Cheap Therapy

I call it cheap therapy. That gushing, near-religious,The words painted my grief. Each time I walked and
poured-from-the-body stress release that comesmourned, I'd return home and write. Again. And again.
after writing my heart out for hours each day,And again.
delivers more balm to my soul than years ofGetting the words on paper was a salve for my
psychoanalysis.battered soul. Although I'd always known I would
There were eight of them. Eight family members andwrite a mystery series someday, I'd thought it would
friends died in five short years. I was a neophyte inbe when the kids were grown and I had retired.
this death thing. This clamping-down-on-your-heart,Then it hit me. I would write a testimony to my
ripping-a-hole-in-your-soul, death thing. It stunk. Badly.father. I'd model my protagonist after Dad. I began
I was forty-three when my grandmother died. Itto write Double Forté. My hero was a music
floored me. The shock that it could really happen,professor, like Dad. He gardened with a passion, like
that they could actually leave me, was overwhelming.Dad. He embraced the arts, like Dad. And he
The guilt that had ridden hard on my back for theassiduously tended to his musical spirit, like Dad. He
past twenty years came at me with a rush. I shouldplayed Chopin etudes with wild abandon to clear his
have visited more. Called more. Written more. But themind and feed his soul. And he cooked magnificent
three baby daughters that we'd had in two yearsfeasts for his family from his gardens that burgeoned
had consumed every ounce of our energy. We'dwith exotic vegetables.
fallen into bed each night exhausted, and hadAs the book began to take shape, so did the
awakened tired, but happy, each morning. Thecharacters. Gus LeGarde's secretary, Maddy, became
thought of a ten-hour trip home had seemedthe reincarnation of my Grandma Lena. Oscar and
insurmountable with three little ones in car seats andMillie Stone were near replicas of my maternal
diapers. So we put off the visits home for a long,grandparents. I found comfort in the creation of the
long time.scenes that included them. And as the process of
The next death came in a single, whooshing blow. Mywriting one book became easier, the next, and the
colleague at work, with whom I'd shared an officenext, and the next flowed effortlessly from my
for eight wonderful years, died suddenly of a heartfingertips until I stopped to breathe. I created eight
attack. Then my father-in-law, my grandfather, andfull novels in five short years.
so on. I struggled to make sense of it. People wereAs this healing process provides me with therapy, it
disappearing rapidly.also affords an escape to a parallel universe where I
And then it happened. My father was diagnosed withcontrol my characters' destiny. I like it. A lot. I invent
cancer in the same month that his mother died ofthe bad guys, neatly dispatch them, rescue my hero
Alzheimer's Disease.from certain death, and cement the intricate
We had a summer of hope. And then the disease hitrelationships between my cast members.
again, and he was gone. Gone for good. Gone forThis remarkable outlet allows the creative juices to
real. In six short months, he was diagnosed, treated,flow and provides a safe haven for my imagination
and then he disappeared.to flourish. I'm hooked, big time. There's no stemming
I was crushed. Completely shattered. This was bad.the tide. I fight for time to write, feeling cheated if I
The worst.don't get my daily "fix." And when the latest chapter
I walked a lot. I trudged through the autumn woods,is keyed in, or the monthly essay penned, a deep
as the crispy leaves eddied around my feet. I heardsigh of relief is expelled. I'm freed. I'm sated. I'm going
his voice whispering in the breeze. The need to writeto be okay.
was insistent. Urgent.Yep. I'm going to be just fine. And best of all, there's
The pieces were gaudy and full of redolent poetry.no co-payment.