In Times of Trouble
By Barbara O'Neal | January 24, 2018 |
As you know, I am a self-employed writer. This business of putting my words on the page is how I bring money into my house. As every author must, I also engage in social media and various marketing and teaching gigs to keep myself afloat.
But sometimes life goes awry.
A week after Thanksgiving, I woke up with my sister’s cold, which she generously shared that family day, with all of us, though not my dad who refused to come to the feast because he didn’t want to risk getting sick.
Good thing. It turned out to be one of the sloppiest, most miserable colds any of us have had in years, lasting weeks and weeks.
But you know, Christmas season waits for no woman, so I dosed myself up with meds and went about my business. I had a back-and-forth schedule of revisions for my new book,The Art of Inheriting Secrets, that would end just before Christmas, and I was eager to have the chance to tweak and smooth and polish, the last shiny round before the book goes off to production.
On December 4th, I was rushing around on Christmas errands when I injured my ankle. It seemed like a low-key injury at the time—honestly, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve sprained this ankle—so I hobbled around on the rest of my errands. After a few days, I started to realize maybe it wasn’t just a sprain, so I hobbled into the doctor, who then hobbled me for real by sticking me in a walking boot to await surgery, which I absolutely did not want to have before I flew to San Antonio to see my darling girls for ten days at Christmas.
On December 6, my father went into the hospital. On December 7, my brother was visiting him and had a major heart attack—at the hospital, which absolutely saved his life. *
They live about 50 miles from me, and I was desperate to go see them, but—remember that cold? It was at the very worst level of contagion, so sloppy I didn’t even go out to the grocery store.
Finally my sister the nurse gently said that the worry of contagion was over. I hobbled down to see my dad on December 8, and when I was on my way home, he died. Yes, it was as terrible as it sounds. He was in poor health and had been in and out of the hospital for the past year, but it is still shocking and devastating when it actually happens.
Of course, then family took precedence, and my sons arrived (a great joy to play games at Christmas time, a pocket of happiness in all the chaos). There was the funeral and all that goes along with that, and the strange, loving, and sometimes uneven business of siblings grappling with the loss.
Meanwhile, in the writing world, I had those revisions on my first new book for my new publisher to grapple with. We were on a tight deadline to keep the pub date, so I was faced with either getting them done or pushing the date back, which I very much did not want to do. **
Three days after the funeral, one day after my last house guest departed, I hobbled to San Antonio, for the relief of little girls and the pleasure of forgetting everything.
Except that I’ve been engaged in building a new venture, one that has potential but has been perplexing and challenging to get up and moving, the Patreon teaching platform I’m developing, and I’d come up with some ideas to help engage the group a bit more—a daily post between Christmas and New Year.***
The only thing I could do was switch into what I’ve labeled Emergency Mode.
Every writer faces periods like this. It might be a sick kid or a car accident or a diagnosis or a divorce. A big move. A family crisis. Two blocks over from me, two houses burned when the fence between them caught fire in early December.
If you work for yourself, you don’t have the luxury of dropping all of your obligations. If you have deadlines, you still have to meet them. If you’ve made promises to others, you have to keep them. If you want groceries in the house in a couple of months, you’d better find ways to get the work done.
As you can imagine, I had little creative or physical energy left after all the other things that were rushing through my mind.
And yet, what can you do but show up?
I showed up. I let household tasks go and when my daughter-in-law offered to cook, I let her. I went upstairs to my quiet office and did my best to focus on the actual words of the revision requests. Through my fog, I read one sentence at a time: can you clarify why she would do this? This section goes too long, can you trim?
Reading notes, making changes, one at a time. I had a feeling that I missed a few things when I returned the manuscript, and I did, but we caught those on the next round. If there is anything else, I’ll see it in copy edits.
And no book goes out into the world perfect anyway. I know that. The most devoted writing, the most eagle-eyed of editing, the best vetting (and I am very, very, very lucky to have the eyes of two brilliant editors and an agent and a senior editor on the book), will still not lead to a perfect book.
