I have to say that my latest literary choices have not quite lived up to expectations. I trudged through Franzen's Freedom only to be relatively disappointed in the result.
Then, at the recommendation of many, I jumped head first into Joan Didion's memoir The Year of Magical Thinking. Didion is an accomplished writer whose career has offered her the opportunity to turn her recall of the grief process into another job opportunity. The book won the National Book Award so it certainly seemed like a safe bet.
After almost 40 years of marriage to her husband (John Gregory Dunne, a similarly accomplished writer), Didion finds herself widowed when her husband collapses from a suddent heart attack. To add complications to her grief, Joan's adult daughter, Quintana, is hospitalized with a life threatening septic infection at the time of her husband's death and she continues to deal with Quintana's recovery and relapse throughout the course of the book.
On the one hand, there was much in this book that I found familiar. Coping with the death of a close family member seems to follow a particular pattern (although the details may vary). There were elements of Didion's story in which I found complete empathy: the lack of desire to do anything productive, the depression, the reliance on family and friends to get you through the day, the "vortex" of thinking that sends your grief spiraling as you reflect on past memories in your present life. Aside from the grief, Didion's need to advocate for her hospitalized daughter shuttled my mind instantly back to time spent in hospitals, consulting with doctors on issues far beyond my immediate comprehension. She recounts having to become a quick study in medical terminology and procedures in order to keep up with the medical specialists offering a variety of choices in her daughter's care. Yes, in this sense I found much in Didion's memoir that evoked empathy.
On the other hand, I think that Didion's Year of Magical Thinking seemed to extend far beyond the 365 days following her husband's death. As a successful writer who considers movie stars, directors, and other famous writers among her closest friends, her actual grief process seems a bit more insulated than those of us in the real world. Her continual references to her life of relative luxury distracted from the core of her feelings. At the news of her daughter's relapse, she hops on a friend's chartered plane to fly from NYC to California. While waiting out her daughter's relapse in California, she stays at the Beverly Wilshire hotel: hardly the Ronald McDonald House or even the Comfort Inn. She doesn't have to choose between work and processing her grief. She doesn't have to choose between dealing with "real life" and the care of her daughter. The rest of the memoir continues to reference her life of relative privilege: memories of parties and extended stays with celebrities, making decisions to live in exotic locales such as Malibu or Honolulu, world travels to movie sets. It's true that wealth and privilege does not prevent grief. I have no doubt that Didion felt the loss of her husband as painfully and clearly as I felt the loss of my daughter. I just found it difficult to say, "Hey, I get it." as I read her accounting of the process.
In short, I didn't finish the book.
The next book I picked up was Michael J. Fox's second memoir, Always Looking Up. In contrast to Didion, this celebrity memoir was a breath of fresh air. In his second book, Fox reflects on politics, faith, family, and nonprofit work as he shares events surrounding his official "retirement" from showbiz and the founding and development of his Foundation. While this book was also chock full of celebrity references (no less than Lance Armstrong, Katie Couric, Muhammad Ali, George Stephanopoulos, and Denis Leary), Fox's recounting of his life reflects a humility and appreciation for everything that his life of relative privilege has given him. His mission to cure the Parkinsons Disease that has taken over his life has given him a strong sense of purpose that is both inspirational and admirable.
Fox's running theme is optimism. In fact, he has become something of a poster boy for optimism in sight of loss, negativity, and distress. In an NPR interview last year, Fox made this statement about dealing with disappointment: "There's always failure. And there's always disappointment. And there's always loss. But the secret is learning from the loss, and realizing that none of those holes are vacuums." In recent times, I have found myself balancing on the teetering precipice of optimism. Sometimes it seems easier to cash in your chips, call it a loss, and just leave the rest of the world behind. Sometimes the search for the silver lining seems like a wild goose chase.
Fox doesn't paint a world of sunshine and roses. In fact, he plainly acknowledges that his life is a constant challenge. The book consistently references not only his life but that of another celebrity warrior: Christopher Reeve. Fox recounts Reeve's distinction between optimism and hope: "Hope is the product of knowledge and the projection of where the knowledge can take us."
Fox sees optimism, hope, and faith as three legs of a stool. Optimism is "happy-go-lucky expectations that the odds are in my favor" but hope is the "informed optimism" that uses facts to bolster the positive outlook. Finally, faith gives the reassurance that we are not alone in the battle. We enter the fight with our family, our community, and the guidance of a Higher Power. To find balance, we need all three legs on the stool.
Despite his celebrity and life of relative privilege, I found Michael J. Fox's book not only inspirational but relate-able. As I read the book, I saw myself sitting in a cozy coffeehouse with Fox discussing struggles with faith, the challenges and joys of marriage and parenting, and the endless pursuit of meaningful work in the nonprofit sector. I found myself nodding in agreement and thinking, "Yep. That's about right." In short, it was an enjoyable and inspirational read.
