The Celebration that almost Never Happened
Better late than never…
I remember all too well that feeling of desperation when my editor contacted me about my book in January 2015. So far, I had only submitted an introduction — granted, a fairly lengthy one – the previous winter. But it was interrupted by my mother’s stroke, cancer diagnosis, and sudden death between April and October 2014: mind you, the manuscript was supposed to have been turned in that October!
I had to do something fast. Throughout much of last year, I struggled to write my commentary and analysis on Part 1 of Thomas Paine’s Rights of Man as I worked on another project. Was I going to organize it by theme? Or was I going to follow Paine’s free-flowing narrative?
I was previously inclined to take the first route, but with the gun to my head, I decided to write the commentary in line with the text. After a week of writing, I realized that this was, in fact, the only sensible thing to do as the very long chapter began to write itself. I wanted to celebrate!
But I put it off. My father had just been hospitalized.
A few months passed. I recall feeling thrilled, if not ecstatic when I received the peer reviewers’ reports. For a moment, I wanted to tell Mom and celebrate!
But within a split second, like many other moments that year, I realized she was dead. And that triggered sorrow all over again as I used to fantasize about a lavish feast with Mom after the publication of the book. We were going to go to her favorite sushi place down the street and eat to our heart’s content. Then we would watch a movie, head home, and I’d cook our favorite meals (Yes, we had bottomless stomachs!) To celebrate without her felt so wrong.
Another two and a half years rolled by: and this was after repeated emails from the various editors who had come and gone. I dreaded those emails, blushing furiously as I wrote back, “I’m having real problems with this chapter. But the rest should be pretty easy. I need another six months.” The editors must have thought I was never going to finish.
At that time, it felt too embarrassing to explain that I was still dealing with grief (two years later!), a new undergraduate course to teach, caregiving for my 85-year-old father who was already suffering from dementia — and above all, feeling the pressure that this book required yet more thorough research if I was going to put my name to it. Just one book, just one more article…
And indeed, I wondered if I would ever finish, particularly those nights when my father flooded the kitchen or bathroom, forgetting to turn off the faucet. Or the hours I spent trying to pull him off the floor despite my own weakening legs. Or the time Social Services threatened to have us evicted because of my less-than-satisfactory housekeeping. (“Oh yes, they all say they’re writing a book” is what the social worker told me.)
As April 2018 passed, however, I was now able to say, “Just another two months.” Then, in early October, “another two weeks.” Finally, in late November, “another two days” before the entire manuscript was emailed at the end of the month. Now, it would be my turn to wait for another round of peer reviews. I could finally celebrate…right?
No. I had just had an appointment with my new primary physician–who now wanted to check if the hazy stuff around my thighs in the X-rays was cancer. (I had actually deferred the doctor’s appointment until after the completion of the manuscript as I feared that if I learned I had cancer, I would never finish the book). I was frightened. Suddenly, nothing mattered at all. Even when the results came back negative, I was still not ready to celebrate: because I was now dealing with my father’s much-worsened dementia.
It wasn’t until June 2019 that I finally heard back from the peer reviewers. I had already been disappointed not hearing from them in March particularly since I had pushed myself to complete the manuscript by early December — with the hopes that the winter holidays would allow the reviewers time to read it.
Although the reviews were mostly positive, I was still daunted by some of the suggestions. I would not only have to “dumb it down” for the “average undergraduate” but cut my introduction by half. Ouch. So I promised myself, I will celebrate big when this is all complete!
Fast forward to October. I tried not to be depressed when the fourth anniversary of my mom’s death arrived. “No time for sorrow,” I told myself, “you MUST finish this for her. By the 30th, I thought I was ready to submit, and stayed up an entire night–not that this was unusual; I had already been used to pulling all-nighters at least once a week because of my father’s dementia until he passed away earlier that year. Then I stayed up another night to read it one more time. By the 31st, I had stayed up 48 hours in a row.
The next day, the editor notified me to say that everything was fine–even though I only cut my introduction by a third rather than a half. Relieved and ecstatic, I played Irene Cara’s “Fame” as I started working on my chapter abstracts. I should have been ready to celebrate, right?
Oddly, no. Because less than one hour after this momentary elation of completing a book that I didn’t know if I would ever finish, I found myself feeling depressed all over again. Because this book had been so wrapped around my mother — I always turned immediately to writing whenever I found myself missing her — I had come to associate it with her. Maybe I was disappointed because subconsciously I had expected that finishing it would somehow revive her. I don’t know.
In fact, I found myself grieving all over again through November and December remembering how exactly six years earlier, I had fantasized about celebrating the completion of this project with her. The doldrums did not lift until I received the copy-edits right after Christmas and I was ready to work again.
As February 2020 rolled in, I was steeped in proofing and indexing, with the latter taking longer than I expected. Finally, on March 9th or thereabouts, I completed the indexing! I could now breathe a sigh of relief. This time, I was truly itching to celebrate big. I made plans to visit at least a different restaurant in town every day for the following week, spending a good portion of that evening looking up all the various places I wanted to try.
But alas, Covid-19 stormed in the very next day. Restaurants and other public places were closing all around me. So once again, the celebration was deferred. I suppose that old adage–never put off what you can do today–applies to celebrations as well.
It wasn’t until February 27, 2022, that I finally celebrated–yes, nearly two years after I had completed the book. You see, that would have been my mother’s 90th birthday. This private affair was a little bittersweet as I thought about all of her birthdays which we celebrated together. And all the lonely ones afterward. I thought about the times I played Stevie Nicks’ “Has anyone ever written anything for you?” when writing the book. And the times when the grief felt so annihilating.
Then I thought about my disappointment after the publication of the book. Yes, there were highly positive reviews in a few public sources so far and private emails from scholars in the field telling me it was excellent. Yet, no reviews in the most prestigious scholarly journals. Had I completely wasted my time?
And yet, and yet…despite the challenges I faced over those six years between the very beginning and end, interrupted by the deaths of my parents and the increasing loss of mobility in my legs, didn’t I finally accomplish what I couldn’t have envisioned ten years – or even just four years ago? Hadn’t I wound up spending only five years researching and writing a book in a very different field from my doctoral thesis in much more trying circumstances and in less time too?
As I dove into Mom’s favorite sushi and creme brulee, I suddenly realized that I had done what she had always urged me to do – and especially in that week before her final stroke: to become strong – for me and for her. To be strong because she wouldn’t be around forever. “I am dying,” she wept one night. “I know this.” As I denied this vehemently, she added “I hope you will not stop doing what has to be done because of me. You have come all this way so don’t waste it. Keep writing. Keep teaching. Keep being yourself.”
And I thought about how she herself had always plugged on despite the numerous challenges she had faced as a daughter, wife, and mother.
How she defied her mother to marry Dad. Became pregnant in a foreign country with a foreign language – and few nearby to help. Helped move the family across various states at least four times until the ripe old age of 75. Did the family taxes even when her mother died. Nursed my father through a quintuple bypass. Cleaned the house all night after arriving home from a trans-Pacific flight.
Perhaps now I was fulfilling her wishes – even without her. Not only becoming the writer she always thought I should be but exhibiting at least some of the determination that she had demonstrated throughout her life.
And that – more than anything else – was something to celebrate.
©️Frances A. Chiu, August 16, 2023.