When I made my way to my girls, the luxury was that I’d be able to spend time with them while they were out of school. I awakened early and crept downstairs to write before the eldest got up, because the minute she came down, her exuberance and chatter would make it impossible to keep working for long. Sometimes, I bribed her, “If you let me finish this part, we can get the paints out….plant those seeds….go upstairs and play dolls.”
Were those brilliant posts on Patreon? I doubt it. But I don’t have to be brilliant to show up. I can show up in my wounded, broken, earnest state and do my best.
What I know about times like this is that it does no good to say, “Why is this happening to me?”
It happens to everyone, no matter how much of a positive thinker you are, or how many marathons you can run, or how much money you have. Times of trouble simply arrive, out of the blue morning, leaving scars and marks and messes.
It does help to have work you love. That offers a sense of purpose. On those quiet mornings in San Antonio when I was making the effort to offer something to my fellow writers, it gave meaning to my life. When I rewrote that one sentence and moved that paragraph, and saw a place to make a moment even more powerful, I could see a path to the future, when life wouldn’t be so challenging. When I escaped into the world of my book, my heart wasn’t so heavy.
My father was a very practical man. He would say, to all of us, “get over it. Move on.”
Because I am the earth mother, I say:
Eat well.
Sleep as much as you can, because sleep heals us.
Allow yourself breakdowns, but then take a shower, straighten your spine, and work for an hour.
Show up.
You can do it.
This won’t last forever.
And I sing under my breath, “Let it be.”
Let it be.
What do you do in times of trouble? What was your dad’s best advice for these times? What’s your best coping technique?
[coffee]
*My brother is fine. My mother is remarkably fine. I will be all right.
**We got the book into production on time. The Art of Inheriting Secrets is available for pre-order.
***If you want to participate in my Patreon experiment, join me there https://www.patreon.com/barbaraoneal
Barbara O’Neal is the author of more than a dozen award-winning, bestselling novels, including the runaway bestseller, When We Believed in Mermaids, which has been published in more than 20 countries and spent many months on the Amazon Charts, as well as the Wall Street Journal, USA Today, and Washington Post bestseller lists. Barbara lives on the beach in rugged Oregon with her husband, a British endurance athlete who vows he’ll never lose his accent and their zoo of cats and dogs. You can find more information on her newsletter and where to find her on social media at barbaraoneal.com.
Oh, Barb, I’m sorry for all the sickness and hurt and death of your father. Requiescat in pace. May you all have many more pockets of light and love, peace and joy.
Like you, since writing is what I love, in times of trouble, I turn to the page. I might take my notebook to church and sit in quiet Adoration and write there. I’ve never missed a deadline except for the one time when the stomach flu got us all but I was granted an extension of a week (magazines run on a tight schedule). Showing up, keeping a regular routine, doing what I love best have always served me well.
Taking baths and naps are the extras I do for myself. It’s actually very good advice from St. Thomas Aquinas, who’s been a reliable father to me. Here’s a link: https://vijayabodach.blogspot.com/2016/01/coping-with-pain-and-sorrow.html
ps: love the title of your new book. Congratulations!!!
Love your blog on this, Vijaya. Just chanting prayers is sometimes very helpful. My son brought me a rosary that was blessed by the Pope and I love it.
Thank you Barb. How wonderful you have a blessed rosary from the Pope! I will pray for you and yours.
Oh my dear— I’m so very sorry for your loss of your father and all that you’ve had to deal with.
Sitting here with a boot on my right foot waiting until tomorrow to see if I, too, will be wearing a walking cast, I know how life can twist and turn as it flies in it’s ups and downs.
Please know you are being sent love and light. I’m so glad your brother made it through and I send positive healing energy to you and your family during this hard time of missing and healing.
What a terrible time you’ve been through. I don’t know how you persevered. My dad used to say, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going.” That advice has sustained me in times of trouble. This year I emerged from a difficult two-year period in my professional life in which I got laid off and found another job. Looking back I don’t know how I did it, but it was the mental toughness my dad instilled in all his children. It’s about getting up in the morning and putting one foot in front of the other and powering through the day. I wish you better times in 2018.
