Proof of Heaven (23 page)

How long did it take you to write
Proof of Heaven
?

There are three answers to this question: I could say, “It took me two weeks.” But then I would have to amend and say, “Well, if you included edits, it took two years.” And then upon thinking further, I would have to say “Actually, it took me about thirty-five years—because in some way, everything in my life was leading up to this moment.” All would be the right answer, but I'll start with the first answer.

Most writers will not believe me when I say that I wrote the first draft in two weeks—all four hundred original pages of it in October 2009 (with the exception of the first chapter and last chapter, which I wrote one night after an agonizing night in the hospital with my sick son in 2006). The rest I wrote between October 16 and October 31 to be exact. On October 16, 2009, while cleaning out a flash drive I came across a file that simply said PROOF. I almost pressed Delete, but miraculously I didn't. Instead I opened the file to see what it was. As soon as I began reading, I felt an overwhelming rush—like an electric charge—go through my entire body. I just knew I had something here. I could hardly believe I had forgotten about it or left the file alone for so long. I suppose at the time I first wrote it, I simply thought of the story as a cathartic exercise—a way to purge the fear and anxiety I felt after almost losing my son.

Going against all the rules of the publishing world, I threw a query letter together quickly, attached it to the chapter, and e-mailed it to an agent I came across on a writers' blog that I subscribed to. I said I had “a novel” I thought she might like to consider. When I awoke the next day, the agent in NYC had responded and said she wanted to see the entire manuscript. Of course, I didn't have an entire manuscript. I had a first chapter. I wrote back and asked for “a couple of weeks” to tidy up the manuscript. (OK, I don't suggest lying to people, but something told me I could write this baby if I put my mind to it.) So I went to my husband and laid it out for him. Between teaching two classes at the University of Cincinnati, carrying a full editing load at my day job, and caring for two kids, something would have to give—most likely sleep and the weekends. I would need all day Saturday and Sunday for a couple weeks to work straight through, and I would need his help to keep the kids busy at night. That meant bath time, homework help, and story time were all on him, so I could work. And work I did. After my day jobs, I came home, threw on my writing sweater—a dingy, Irish wool housecoat—and went to work.

I have to admit, as exciting as it is to say “I wrote a book,” what I am most proud of is, not just writing it, but how I did it. In those two weeks, I got the kids up and ready for school, dropped them off, picked them up, made it to class every day, handed in my manuscripts for my day job on time, made every dinner (they were not my best), moved every load of wash (my husband folded), and still made it to the fall festival—hayride and all.

I was no prima donna writer—there was no whisking myself off to a silent room or a quaint coffee shop to write in peace. I wrote while sitting on the couch while my husband watched
Family Guy
and crunched potato chips. I wrote lying on my son's bed while he crashed trains into tractors and made explosion sounds. I wrote in my daughter's room while she practiced her recorder and sang Taylor Swift songs at the top of her lungs. For two weeks I subsisted on coffee and M&Ms. I laid off my meds (I don't recommend this either) so I could rely on my natural propensity for my heart to beat 200 beats per minute—just to keep awake. A couple days before I sent out the manuscript I read the entire thing aloud to my husband, and meanwhile I had my father-in-law, brother, sister, and a couple of friends read it as well, and they all encouraged me to send it on. So on October 31, 2009, just before dressing the kids in their Halloween costumes—I clicked on Send and put the story of my life in the hands of someone else.

Of course, between then and the publication of the book, two years passed. And in that time the real work happened. I did a lot of rewriting and editing. I think I changed the ending no less than six times. To make a very long story short, with the help of my wonderful agent, Marly Rusoff (who, as it turns out, was not the original agent who was interested in the novel in October 2009) and my editor, Lucia Macro, we have the
Proof of Heaven
you hold in your hands today.

Are your characters based on anyone you know?

