A Crash Course in Memoir Writing

When I first started thinking about writing my story, I wasn’t focused on teaching anyone anything. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. There were no morals, no takeaways, no message that I wanted to convey. My only concern was how to gain the writing skills to tell my dramatic (and a bit bizarre) tale. Yet, as my publishing date approaches, one of the most consistent questions I’m asked during interviews is “What do you want your readers to take away from reading your book?” 

My answer has evolved. Early on in the publicity process, I responded with this message: 

Give yourself permission to consider your caregiving options.

If you are thrust into a role you didn’t sign up for, it’s not only okay, it’s critical to evaluate all of the caregiving options available. If you do make an unpopular choice, it doesn’t mean you are selfish or lazy. Remember that your decision will not only affect the family member who needs care, it will affect you, your children and anyone else in your close sphere indefinitely.

After my husband David suffers a severe, permanent traumatic brain injury in an airplane crash, I naturally assumed I would become his caregiver. That assumption is challenged only after Lois, an experienced social worker, strongly encourages me to contemplate a residential facility instead of taking David home: 

“There’s a facility called Learning Services. It’s out in the country, kind of like a ranch.” 

I allow myself to glance at the brochure, but quickly avert my eyes from that gateway to moral depravity. Yet, something shifts. In an instant I know I’m dangerously capable of considering her suggestion.

This can work, I think. No it can’t. David can’t go into an institution. Crazy people go into institutions, put there by selfish relatives who can’t handle a little extra work.

Lois watches me wavering. She seizes her chance. “Your kids are so young. They are traumatized, too. You have no idea how often I’ve seen perfectly healthy caretakers implode from the stress.” She moves in for the kill. “If you can’t do it for yourself or David, do it for Hannah and Joshie.” (excerpt)

My lesson is this: be willing to give yourself the love you so generously bestow on others. You are deserving of a full, joyful existence. You do not have to sacrifice your happiness because of societal pressures. 

After a few interviews, I had an “aha” moment. There was another takeaway I wanted for my readers:

Resilience is a thing, and it matters. Recognize it in yourself.

The word resilience (like “unprecedented”) has become overused during the pandemic. It’s applied to everything from children to the economy – indicating the ability to bounce back from near disaster. I hadn’t fully realized the scope of my own fortitude until well after the manuscript was completed. 

Instead, the story highlights my guilt, pain and yes – even self-loathing during those years of coping with David’s brain injury and my rejection of the caregiver role. My determination to endure, my grit, wasn’t intentionally a part of the story at all. It was only after the telling that those traits became clear. Consider this scene: just before David is scheduled to come home from the hospital after his plane crash – I’m resisting being admitted to the hospital myself for a severe abdominal infection:

“I’m going to admit you – they’ll administer the antibiotics intravenously.” The doctor is gentle. “You’ll need at least a ten-day course.”

My good girl mind is screaming. No way! I can’t stay here. My kids will freak out, be so confused. They’ve been through too much already. And David will be stuck at Valley Medical Center for another ten days? NO!

“You need a break from what’s happening.” The doctor puts a hand on my blanket-covered knee. “Let the nurses take care of you.”

I close my eyes against the tears and lie back on the hard gurney. No way to go but forward, but no strength to start the journey. I have to let go, let others carry me. For now, at least.

I open my eyes. “I’m ready.”

That’s the resilient part of me, the part that – despite having hit bottom – is open to change and is willing to work hard to move past the current distress. The part that just keeps slogging on. Apparently I had to write this book to learn that indeed I am resilient.

I struggled so much during those years with a number of challenges that happened simultaneously: My – and my children’s – grief/trauma around David’s brain injury, the recurrence of an eating disorder, dealing with a stalker, my mother’s passing from pancreatic cancer, my son’s Asperger’s syndrome, my daughter’s anxiety, the pushback from David’s family. I got through it with sheer will power and the support of my village – friends, family, therapist. My mantra was a cliché – “when you’re walking through hell, keep walking.” There is another side to the minefield if you can put one foot in front of the other. And while you’re walking, or stumbling as I was, grasp those hands that are reaching out to help you through it. 

It is truly fascinating and enlightening – that in my quest to uncover my book’s message to my readers, I discover my own truths. 

Perhaps that’s why we write.

May 3, 2021 By Kathy Pooler https://www.krpooler.com/a-crash-course-in-memoir-writing-by-rachel-michelberg/