I think I've had enough of real life for a while. The next book selection needs to be an escapist read. Next stop: fiction.
Then, at the recommendation of many, I jumped head first into Joan Didion's memoir The Year of Magical Thinking. Didion is an accomplished writer whose career has offered her the opportunity to turn her recall of the grief process into another job opportunity. The book won the National Book Award so it certainly seemed like a safe bet. After almost 40 years of marriage to her husband (John Gregory Dunne, a similarly accomplished writer), Didion finds herself widowed when her husband collapses from a suddent heart attack. To add complications to her grief, Joan's adult daughter, Quintana, is hospitalized with a life threatening septic infection at the time of her husband's death and she continues to deal with Quintana's recovery and relapse throughout the course of the book.
On the one hand, there was much in this book that I found familiar. Coping with the death of a close family member seems to follow a particular pattern (although the details may vary). There were elements of Didion's story in which I found complete empathy: the lack of desire to do anything productive, the depression, the reliance on family and friends to get you through the day, the "vortex" of thinking that sends your grief spiraling as you reflect on past memories in your present life. Aside from the grief, Didion's need to advocate for her hospitalized daughter shuttled my mind instantly back to time spent in hospitals, consulting with doctors on issues far beyond my immediate comprehension. She recounts having to become a quick study in medical terminology and procedures in order to keep up with the medical specialists offering a variety of choices in her daughter's care. Yes, in this sense I found much in Didion's memoir that evoked empathy.
On the other hand, I think that Didion's Year of Magical Thinking seemed to extend far beyond the 365 days following her husband's death. As a successful writer who considers movie stars, directors, and other famous writers among her closest friends, her actual grief process seems a bit more insulated than those of us in the real world. Her continual references to her life of relative luxury distracted from the core of her feelings. At the news of her daughter's relapse, she hops on a friend's chartered plane to fly from NYC to California. While waiting out her daughter's relapse in California, she stays at the Beverly Wilshire hotel: hardly the Ronald McDonald House or even the Comfort Inn. She doesn't have to choose between work and processing her grief. She doesn't have to choose between dealing with "real life" and the care of her daughter. The rest of the memoir continues to reference her life of relative privilege: memories of parties and extended stays with celebrities, making decisions to live in exotic locales such as Malibu or Honolulu, world travels to movie sets. It's true that wealth and privilege does not prevent grief. I have no doubt that Didion felt the loss of her husband as painfully and clearly as I felt the loss of my daughter. I just found it difficult to say, "Hey, I get it." as I read her accounting of the process.
In short, I didn't finish the book.
The next book I picked up was Michael J. Fox's second memoir, Always Looking Up. In contrast to Didion, this celebrity memoir was a breath of fresh air. In his second book, Fox reflects on politics, faith, family, and nonprofit work as he shares events surrounding his official "retirement" from showbiz and the founding and development of his Foundation. While this book was also chock full of celebrity references (no less than Lance Armstrong, Katie Couric, Muhammad Ali, George Stephanopoulos, and Denis Leary), Fox's recounting of his life reflects a humility and appreciation for everything that his life of relative privilege has given him. His mission to cure the Parkinsons Disease that has taken over his life has given him a strong sense of purpose that is both inspirational and admirable. Fox's running theme is optimism. In fact, he has become something of a poster boy for optimism in sight of loss, negativity, and distress. In an NPR interview last year, Fox made this statement about dealing with disappointment: "There's always failure. And there's always disappointment. And there's always loss. But the secret is learning from the loss, and realizing that none of those holes are vacuums." In recent times, I have found myself balancing on the teetering precipice of optimism. Sometimes it seems easier to cash in your chips, call it a loss, and just leave the rest of the world behind. Sometimes the search for the silver lining seems like a wild goose chase.
Fox doesn't paint a world of sunshine and roses. In fact, he plainly acknowledges that his life is a constant challenge. The book consistently references not only his life but that of another celebrity warrior: Christopher Reeve. Fox recounts Reeve's distinction between optimism and hope: "Hope is the product of knowledge and the projection of where the knowledge can take us."
Fox sees optimism, hope, and faith as three legs of a stool. Optimism is "happy-go-lucky expectations that the odds are in my favor" but hope is the "informed optimism" that uses facts to bolster the positive outlook. Finally, faith gives the reassurance that we are not alone in the battle. We enter the fight with our family, our community, and the guidance of a Higher Power. To find balance, we need all three legs on the stool.
Despite his celebrity and life of relative privilege, I found Michael J. Fox's book not only inspirational but relate-able. As I read the book, I saw myself sitting in a cozy coffeehouse with Fox discussing struggles with faith, the challenges and joys of marriage and parenting, and the endless pursuit of meaningful work in the nonprofit sector. I found myself nodding in agreement and thinking, "Yep. That's about right." In short, it was an enjoyable and inspirational read.
I think I've had enough of real life for a while. The next book selection needs to be an escapist read. Next stop: fiction.