Yes. There are four main characters in this story—Cathleen, Sean, Dr. Basu, and Colm. Each one is near and dear to me. While these characters are based on people I know in real life, the experiences and their stories are all complete works of fiction. They speak, act, and do things as their character and the story dictate. But for a little more background on each character—here you go:

CATHLEEN

Cathleen is by and large based on some of my own experiences. My middle name is Cathleen. I grew up being called Mary Cathleen. And like Cathleen, I have to take faith day by day. I have had fits and starts with my devoutness too. When I was at Catholic University, I went to Mass every morning with a boy. I was absolutely head over heels for him. There was nothing real about my devoutness though. I think a lot of the reason I got up and went to church each morning was so I could sit next to him! It was really a show. I don't think I ever felt close to God then. I had no idea how to really pray. I had so many doubts. I was reading a lot of the existentialists then, and I had more doubt than true faith—for sure. I was so confused by it all. The “boy” and I would stay up all night and talk, and he would tell me about this “flame” inside him or this dripping faucet that was about to overflow—and how he “heard” God “calling” him. I was at once jealous—because I didn't have any experience like that, and because he loved God
more than me
. How could I compete with God? A blonde, maybe. Now I could take that on. But God? No competition. But there have been times in my life when I think the act of getting up and praying has gotten me through the day. When I was a single mom, I took my infant daughter to Mass every morning. I didn't do it because I
believed,
or because of some sort of devoutness, or even out of fear or guilt. I did it because it got me out of the house early and it framed my day. I also felt great comfort in hearing the words of Jesus, “Blessed are those who are persecuted” and seeing him suffer on the cross. It was truly the loneliest and hardest time of my life. I had so many people saying things about me and judging me, and in many cases, just being cruel. Just knowing there was someone out there—dead or alive—who had felt and known that pain of being misunderstood helped me get through every day.

Also, like Cathleen, I fell in love with a gorgeous boy who was a musician—although unlike the character Pierce, who played the guitar, my daughter's father played the banjo. I don't think I ever prayed, bartered, or begged more with any man or God, to have him stay with me and my daughter. But, in the end, my love wasn't enough. Nothing I could do or say would change what his heart felt. And in the end, it was all as it was meant to be. It took a very long time for my heart to accept what the body and mind already knew. I am grateful now for his honesty and his truth. Because without it, I would still be pining. He made it possible for me to build the life I have now with my daughter, my husband, and our son. I forgive him, love him no less, though in a very different way, and wish him all the best. I truly believe if it weren't for that experience, I wouldn't be the person I am today, and I actually thank God every day for it—the pain and all— because without it, I wouldn't have Brigid, I would never have met Greg, and I wouldn't have our wonderful son, Colm.

SEAN

Sean is an amalgamation of men in my life—especially my two brothers, my father, and my husband. No men in my life have meant more to me or shaped me more than these guys. My father was a firefighter—but before that, he was in the seminary. He wanted to be a priest as a young man. He and my mother are probably the most devout people I have ever met. (With the exception of Mother Teresa, who I met while I was at Catholic U. She kind of holds the record in my book.) I can honestly say, though, that everything my parents do, they do for God. Even having us kids was—in a way—for God. My father felt the call to be a priest as a young man, but something in him, like Sean, changed. A few years after that change of heart, he married my mom. Also, my father's mother died when he was a toddler, and he grew up not knowing her. My husband's mother also died when he was a boy, and it fundamentally changed him, too. So that aspect of Sean is definitely pulled from real experiences. But Sean's attitude, temperament, and motivations are all my brothers', especially my brother Sean. He's a giant, and he too spoke of being a priest when he was younger. He's wild—the life of every party, a phenomenal dancer, and has such a quick wit and easy way about him. He's also very loyal. He'd pretty much walk through fire to help out anyone he loves. He's also lost many people in his life he has loved—especially some of his closest friends—and like the character Sean, he has had to reach inside himself to find the strength to go on without those people by his side. He likes his “sauce” as he says, but he's not a falling-down drunk (although he knows plenty of them). The darker side of the character Sean—his volatile temper and passion—I have to say belongs to my brother Val, who, like the character Sean, had aspirations to be a fighter pilot. Val did end up joining the navy and flew in some superfast planes. As children, we did go to the
Intrepid
and spent hours watching Blue Angels shows as kids. But Val has been known to fly off the handle at times in his life. He's one of the most driven, passionate, fiery people I know. But I know his intensity is just an expression of his love—combined with fear. I have been on the receiving end of his temper, and looking back, I know it was coming from a place of helplessness and frustration. He just wanted the best for me and loved me so much. I think it was—at times—even physically difficult on him to watch me seemingly self-destruct. He definitely lost it on me a few times in my day. And like the character Sean who recognizes this and is ultimately forgiven, so too is my brother. I love him.

