Everyone, I have finished edits for When Stars Die–at least, as much as I can edit. It’s not done yet. It’ll still have to go through copy edits, but it’s getting closer to completion, and I frankly can’t wait. I am so tired of looking at this dang book that it’s just one giant blur. I can’t wait until its in he hands of readers, and then the book becomes their responsibility, and it’s no longer mine.
I have also finished the rough draft of a short story I have titled “I Am the Bell Jar,” which is a part of a secret project. I am doing re-writes of it now as we speak. Then I’ll proofread or whatever and send it off to a beta reader. Afterward, I’ll get back to When Heaven Was Blue. I had hoped to finish WHWB before classes started, but that isn’t going to happen; however, I am comfortable with the idea of working on it during the semester. I just won’t be able to start the sequel to When Stars Die until December, but I can outline it. Luckily, the sequel to WSD is going to simply be a re-write. It won’t be a brand new draft or anything.
But this one, it’s not easy at all. It’s been a while since I’ve lost someone (human) that I care deeply about. I think I’m numb or detached or something. I don’t think it has quite hit me that she’s gone. I’ve known for months that she’s had pancreatic cancer, but I had hope that the chemo would do something and that she’d bounce back from it simply because she herself was just strong. She even held on in her final moments.
I visited her while she was in the hospital. She was in a coma. I don’t think I knew what to feel even then. I was shocked. I know that much. She was unrecognizable, and I had never seen anyone that way before. My parents never brought me to any of my loved one’s funerals because they were afraid I’d be scarred, but, the truth is, no matter how old you are, you can never be prepared to see someone you care deeply about so destroyed by their own dying. There is no preparation for that. Even seeing it a thousand times doesn’t seem like it’d prepare you.
Sure, I’ve cried a little bit here and there, but I just haven’t broken down. Not yet, anyway. I suppose I’m just waiting for it to really sink in. I heard about her death over the phone, after all. I plan to go to her funeral.
I know I don’t feel great, but I can’t even describe how I feel.
amberskyeforbes.wordpress.com 
It’s a confusing achy numbness that wraps you up into a ball and spins you around until you’re so dizzy you have no idea which way is up. Your brain and your heart battle, because the brain knows the truth, but the heart denies it with all it’s might.
It was like that for me the last time I saw my Grandfather. He was barely himself. Wasted away with dementia, physically ill everyday, he barely knew who I was, he barely knew I had kids. It was like that again when he passed. There was no funeral, he didn’t want one. I’m 30 and have never been to a funeral, I’m not displeased about that.
I’m sorry for your loss.
Hang in there. (((HUGS)))
I am very sorry for your loss. I don’t well with loss, which is probably why I am drawn to help others with their losses. I am not a fan of funerals, but I wonder if attending her ( who is she?) funeral will help you process some stuff. It may also be cathartic for you.
It really is lousy to watch somone deteriorate. No getting around that.
Sending you light Amber….
peace, Linda
When my dad died in 2011, I felt that too, I still do–that “confusing aching numbness” that Mariah called it. It is confusing. You feel like you should be tearing and wailing all over the place like you see in the movies or sometimes see other people doing, but some people just don’t. We feel it more internally. I’ve thought a lot about my freak (in the literal sense of the word) reaction to my father’s death, and I think I have accepted that sometimes the pain doesn’t all purge in one big crying jag all at once.
It’s good to hear about all your progress with your book and other projects. And I meant to thank you for your reply back to my question. I really appreciate your insight.
Oh! And I am very intrigued by this title of this work of yours. I just finished The Bell Jar a few months ago and was yet again astounded by the great and tragic Sylvia Plath.