tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-107567442024-03-07T19:36:06.192-05:00My Tragic Right HipGirl with titanium hip will rock. Girl with titanium hip will write. Girl with titanium hip will read. Girl with titanium hip will battle crazy-ass disease called Wegener's Granulomatosis. Now stuff that in your spelling bee!Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.comBlogger1436125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-21667923575625661622020-10-23T17:39:00.003-04:002020-10-23T17:48:17.560-04:00My Boy is Ten<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgKcZmhbf41vL4TdEOybOeAGxKH16CkxvvT8YU2uf46QkRMaHWAd3HmNhccOGsLAZwFrtsAUQtpbGunw6WXxoEQG0KRINZbDAAYTKSCqu5GeEF7ZwjYCU1nDy5okyjVGqUK07nYg/s640/IMG_8228.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgKcZmhbf41vL4TdEOybOeAGxKH16CkxvvT8YU2uf46QkRMaHWAd3HmNhccOGsLAZwFrtsAUQtpbGunw6WXxoEQG0KRINZbDAAYTKSCqu5GeEF7ZwjYCU1nDy5okyjVGqUK07nYg/w177-h236/IMG_8228.jpeg" width="177" /></a></div><br />My friend Heather took this photo a couple of weekends ago. We went for a walk in the woods. It was a bit cold at first, neither my boy nor I had anticipated the dip in temperature when we left our Toronto house to drive an hour north of the city. He's funny. He didn't want to go, but as he's only now just turned ten, I can still force him to spend time with me among the trees. Up until that point, I hadn't been outside in a week, and have been suffering from deep bouts of anxiety. About the virus. About the seasons changing (and the fact that I'd not even be able to spend much time outside). About working from home. About my job. About my husband, his heath is wonky, we're trying to get it figured out. Above all, I have a deep-seated, trouble-ridden brain that has a hard time getting outside of itself. The answer, sometimes, is simply to go outside. <p></p><p>This time ten years ago, I was in the hospital. I had been there since the middle of September when my disease (Wegener's Granulomatosis; or GPA) had flared because of my pregnancy, and my life was at risk. My lungs had started to hemorrhage, and the disease was attacking my kidneys, my creatinine levels climbing and climbing. Essentially, the baby in my womb had sent my system into overdrive, the same effect of pregnancy that in normal women gets them through to the end had the opposite effect--it was killing me. <a href="https://tragicrighthip.com/2010/11/12/now-that-it-is-over-maybe-i-can-talk-about-it/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">I've written about it here</a>. And as time rolls on, the scary moments of those few weeks reverberate back, ten years is a long time, but in my mind, I'm right back there in the hospital when the doctor (with at least five others standing with her) said they were needing to save my life and I burst into tears. </p><p>And with one little blip, this is the longest I've gone without a major episode of the disease. I had a really small flare where I had to take some prednisone, but outside of having my son, I've been very healthy disease-wise. But I'm not healthy overall. It's been a struggle these last few years. Life-work isn't in balance, and I'm very tired, all the time, which is deeply ironic because I don't often sleep. In fact, this week alone I've had maybe one good night. At least <a href="https://www.cathymariebuchanan.com" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Cathy Marie Buchanan</a>'s new novel is keeping me company (it's very good so far). </p><p>Reflecting on an entire decade in one blog post isn't an easy thing to do. For one, we're older, my husband and I. Not that I feel older on the inside. I'm still the same stupidly insecure, loud mouthed, perfectly bonkers human I was a decade ago. Perhaps, I hope that I'm wiser, that I have also learned to listen better, that I know who I am a bit better, even if I still hate myself.