Sherry Scott

The book, The Year My Mother Died, is a lot heavier than it sounds; it is how I reacted to my mom's death the year following. I wanted to expose myself and share the lunacy I sometimes felt because my background in practicing Hospice/Palliative medicine for children did little to prepare me for how I would behave. During one of my 'escape' trips, the idea and title popped into my head while sitting on a runway in New Jersey, waiting for our plane to take off behind thirteen other departing flights. I was in such a state of funk at the time, that writing the book actually helped me rediscover myself and a sense of purpose. The more I wrote, looking back became just as an important part of the story , if not more, than wrestling with the year's ups and downs.

Writing gives me a renewed sense of purpose. It gives worth to all these tiny details and memories that continually come to mind; there is a reason these 'tiny' things are remembered so vividly. It must mean they are worthy of sharing, so that people and events, places that may still be here or not, will not be overlooked or forgotten because of what is put down on the page.