By Elizabeth McCracken
"This is the happiest tale on the planet with the saddest ending," writes Elizabeth McCracken in her strong, inspiring memoir. A prize-winning, profitable novelist in her 30s, McCracken used to be chuffed to be an itinerant author and self-proclaimed spinster. yet without warning she fell in love, obtained married, and years in the past was once dwelling in a distant a part of France, engaged on her novel, and anticipating the beginning of her first child.This booklet is ready what occurred subsequent. In her 9th month of being pregnant, she realized that her child boy had died. How do you take care of and get over this sort of loss? in fact you don't--but you move on. And when you have ever skilled loss or love a person who has, the corporate of this notable e-book may help you cross on.With humor and heat and unfailing generosity, McCracken considers the character of affection and grief. She opens her center and leaves all of ours the richer for it.
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Additional resources for An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination: A Memoir
We were still in Bordeaux. The hospital had wanted to keep me, but Edward explained that we would check into a nearby hotel — we lived an hour away in an old farmhouse — and come back for the follow-up examination. It will be better for our morale, he said in French, and the doctor nodded. Our terrible news had been relayed by my friends Wendy and Ann to the rest of my friends in America, and now I phoned to say — to say what, I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t want to disappear into France and grief.
Preposterous! we thought. Who needed four times as many toilets as occupants? But the price was right, and we signed a lease that started in three months, and we went back to Paris. Two weeks later, I sent Edward out to negotiate a pregnancy test. All slightly medical transactions in French pharmacies require negotiation with the pharmacist. I took it, disbelieved it, sent him out for another, which agreed with the first. We didn’t call my occupant the Baby, which seemed inaccurate, cloying, and too optimistic.
I had always loved the sentimental science of the ultrasounds, seeing the screen, his bodily essence paradoxically disembodied, his bones decisive, the little snub nose, the lump where Dr. Bergerac had typed boy, the heart working away in all of its miraculous clockwork gadgetry. But there was always something Ground-Control-to-Major-Tom about the experience. Deep down, I believed, in the way of moon-landing deniers, that it was all well and good to show me this dim grayscale picture on a screen, but you call that proof?