</p><p>Surviving another decade inside marriage feels like an accomplishment, too. We've weathered a rough few years, with parents passing away, falling into dementia, and other issues related to being the in-between generation, elderly parents on one hand, school-aged kids on the other. That's what serves us for having our son so late in life. There's pandemic pressure on all of us. I'm glad the school's are managing to stay open. We couldn't have survived another year of homeschooling. We aren't cut out for it--our entire family would be divorced if that was the case. Our boy thrives in his school environment, he's got wonderful friends, and is wild to a degree, and now that his cousin is in the same class, he gets a taste of the sibling-like relationship they share on a much more intense level. This is all good. </p><p>I don't know how to go into the next decade. I don't feel like I'm on firm ground. I don't know how to rebalance the teeter-totter that is the new reality. Working from home is so hard. The other day, when I hadn't slept, and got up, prepared the kid for school, made his lunch, made a cup of tea, and then sat down to work, my brain simply said, "nope." I wanted to "call in sick" but there was no way, as I wasn't sick, but I am so deeply down that I'm not sure how to crawl back up. </p><p>Ten years. Another decade without my mom. Another decade where I've battled with my finances. Another decade where I don't feel like we've gotten any further ahead. And now I'm looking down the line at the last two decades of my working life and want to feel like I've made a difference in the world. My dad was a firefighter. He literally <b>saved</b> people's lives. My work is different. I love being a publisher, I love everything about the business, it gives me genuine pleasure to work with young writers, to see their books in the world, to herald their stories out over social media. It is good work. But at the end of the day, it <b>is</b> work. And I am tired. It could be that I just need a vacation. An honest-to-goodness break where I don't check my phone or play Emoji Blitz or check Instagram. Life is so amazingly ironic--I had to travel so much for work, and it was exhausting, but I also was exhilarated by spending a day in New York presenting at a sales conference or flying halfway around the world to try and sell rights to books to foreign publishers. I miss it. Zoom calls pale deeply in comparison. When I was gone, I would miss home desperately. Now that I'm home all the time, I want somewhere to go.</p><p>This post is rambling. It doesn't have a point except to say that I'm struggling these days, mentally. It's a new one for me. I'm quite used to dealing with depression, anxiety, stress, but only in context of the disease, where there was a cause I could literally point to. These days, it's not the meds making my brain wonky, I think it's something else entirely. Malaise? Exhaustion? A bit of residual stress from that moment ten years ago where happiness and joy was crushed up against the very real possibility of death. I'm sure it's all of the above. And I know there are self-care steps to take, breaths to manage, yoga to do, walks to take, birthdays to celebrate, but, in this very moment, even leaving the quiet dark-is room where I work feels like an impossibility. So, we shall see. We have another hike planned for this weekend. I hope the weather holds. I hope I can hold onto the outside as we dive into another winter that's defined by the virus. I hope we stay safe. I hope, I hope, I hope. </p>Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-68093215183392753392020-10-09T13:11:00.003-04:002020-10-09T13:11:51.892-04:00On the Changing of the Leaves<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1JqxiosDj2j72RrB7cRzpCRyolRo7Nz9L4ujS1UnBgqcSYJN_TAYkrkBAf4CkN0hWoAg7OHhyphenhyphenr-U0dxOkucRMMe2OzZXzArXdMH926LTTu2v_Xf1gFbhQ5OSzEInrIkC7K8jt2g/s2048/8WO09un3RoSSHa%2525hzHjx8A.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1JqxiosDj2j72RrB7cRzpCRyolRo7Nz9L4ujS1UnBgqcSYJN_TAYkrkBAf4CkN0hWoAg7OHhyphenhyphenr-U0dxOkucRMMe2OzZXzArXdMH926LTTu2v_Xf1gFbhQ5OSzEInrIkC7K8jt2g/s320/8WO09un3RoSSHa%2525hzHjx8A.jpg" /></a></div><br /> The weather has changed. It's colder. I feel the light pass my window feeling unable to go outside, to actually take a step forward. I'm stuck, wishing I had the power to change colour to something bold like this tree, but knowing that the only changes happening right now are me falling deeper into the ennui of quarantine. The hazy, foggy year I spent being sick after having our son coming into stark focus as we're about to celebrate his tenth birthday. Ten. An entire decade. All those months that I've been carrying around the baby weight, carrying around the shadows of that traumatic time, all those minutes that have passed where I should have been able to get up and get around, to do something, all those seconds I passed staring at my phone. <p></p><p>Yet. All those moments where we cracked up. The trips we've taken. The story that I wrote that I'm really proud of, the work I do every day. The