Some years ago now, my wife made a miracle happen. She persuaded Ray Bradbury to sign one of his books for me. He was extremely ill at the time (his assistant informed my wife he was no longer personalising books), but my wife, she wrote a heartfelt letter to him explaining how much his work meant to me and about the doubts that plagued me every single day. He read her letter. With great difficulty he managed to write a one word message. That Christmas morning, when I opened the book and saw it, when I figured out what it said, I cried tears of joy, tears of sadness. It was little more than a scrawl, but I knew the great man had tried and that was enough. It was everything. And oh, what a gift!
Last week, my wife suffered a miscarriage. It was her second in eighteen months. I wrote a story about the last time it happened, you may have read it – I can’t bear to anymore. Right now, she is heartbroken. She doesn’t want to talk to anyone, not even me. She has no words. Me, I have only the wrong ones, it seems.
I just want to remind her of that miracle. Remind her what it meant to me. Remind her what Ray wrote, in that barely legible scrawl, to me, to her, to us all:
There is no other way.