was supposed to speak, and… I lost it. What blurted out of my mouth was incoherent gibberish. Punctuated by wet sobs.
My friends were kind and said “it was heartfelt”, and “It was lovely” (It was not!)
I could tell they felt sorry for me. Receiving pity is… uncomfortable.
I felt ashamed that I’d let Dad down. And embarrassed to have blown it in front of so many people.
I discovered Substack, and re-assembled my wits. Maybe I could still make things right, and honor him as I wished I had done at his memorial.
That’s when I wrote, “Is He Really Dead? Or Just Invisible?”
Many of you reposted the essay, and said kind words about it, and about Hugh.
Which offered me a sense of redemption. Thank you.
Since I rarely post, you’re likely wondering what you’ve subscribed to; and what’s next?
The two essays I’ve posted so far are stories from an undeservedly privileged life.
Going forward will be more of the same. And likely sporadic.
I’d like to tell you the surprising love stories of my ancestors (including my parents), and stories about my brilliant pet spider monkey (who saved my life); and of giving birth in a wobbly wooden shack in a ghost town; and about being a weekend guest of the Duke of Bedford at Britain’s Woburn Abbey when I was a child; and the times I spent in Africa with UNICEF as an adult; and likely a bit about when I was a TV producer. Just stories I want to share and leave as a legacy for my grandkids.
I’m considering adding very short pieces, “snapshots” of memories too.
Oh! And I’ll introduce you to my brother, who has a new book out! He’s a gifted artist (painter), photographer, videographer, writer and just all around brilliant.
All my stories will be as true as I can write them.
If that sounds okay to you, then yay! If not, it’s okay to unsubscribe. Really and truly, it’s okay. No hurt feelings, I PROMISE.
I’m writing these stories primarily for my descendants, and I invite you to come along for the ride. Or not! I want you to be happy.
You’re a top shelf group of individuals, and I thank you for your moral support. I actually think of you every day, and feel humbled. And grateful.
I have attempted to “follow” each of you. If I missed anyone, please let me know and I’ll follow you on Notes.
With profound gratitude for each one of you,
DeeDee
PS - This post is for subscribers only. Please do not repost. It’s for Your Eyes Only!
When I was 6 months pregnant with my second child, I was playing in the pool with my 15 month old. I was swing him up, then back into the water. He had wonderful infectious giggle. I began to feel people at the pool were watch me. I thought- oh, they can see what a good mother Ian, how happy my baby is. The more he giggled, the more people watched, the higher I raised him over my head. Then we would both go down under the water and pop back up. After about 15 minutes, I realized the top of my bathing suit had been pulled down by the water each time I stood up. They were not seeing me as a good mother, they were seeing my two watermelon breasts fully exposed to the entire pool.
I was called up in front of a packed to the rafters church to eulogize my mom. I told everyone I was happy. 😳 There was no way to coherently explain that I meant she died after a beautiful, worthy life before succumbing to an agonizing illness that had only recently crept up on her. Or that I believed she chose to let go when all three of her kids were thriving and happy. And that, as a nurse, she knew a slow and lingering decline would have been wretched. (She died unexpectedly and suddenly at 80). If she was still there in spirit, in that church, I knew she understood. But, hoo boy, I still flinch and cringe every single time I remember…
Grief is crazed. Most of us know it manifests outbursts of literal clinical insanity. Not pretty. I so get how you probably felt. I also felt moved to tears from the absolute beauty of your writing about your dad. I Immediately sent it to my older brother, who also loved it. Thanks for posting it. It’s a gift, and I believe your dad would be proud.