busy business of raising him, of the dishes and the meals and the snacks and the trips to the rink, there and back again. It stalls, but it speeds along, too, time. Context, as always, is everything. </p><p>Maybe it's the fall because it such a season of transition. A time when we should be excited about change, preparing for the hibernation season, the deepening of thought as winter comes in, dark, brooding. We've been lucky so far this fall, the weather's been perfect, not too hot, not too cold, but the rising disease in Toronto means that we're likely headed to another shutdown, and I can't get myself into good habits. Yes, I sit at my desk. Yes, I'm getting work done, attending meetings, contributing, putting books on shelves and mentoring writers through their journeys. It's rewarding work. But I'm exhausted. Mentally. Physically. Spiritually. </p><p>I've tried an exercise tape a few times over the last few weeks. It was very hard. I've tried to stop working at points to take a walk, and yet. I've tried to turn off the TV and get to bed earlier, and then I'm knee-deep in <i>Emily in Paris</i> and it's 4AM and I don't even know what happened. I just can't be motivated to move. To change and I know I desperately need to but I just . . . can't. </p><p>There are a lot of tears these days. Sadness threatening to overcome a more usual emotions, and I can't remember another time in my life where I have felt depressed like this but without the context of the disease or the drugs. The black clouds, I remember an article I read many years ago in <i>Saturday Night </i>Magazine calling them, circling, and swirling, hazy, overcast, never moving through. It's like I can't take a deep breath and clear it all out. I can't roll over and shake off the bad dream. I can't step outside and stand in the sun. </p><p>Like everything, it'll pass. For now, I'll meditate on the idea of changing leaves, and try to make a list of a couple of things that I can accomplish in a day. Try to not let all of the people down in my life who need things from me when I can't seem to put one foot in front of the other. I'm deep in it right now, but like everything, something will shift, soon, I hope. </p>Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-5259182162190056792020-09-11T18:22:00.013-04:002020-09-11T19:30:59.034-04:00The End of Summer<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHVypGUTwz_csHpTEu3dOUpn3GIki-p0m7ykYaR07V392sAiR7hQeZm6p59UMDt12Y3DZuIqhn5fdPqSbJRsCqIQBLnuqFxOj7WO_p9QnN99ovW5YszXdiPRxu1hl_zRomkiYsNw/s2048/PtxTuv2GR7%252BPIbXMmDn6JA.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHVypGUTwz_csHpTEu3dOUpn3GIki-p0m7ykYaR07V392sAiR7hQeZm6p59UMDt12Y3DZuIqhn5fdPqSbJRsCqIQBLnuqFxOj7WO_p9QnN99ovW5YszXdiPRxu1hl_zRomkiYsNw/s320/PtxTuv2GR7%252BPIbXMmDn6JA.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>I spent some time outside this past August, near the water, near the rocks, in the woods. And there are moments that I want to capture, and a moment that I want not to forget, so I figured I'd write about it here. Our cottage is near a hydro dam, and they control the amount of water that goes through, powering at just 5%, up to 50 homes. But because the river's so low these days, my son and his cousin or his friend, depending on who might be with us, crawl in and out and around the rocks, hopping over rapids in ways that make my heart stop. The being outside is so good for us. My life has changed. Our lives have changed, all of us in a new abnormal--it's breathtaking, actually, how both possible and impossible it is to adapt to life with the virus. Some things I have no issue with, masking up, following the path inside a store, washing my hands often (even if I forget). Some things, though, are much harder, getting into a healthy routine with working from home, finding time to separate home thoughts from business ones, getting enough exercise (let me tell you, not nearly enough). <p></p><p>Being halfway between anxious and with that ever-present hum of terror thrumming in the back of my mind, I'm sending my kid to school. It's political and frustrating and the board is nowhere near prepared. It's like we're tossing our kids out into space and simply hoping they'll stay tethered to the lifeline attached to the rocket. </p><p>Yet, that's not what I wanted to write about today. It's been a good year for wildlife up north. E's friend H found a teeny-tiny milk snake, and last weekend the boys, my son and his cousins, found a spotted salamander