I had it printed today. It's 125 pages; I was wrong before. I impulse-bought a box of those super cheap pens that actually write really smoothly for, like, an hour before they run out of ink or explode. If there was a term for "office supply nerd," like "Star Wars nerd" or "math nerd," I would be it. Thankfully, so would Matt, so I know he won't be mad at me for my indiscretion.
After Abigail went to bed, I made it through part 1, or 47 pages, editing for grammar, typos, and to make it more vignette-y. It was already more so than I gave it credit. It appears that descriptive, poignant, melancholic vignettes are my writing style.
Reading my story still makes me cry. All the moving, the diagnosis, the terrible day nurses. I cry for all the pain that that Jacqueline went through, remembering how devastating it was to be pregnant for the first time talking about open-heart surgery, when Ds felt like a death sentence. Reading about the pain of the past makes me love her more. The pain that that Jacqueline felt is gone, now replaced by the pain that comes from loving someone until it hurts. A love that isn't truely understand until you have a child.