I’m glad you’ve persevered through your challenging time, Chris. Your dad sounds like mine.
Excellent, heartening post, Barbara – I salute your courage and fortitude in keeping on doing the stuff when it must have felt as if the world was collapsing around your ears. Thank heavens for the love and support of family, who give what they can, and the joy and resilience of children.
I love the pug picture! Also, really looking forward to your new book.
Yes, I am lucky to have such a wealth of family. We’ve been leaning on each other a lot.
So, so sorry for all of this happening to you–at the same time. Seems like way too much to bear, and yet you did. As we do. I learned exactly the same thing years ago after a major trauma — it does absolutely no good to ask why. Because there is no why. You just have to get through it.
Can’t wait for the next book!
So sorry to hear about all your recent troubles, Barbara, especially the loss of your father. May the next year be brighter for your family.
Your suggestion to show up and do the work for an hour (or even just a few minutes) makes sense to me. Small actions adding up over time… Thanks for this inspiring post, and best of luck with the new book!
I’m so very sorry about the loss of your dad. I’m very glad to hear that your brother was there, though, at the hospital, when he needed to be, and that he is all right.
My dad was a complex guy, and boy do I ever miss him, most days, for the last 21 years. He wasn’t big on giving advice, but when I think about the ‘show-don’t tell’ of what he gave to me, I’m left with this: ‘Trust your instincts.’ He empowered my instincts, in so many ways, whether it was in how to play a song on the piano or deal with a business transaction or even find an obscure item in a store (these were the days before online shopping!). I never realized before this minute that he gave that to me, so thank you, Barbara, for the question. I think this relates to the conversation we’ve had privately, about driving, and in a way my father’s message to me throughout life was: “Trust yourself to drive. I’ll just be here, in the back.”
My best coping technique is something learned from my mom, who always said, “This, too, shall pass.” That phrase has seen me through a lot of storms.
Much, much love.
Therese, my mom said that too. I miss her–31 years tomorrow.
What a wonderful insight! Your dad sounds like a very special man.
Beautiful. Poignant. Real. Inspiring. What more could a reader hope to receive through your sharing (via the written word), the nuances of chaos that inhabit our daily lives? Thank you!
Ah…the nuances of chaos! Beautiful.
Love these words, Barbara: “But I don’t have to be brilliant to show up. I can show up in my wounded, broken, earnest state and do my best.”
I don’t think we writers understand this is what we’re signing up for until we are committed to a deadline and the obstacles pile up. Yet the authenticity we bring to the page is what our readers are looking for anyway.
There was a time, during an intense period of revision on my debut, when I threw my back out. I was on the floor at the gym I belonged to and could barely move, barely breathe. The owner drove me to my chiropractor. The agony in the waiting room until I could be seen! Tears fell onto the paper I pulled from my purse so I could write down everything I was feeling, because my protagonist had survived a horrific fall and I wanted to capture it.
My motto: when life hands you more than you can bear, take notes.
“when life hands you more than you can bear, take notes”
Love you motto, Kathryn. it’s not only productive for writing, it helps us make sense of the world.
That sounds like a terrible injury, but yes…that’s what we do, right? Take notes. It’s all…all… material.
Thank you for sharing your heartfelt moments about some very difficult times in your life. Your advice and things you said to yourself to get through it are wise. Sometimes, when we most need to take care of OURSELVES we forget to. I’m glad that you chose another path. Be well.
Barbara, I’m so sorry for your loss, and so inspired by your grit and perseverance. I’m looking forward to reading the new book. In trying times, I try to remember to breathe (ha!) and stay grounded in the moment. I love the instruction to ‘chop wood and carry water’, and to go one day at a time (or one minute, as is often the case with family and work and life!) Blessings for the New Year, and thank you so much for your words today.