and a very small baby snapping turtle. I had photos of all of them. My phone died. And because the internet sucks so hard up north, nothing got uploaded to the cloud, I lost all the photos from the weekend. </p><p>The turtle was about the size of the palm of my almost ten-year old. The little guy wasn't moving much. He must have already been in trouble, they found the turtle on our cottage road, far away from the lake--in my mind he'd already been picked up and then dropped by a gull or some other large bird. But that didn't temper my son's excitement at finding him. He carefully placed him down by the swampy area at the bottom of our bay. Still, the turtle didn't move too much. And they kept checking on him, and he kept not moving too much. And I know I'm anthropomorphizing, but I worried about the little guy, wanted him to be okay. Heck, I don't even know if it was a "he" but the boys had already named him. </p><p>Fast forward another day, they tried to feed the turtle a blackberry half the size of its shell. Debated chopping up a worm to see if it would eat. It wasn't eating. It's Sunday of the long weekend now. My son's cousins go home, we're alone at the cottage, in our cabin that's seen far, far, far better days. The roof's leaking now and again, despite my husband fixing it at least a half-dozen times; at the beginning of the season we had a mite infestation; and now every time we turn around there's a chipmunk in the house. We're at the point where we can't keep the water, the bugs or the animals out of the house, something's got to give--it's like a metaphor for the news these days, relentless, terrible, life altering. </p><p>Back to the turtle. My husband was up at the other cottage drifting on the good wi-fi while my son and I watched the truly terrible <i>Spider-Man 3</i> (don't judge too harshly, the DVD selection up there is seriously wanting). We turn the TV off and my son bursts into tears--giant, gasping, gulping tears--we have to save the turtle. He's worried about the turtle, he doesn't know what to do about the turtle, and can we not take the turtle back to the city to the animal shelter and see if they can save it. And I'm distraught because I'm very much of the mind to let nature take its course, and worried that if we take the turtle so far out of its natural habitat, back to the city, we'd be altering its life forever in not a great way. We look up how to care for snapping turtles. We make a plan. We are going to get the turtle and take him with us. The tears, they stop.</p><p>First thing the next morning, we go to get the turtle. Friends, we are too late. Something had eaten a part of its teeny head, and my son picked it up in horror. He made a small, last movement in my son's hand, and the tears, oh, the tears. We cried together in the muck, the smell of swamp around us, that deep earthy scent of damp squishy mud. My son wailed that it was all his fault, if he had only thought to protect the turtle sooner, and I didn't know what to say or how to comfort him in that moment because this has been a season of loss, for everyone. </p><p>We didn't bury him, I said to leave him by the side of the lake, so that he could be of use to the animals still there. And we left the turtle behind, both of us upset. I was crying, he was crying, but still we had to pack up, get ourselves sorted to go home, knowing there probably wasn't anything we could have done. But I felt guilty, nonetheless, that I didn't help the little guy when we had the chance. And, as a mom, the ache that I felt in the moment when there wasn't much I could have done to make my boy feel better, not knowing what to say, not being able to do anything except hug him and try to explain that nature, by its nature, is cruel and kind in equal measure. </p><p>And that little shell carried the weight of all our sadness about this summer--about the loss of half the school year, of his grandfather's passing after Christmas last year, of other tragedies that have happened in our circle, of the virus, how its changed the world, our little corner, the way he's growing up. There's always a silver lining if I can find it--the joy in finding the turtle, of saving him, even for a moment, the fact that my son's been outdoors for upwards of six hours every single day this summer, outside with his friends, outside at the lake with his cousin, of knowing that so far we've been safe. </p><p>The well of emotion didn't stop at the side of the lake for me. I thought about