I love them all.

DR. BASU

Dr. Basu was originally named Dr. Gandhi. I had editors say that was a little clichéd, and it made them picture Ben Kingsley as Gandhi! But I had a different vision of who Dr. Gandhi was. When I flatlined in 2004, the doctor who stepped in and took action and put a pacemaker in and diagnosed me—finally—was my own Dr. Guarang Gandhi. He was a young man—from India—and he had a wonderful bedside manner. He took his time with me, spent time talking to my daughter, and had a warm, kind smile. In fact, he walked into the office much the same way Dr. Basu does in this book. He immediately started talking to my daughter (Colm hadn't been born yet). He bent right down and started asking her questions about her name and how old she was, and he told her a little story. He seemed very calm and so different from all the other physicians I had ever had. But two years later, he left the practice and I was assigned a different doctor. And that is where the similarities end.

Dr. Basu in this story is really much more like my own husband, Greg. Greg is an architect. I often imagine his brain to look like a drafting board with a blueprint on it—or sometimes I picture him with drawings/plans floating above his head. He is very pensive. He doesn't say very much, but when he does, I can't help but listen. He's always deconstructing things and asking questions. We spend a lot of time together watching scientific documentaries and listening to NPR. And like Dr. Basu and Cathleen, Greg and I had an interesting start. He too met me when I was a single mom. Like Dr. Basu, Greg fell in love with Brigid in no time at all, and he was so wonderful with her. It was like they were destined to be together. They have a very special bond. Sometimes I feel like an outsider looking in, but it's great to bear witness to it. They are great friends. It was wonderful to become a family the way we did. I couldn't imagine it any other way now. Greg is a wonderful father. The best there is. My children are incredibly lucky.

COLM

Colm is a hybrid of both of my children. I chose the name Colm for two reasons—one, it is my favorite name in the world (hence, why I named my son Colm) because of its beautiful meaning and significance; and, two, because it would literally drive me insane to say my son's name to people and they would say it right back to me, as if correcting me, and say, “You mean Coal-m.” “No, I mean Col-um.” How hard is it really to say, Colm? You'd be amazed. I hope to popularize the name a bit, but also share with people the story of a truly incredible boy—Colm Magee.

My own son, Colm, collapsed in a bathtub and stopped breathing several years ago. It is a moment I will never, ever forget. Mostly because the moment felt (looking back) like hours. It was truly only moments. But he was blue, gone, lifeless. All I remember was screaming his name. I felt the world literally spinning around me. I will never, ever forget how his body looked lying on my bed, wet and blue. It terrifies me even to write about it—as if doing so will make it all happen again. Writing about it helps, though. And that's exactly why I write about it. It takes the edge off. It makes it all less frightening, because when I write about it, I have some control over the outcome!

While Colm's medical condition in the book is an extremely rare condition, I do suffer from a form of malignant neurocardiogenic syncope caused by dysautonomia. It wasn't a stretch for me to talk about all the medical tests, the office visits, or what it feels like to collapse, because I've been there and done that—over a hundred times—and counting.