It is overwhelming when the stress and worry and heartache pile on. As a pastor’s wife, I see it in the lives of many in our church family, and we grieve along with them, though we have so far been spared from such trying times. My heart aches for your loss, but rejoices that you can grasp and hold those bright moments in the dark. Thanks for this reminder, both of the universality of times of trouble and finiteness of them. We travel through them, taking along what lessons they have for us.
I’m sure you see the full spectrum as a pastor’s wife, which will make you wise over time, if it hasn’t already.
We do travel through trouble. And joy. And our lives. It’s good to remember that.
I’m so sorry about the loss of your father. Mine is gone too. Such an ache.
Have I ever been *out* of Emergency Mode? Doesn’t feel like it. Not recently. Possibly never. My plate overflows. It’s my own fault, of course. When I was young and starting out, there was a day when I had almost nothing to do. I wished aloud, “I want to be BUSY!”
Well, ha-ha. The universe listened. I got my wish.
My coping strategy might not get Earth Mother approval, but here it is: When I can’t do everything on my agenda, what I choose to do I make sure to do well. Best effort, whatever it might be.
I may feel harried and behind, but at least I’ve done something that I feel good about. In that respect, I’m always ahead. Thanks for being our Earth Mother who’s also human. It helps.
Now, about playing dolls…any advice on that?
Absolutely Earth Mother Approved.
As for the dolls, a dollhouse is awesome, even if it is built from a box . Or you know, walking along the cliff of the back of the couch…..be careful!…or slashing through the jungle grass. This time, the girl gave me an awesome plot point as we played with Barbie and Ariel.
Barbara,
What struck me about your post may be seem odd, but I think you probably realize it, even if you left it unsaid:
Your life is full of love: people you love, and work you love. Your troubles arose from that love, from the people and things you cannot abandon, cannot shirk, cannot be apathetic about. Your strength seems to arise from that love, too, as you chose to suffer, endure, and push on rather than take the easier paths.
It would be perverse to be thankful for such troubles, but one may appreciate the love which engendered it.
And there’s a real-life lesson for writers in your post too: to trouble your characters greatly, have them love greatly.
This is so beautiful. Yes, at the end of my life, I doubt I will think of accomplishments, rather I’ll be thinking about those whom I love and who’ve loved me back. Thanks for this.
Barbara, I’m so sorry about your father. What a terrible painful time you’ve been through. Please take care of yourself and rest.
As to the foot, the deadline, etc., you powered through and you made it. (I once finished a book with a broken leg — didn’t know it was broken although I was in horrible pain. I broke the fibula, which the orthopedist said “you really don’t need it.” Speak for yourself, you horrible man!)
It seems sometimes that the Universe heaps on us catastrophe after catastrophe until we want to beg, “Please no more!!” Like Theresa (see comment above), I’ve learned to revert to my mantra: “This too shall pass.”
What a powerful woman of courage you are, Barbara. This too shall pass.
A broken leg! Ow!
Thanks for your comment. It means a lot.
Barbara, my heart hurts for you. Life can seem to be a series of wounds sometimes; scars are lessons hard earned. For what it’s worth, you write with insight on pain’s path, and the need to keep moving, while acknowledging the weight of the hammer.
My father wasn’t big on broad life advice (though he did exhort me not to buy on credit), but he did teach me at least how to swing at—if not connect with—a curveball. He was a warm, good man, gone now seven years, and I miss him.
“And yet, what can you do but show up?” Indeed.
What a flood of tough life all at once. I’m so sorry for the loss of your dad. Thinking of you with love. xo
I’m glad you have resources you can marshal, priorities you can drop.
This post is a record of your resilience and your survival.
Sometimes the universe isn’t as kind.
Yours sounds like a world full of possibilities. Enjoy!
Such a beautiful reminder that life happens to all of us. I am lifting you and your family in prayer. Thank you for giving us a window into your life to help remind us…me…that we move on, and that we must continue to show up.