that turtle all the way home, I've thought about him every day since. I wish we could have saved him, done that one small thing for the lake, given him back next summer when he was robust and ready to chomp. Anthropomorphizing, yes. Projecting, absolutely. That little shell carrying the weight of the end of the season, the change in the air, the fact that nothing looks the same, and might never again--and we couldn't save him. Because as much joy as it's been having almost ten years with our boy, I know that life's going to have equal amounts of pain--and that balance is a bit off kilter these days. And the turtle, well, it carried off some of the anxiety, the emotion, and allowed us to let it go, and for that, I'm quite thankful. </p></div><br />Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-91415880179655586812011-07-26T15:07:00.003-04:002011-07-26T15:09:44.164-04:00Beautiful Friends, The EndWhat a day, a birth day, indeed, to say good-bye to this particular spot and happily announce that we have moved to a new house, a permanent house, kindly built for us by Stuart Lawlor <a href="http://www.createmethis.com/">@ Create Me This</a>.<div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.tragicrighthip.com">Please join us and update your links</a>: <a href="http://www.tragicrighthip.com">www.tragicrighthip.com</a></div><div><br /></div>Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-32883221906685456702011-07-09T19:21:00.004-04:002011-07-09T19:47:09.838-04:00#54 - Suddenly<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj923Ie6rGZtXNATtOLzvnVX0QF2P2CRm3r0HX-R18g8b6iavyW0uZcJ33rbNj0eOByvL8Zu_74rF9ahbwY43ege0LjX1MbvSx9nyz3ssIaolJSUhc4lb-W5wOJBuZjOvXIkJpUNQ/s1600/suddenly.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj923Ie6rGZtXNATtOLzvnVX0QF2P2CRm3r0HX-R18g8b6iavyW0uZcJ33rbNj0eOByvL8Zu_74rF9ahbwY43ege0LjX1MbvSx9nyz3ssIaolJSUhc4lb-W5wOJBuZjOvXIkJpUNQ/s200/suddenly.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627502771539978642" border="0" /></a>First, I am going to preface this review with a statement: I adored Bonnie Burnard's <span style="font-style: italic;">The Good House</span>. It's a novel I picked up on a whim from Book City when it was first published and sang its praises to everyone who would listen for years. It's a classic, right up there with <span style="font-style: italic;">The Stone Diaries, Clara Callan,</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Away</span> (book I read all around the same time), and so I was excited to read Bonnie Burnard's latest novel <span style="font-style: italic;">Suddenly</span>, if only because it's the first one she's published in 10 years. That's a long time to wait.<br /><br />Sadly, I probably never should have read this book. It's neither the right time of my life (it's a novel about truly middle-aged women) nor am I in the right frame of mind (having spent the last nine months battling my own life-threatening disease, I couldn't quite cope with the breast cancer victim at the centre of the novel) to appreciate the gift of <a href="http://www.harpercollins.ca/books/Suddenly-Burnard-Bonnie?isbn=9780006485247&HCHP=TB_Suddenly"><span style="font-style: italic;">Suddenly</span></a>. There's no doubt in my mind that Bonnie Burnard's a wonderful writer. She has an ability to bring the everyday to the page that's unparalleled by many of her contemporaries. It's a unique gift, and her voice reminds me deeply of Carol Shields, which is why I was so very disappointed in this book.<br /><br />Sandra, our heroine, finds an evil lump in her breast at the end of the summer -- her grandchildren have just gone back to the city with her husband, and she sits alone after a swim contemplating the hard reality of her future. Of course, her friend Jude has battled breast cancer and survived, and Sandra hopes she will too. Alas, it is not to be, and the majority of the novel takes place on her deathbed, that awesome Canadian-woman-writer-trope, where the family rallies around and all of the action takes place in reverse as the dying go through their lives, their relationships, their happiness and their regrets with a fine-toothed comb.<br /><br />But one remains easily lost within this book because the point of view isn't that simple, it switches from Sandra, to her best friend Colleen (who is beautiful, but childless, natch, and married to Sandra's brother, the surgeon Richard), to her other best friend Jude (the ex-hippie, jilted by a Texan lover who left her on a farm to go fight the Vietnam war after casually fathering her son), to her husband Jack, and back again. It's all over the place and the pronoun "she" doesn't help matters when all three main characters are women...