Today is another release day and another day of butterflies! I want to say this gets easier with each new book, but it never does, and I think I fear the day it might. I love this feeling. It’s amazing, and I’m pretty lucky to have so many incredible readers. So, thank you from the bottom of my heart.
I have had A Heart of Time swimming around in my head for almost two years, but I kept putting it off because I wasn’t ready to dive into what was a can of worms I kept sealed and hidden on a shelf in the way back of my closet.
I’m sure I’m not alone when I say we all go through traumatizing events in our life, and while we have to cope with them, they don’t always disappear from our everyday thoughts. I tried to make a memory go away and because of that, it haunts me in my sleep and even while I’m driving sometimes. So I decided to do what I always do when something is bothering me…I wrote it down.
Except, this memory turned into a book—Hunter’s story—the story I’m glad my husband didn’t have to tell.
Flash back a few years…
I didn’t have the hardest pregnancy despite the thirty weeks of not being able to digest any food or the fact that my little guy wanted to prepare for his exit while stretching out sideways. After a super fun procedure to force him into the right position, we were all ready to meet him.
Only a short two weeks later, two days late, and at two in the morning, he decided it was time. He’s still a late night party animal almost four years later.
If what I had known was going to happen hours later, the part where I had to have an epidural inserted into my spine five times would have been the part to haunt me for years to come, but that part vaguely grazes my memory now.
I was told we were ready to finally meet the little man who had used my insides as a soccer ball for the previous few months, and I was more than prepared to squeeze him, kiss him, and never take my eyes off of him.
As if those visions were merely a part of a thought bubble floating above my head, the monitors started beeping like crazy, his heart rate dropped to 20 beats per minute, and I took the second of uncertainty to look at each nurse’s face, as well as the multiple doctors who suddenly appeared in front of my bed. My husband and my mom were pacing, and I was staring at everyone waiting for someone to tell me what was going on. This isn’t happening to me. This stuff doesn’t happen to me. That’s what I was thinking. Except, this can happen to anyone.
The tears came, papers attached to a clipboard were placed on my lap, and a pen was shoved into my hand. Time to sign both of your lives away, someone should have told me. It’s what I had to do while the brakes were being lifted from the bed I was laying on.
I don’t remember signing the papers, but I know I did. The second the clipboard was taken from my hand, I was rushed from the room, down the hall, and into the operating room. All the while, my husband was running behind the commotion with a pile of scrubs in his arms, watching me fly by as he became completely helpless. And my mom…she was grabbing at me as if she may never see me again. Is that what this is? I was wondering.
I was alone in the OR for what seemed like forever before my husband sat down beside me with a not-so-calm look on his face, one I’ve never seen, nor do I ever want to see again.
Another few minutes went by—minutes I don’t remember at all. I have a picture to remind me of the first moment I met my little boy, but I don’t remember that either. That memory was stolen from me when the doctors told my husband I was in trouble—when they put me under—when they took my baby away—when they took a first away that I will never get back. But they had too. I was in trouble.
I woke up an hour or so later alone in a white room, no husband, no baby, and no clue that I had been unconscious. There was a nurse, though. She wasn’t very helpful. Until I calmed down, there were no answers to be given, and that didn’t help me relax like she kept telling me to do. Screaming for my husband, the pain from surgery, seared through my body, gracing me with a realization that I was, in fact, still alive. But was my son? Was he okay? I had no idea. I didn’t remember meeting him.
More minutes went by and between the seconds it took my husband to walk through the door and look me in the eyes to tell me that our son was okay, I think a million thoughts went through my head. He was worried I wasn’t going to make it, and all I cared about was our little boy and whether or not he made it.
My husband cleared up the timeline of events, explaining to me how scared he was that he was about to lose everything and that he had to leave the OR without an idea of what was about to happen to me. He got to hold our healthy little boy and at the same moment wonder if our son would ever get to talk to me.
This wasn’t about me anymore…this was about what my husband had gone through because it isn’t something I wouldn’t wish on anyone. His story is the one that haunts me—the thought of a life without me, life for my boys without a mom.
I’m lucky, but sometimes when my thoughts get away from me, I imagine the story where I might not be so lucky—where my husband and boys might not be so lucky.
That story is A Heart of Time.
Someone once told me to write what scares me the most. So, I did.
I hope you enjoy the book, and I apologize for the “ugly cries” I have caused early readers, but I poured my heart and soul into this book, and I hope it shows.
Thank you for being loyal readers. Your support means the world to me.