Advance Excerpt from "Dispatches From Grief"

Dear Subscribers,

I was honored The Atlantic chose to excerpt my memoir, Dispatches From Grief: A Mother’s Journey Through the Unthinkable in it’s May issue (and also online at TheAtlantic.com). The book will be published May 7 by Infinite Books.

Content at The Atlantic is paywalled, but I’m able to share a gift link which readers can use to access the excerpt for free (see below).

This is not a book I wanted to write, obviously. Its upcoming publication fills me with trepidation: I know I’m going to have to talk about Miranda’s death on repeat in order for Dispatches to reach the audience it’s intended for.

The early reaction to the Atlantic excerpt, however, has been beyond rewarding. So many readers have taken the time to share stories about their own terrible losses — and the loneliness that accompanies unfathomable grief. These stories give me the strength to face the coming weeks. The invisible community in which we grievers dwell is vast but supportive. None of us wants to be here. I’m grateful to everyone who lets me know I’m not walking by myself.

I also want to thank my Femsplainers community for the many beautiful comments, messages, and emails I’ve received since re-launching this newsletter. I read every one (and I’ll attempt to answer them all within a reasonable timespan). ~ DC

MY HUSBAND, DAVID, hates Valentine’s Day. He once called it “New Year’s Eve with nuclear weapons.” I pretend not to care. Still, when the day passes entirely unremarked on, a woman can’t help but feel overlooked.

On Valentine’s Day 2024, David found a way out. He booked a speech on February 14 that required traveling from our home in Washington, D.C., to Toronto. I couldn’t object—he was getting paid. Anyway, I had my own plans: an “anti–Valentine’s Day” dinner hosted by one of the foreign embassies.

As I got ready, I called our oldest daughter, Miranda. She answered from her Brooklyn bathroom, getting ready for her own party. She propped her phone up beside her sink and laughed when I told her about her father’s strategic Valentine’s Day escape.

I asked what she planned to wear. She sent a selfie: It showed her looking at her bathroom mirror; her straight rose-gold hair bobbed along her jawline. A strapless black top exposed her pale, delicate shoulders. (Too pale and delicate, I worried reflexively, maternally.)

“Stunning,” I texted back.

It was the last communication I’d ever have with her.

Two days later, I was coming down the stairs when David’s voice shattered the morning. Words tumbled out in fragments: Miranda’s best friend calling from the apartment. Found unconscious. Not breathing. Maybe—

I seized the phone from David’s shaking hand. I could hear a police officer’s radio chatter, the soundtrack to all urban tragedy.

“I’m sorry—” a voice began.

What is the opposite of giving birth?

CONTINUE READING AT THE ATLANTIC HERE.

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THE FIRST HARD copies have arrived!

Sending you all love and hugs.