<br /><br />It's a tedious book, with tedious, unbelievable characters: Sandra's a saint; so's Colleen only she's beautiful too, Jude's "wild" but reformed, and they all feel so old they're covered in a layer of dust. These are the women of my mother's generation, one of them could have been my mother, and yet they have no sense of humour, no sense of adventure and really no life in them at all -- even when it's "flashing" before them as their best friend fades away in a cloud of morphine and horrible pain from an awful disease that takes far too many women. The title confused me for nothing happens quickly in this book -- Burnard takes pages and pages to describe the most mundane aspects of everyday life, episodes that would have been best excised, and the whole novel would have been better for me if it read chronologically, if I got to see these women through their lives and not just as flashbacks in Sandra's journals, which, of course, she kept religiously her entire life.<br /><br />But I feel bad being so critical, which is why I think that my original statement, that it's neither the right time of my life nor am I in the right mindset to contemplate a novel about someone so willingly giving in to a disease -- not fearing death is one thing but Sandra's utterly unrealistic in terms of her approach to illness; no one is as saintly as she's portrayed on the page, no one. There's no anger, and even when there is, it's slightly ridiculous -- two women having slight "words" during a winter storm and then poof, it's back to celebrating Sandra and her ability to hold the other two women together. <span style="font-style: italic;">Yawn</span>.<br /><br /><a href="http://tragicrighthip.blogspot.com/2010/04/17-so-much-for-that.html">I much prefer Lionel Shriver's approach to illness</a>: frank, honest, angry, and also accepting -- there's something raw and real to how she writes about sickness, and I appreciated it. There's tedium to being sick, to having tests, to being stuck in a bed, and anger, relentless, unceasing anger about the fact that your body just isn't doing what it's supposed to. And I'd hope that Sandra would have a glimpse of this throughout the book, that someone, anyone, might rage against the dying of the light just a little before rubbing more lotion on her cold feet or recalling some other wonderful thing she did during her abnormally normal life and marriage.<br /><br />So don't blame Burnard -- it's a great book club book for women of my mother's age, it's a terrific book to give your mother-in-law for Christmas, and it would have done wonders if Oprah's Book Club still existed and ever considered that Canada has a literature from which to choose reading material. But <span style="font-style: italic;">Suddenly</span>, with its long, drawn-out conclusion (Sandra dies! People mourn!) just didn't cut it for me, a girl of a certain age who has battled a mean-ass frustrating disease for months.Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-56541764873849458062011-07-05T19:10:00.005-04:002011-07-09T19:21:29.161-04:00#53 - The Retreat<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSh9ZRXlQ95NCmH3t6YEaBl6nwn3_ALwYKQfoMJEkn1Yj11LoWwot0lla4llRGpX9GrGzLjN1cXsS61xVDDS4SFsZJkDiE-JR6i-TYVCUm5TrVHSsRRW0qpl5yQTzstxcjCJm0yw/s1600/the_retreat.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 128px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSh9ZRXlQ95NCmH3t6YEaBl6nwn3_ALwYKQfoMJEkn1Yj11LoWwot0lla4llRGpX9GrGzLjN1cXsS61xVDDS4SFsZJkDiE-JR6i-TYVCUm5TrVHSsRRW0qpl5yQTzstxcjCJm0yw/s200/the_retreat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627492105573698722" border="0" /></a>This may be hyperbole, but I think David Bergen is a national treasure. It's quite a statement to say that over the course of reading four of his novels, his Giller winner (<span style="font-style: italic;">The Time in Between</span>) remains my <span style="font-style: italic;">least</span> favourite. People, it won a major prize! Overall, I devoured <span style="font-style: italic;">A Year of Lesser</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">See the Child</span>, and thought they were both excellent. But <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.mcclelland.com/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9780771012549">The Retreat</a> might just be my favourite Bergen novel so far -- but I haven't read <span style="font-style: italic;">The Matter with Morris</span> (just the first 50-odd pages for work), so I am reserving judgment until then.