God bless,
Sherry
Barbara–love your courage and your dedication to so much in your life. The loss of a parent is life-changing. The year my mother died, the only parent I ever really knew having lost my father at a tender age, my husband almost died from his chronic leukemia, but a clinical trial saved his life and then, of all things, we decided to move across the country. STRESS. But underlying what you’ve been through is that amazing desire that helps us cope, that underlies who we are. Writers. I wish you calm and good health. You deserve it. You’ve earned it.
Barbara,
Wow. And, I thought my year was getting off to a rough start with a sinus infection and the demise of my 14 year old, 200,000+ miles car. Thanks for some much needed perspective!
I’m so sorry about your Dad. It sounds like he was a wonderful, endearing father. And, it sounds like there was a lot love there, and, as I’m sure you know, that love is yours to treasure forever.
I think losing a parent is one of the hardest things we go through. Whether we had good ones or bad ones, and whether their passing is sudden and unexpected or we have time to “prepare” makes no difference. Parents are one of the touchstones in our lives, and loosing them is a bit like loosing our footing–it throws our life off balance for a while. At least, that’s how it has always seemed to me.
I’ve been trying to remember any advice from my father, but he died suddenly and unexpectedly when I was 22 (a massive coronary, he was gone within a few minutes), so I never really got to know him in an adult-to-adult relationship, and he didn’t talk to his children much about any of the things he thought or felt. The closest thing to advice I can remember is something he said when I was around 12 or 13: ‘There are a lot of things in this world that will break your heart, you’ve just got to make sure they don’t break you.’ I always thought of that as meaning don’t let things break your spirit–or like you said, keep you from showing up.
Also, my great-grandmother used to say that ‘as long as we have a strong, warm hand to hold, we can get through just about anything.’ So, stay strong, take care of yourself, and keep holding hands.
Barbara,
I’m so sorry to hear about your dad. It sounds like a difficult and painful time, and I’m glad your family was there for you and you for them.
Your wisdom in simply doing one thing, then another seems to be the best way to move through such a time. So often we think we need to see ten steps ahead, when really all we need is to take the next step, then the next, then the next.
My thoughts and prayers are with you,
Carol
Hi, Barbara:
For some reason my earlier post got eaten by the internet troll, and I’m at the end of a long day with looming deadlines not too unlike one of yours of late, but nowhere near as dramatic. I’m so sorry to hear about your dad, and the especially hard way for you to learn he had passed. Glad you mom and brother are okay. Glad you’re hanging in there. All hte best in absolutely everything. –David
Hey Barbara – I’m a day late and a dollar short, but I wanted you to know that I had every intention of commenting yesterday. I started writing it, and it turned into an emotional ramble, far too long for even one of my comments on WU, about my dad. I lost him in ’93, but in writing my ramble, I more clearly than ever see his hand on my life choices and on my writing journey. I find I *needed* to write it yesterday. So thanks for the prompt.
Wishing you peace and lingering blessings found in your father’s imprint on your soul, and in his legacy. Also, my wife’s been in an ortho boot since just before Christmas, so I feel your pain (even if it’s more “in the ass,” than in the foot, so to speak). So I wish you healing as well.
Dear Barbara, You have a world of fans and friends who understand and empathsize with your life wounds, mostly because we’ve been there or nearby. Can you feel the love?
I’ve also heard ‘this, too, shall pass,’ which to me is incomplete because of the writer in me. I want to add ‘but react with no regrets.’ Seems you’ve done that admirably.
Thanks for sharing and inspiring. Hope you are inspired by our outpouring of love in return. – Mary Tate
What a time you’ve had. Many blessings, hope grief and pain take a holiday soon.
Barbara,
I’m so sorry for the loss of your dad and the terrible avalanche of troubles you have been through. I shared a post today on my blog, This Too Shall Pass, on a terrible time I am going through, but reading your post made me ashamed. I admire your grit and determination – we have that in common. I loved your words, “But I don’t have to be brilliant to show up. I can show up in my wounded, broken, earnest state and do my best,” and your father’s sage advice – Let it Be ( my new motto). Thank you for sharing such personal life events and your indomitable and inspiring spirit.