<br /><br />The majority of the action in The Retreat takes place at a camp, the retreat of the novel's title, near The Lake of the Woods, just outside of Kenora. The landscape, having spent about a week there at a cottage of an old ex-boyfriend way back in the way back, is beautiful. The Lake of the Woods itself is huge, with crisp blue waters, but the pond close to the property isn't. It's murky, filled with reeds, and just as dangerous -- it's an important distinction, because major accidents and/or incidents happen throughout the book on or close to the water, and Bergen's ability to weave such an archetypal theme (man vs. nature) within his more specific, personal story, remains one of the book's true accomplishments.<br /><br />But let me digress. Raymond Seymour, an 18-year-old Ojibway boy, finds himself embroiled in an love affair with niece of the local police. Their relationship -- hot and heavy -- burns out quickly, and not just as a result of the intervention of her father and uncle but, because, it's just not meant to last. Alice's uncle takes Raymond out onto the Lake and dumps him on an island -- expecting him not to return. This dynamic, bad cop/good kid, feels familiar, and it should, the relationship goes exactly where you expect and the penultimate action remains utterly heartbreaking. It's 1974, and Bergen chooses as a secondary background of sorts, to wrap <a href="http://archives.cbc.ca/society/native_issues/clips/15994/">The Kenora Crisis</a> around his story, even though Raymond and his brother, who has just returned from being "raised" (read: forcibly removed) by a Mennonite family in the south, are tangentially involved in the uprising.<br /><br />When Lizzie Byrd (17) and her family arrive at The Retreat, a quasi-commune run by "the Doctor," a self-important, psycho-babbling fool who cons people into believing he can heal their souls by "talk" and the simple life of camp, she's reluctant to participate. The births of her younger siblings have been hard on her mother, and her father desperately tries to save his family and her sanity by granting her every wish -- in this case, it's to spend the summer at The Retreat. Lizzie meets Raymond and a cautious friendship evolves into something more substantial. As the summer progresses, their feelings grow deeper, regardless of whether they truly understand one another's complex situations (her crazy family; his unfortunate situation with the cop that never seems to end). But as the season comes to an end, the novel finds its conclusion -- the characters, distraught, damaged and utterly changed by the events of the summer. It's an amazingly quiet novel for the amount of emotional damage that is wrought on the people within, which remains Bergen's exceptional ability as a writer -- to place people in crisis and not let them entirely recover.<br /><br />This is my favourite kind of book, a great setting, a complex, real issue that meant something in history, family dynamics that remain complex and difficult, and action that's both believable and well-paced. In short, it's an excellent read, probably one of the best books off my shelf. The Bs have been utterly kind to me (Barnes, Bergen, brilliant!).Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-76879063337396931352011-07-01T15:13:00.005-04:002011-07-03T18:40:29.570-04:00#52 - The Uncommon Reader<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSR2Q9-W4RkrHfHAN3auf10iZN6fvgodGav2DRxBuFGhznBtCHrd9TmFLIZmr6UnhuzSsHHKkqVHILndag_vZNBdm13bHmEKentWNvhtPCzvCBDI-GXglS4J6tF5QtAQgevj8h9g/s1600/the-uncommon-reader-by-alan-bennett.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 126px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSR2Q9-W4RkrHfHAN3auf10iZN6fvgodGav2DRxBuFGhznBtCHrd9TmFLIZmr6UnhuzSsHHKkqVHILndag_vZNBdm13bHmEKentWNvhtPCzvCBDI-GXglS4J6tF5QtAQgevj8h9g/s200/the-uncommon-reader-by-alan-bennett.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624470073490478514" border="0" /></a>Sleep refused to settle upon me last night, and I finished <span style="font-style: italic;">The Leopard</span>, and went to my shelves to carry on trying to find something alphabetical that I could read at 2 AM. Luckily, Alan Bennett's deliciously short <span style="font-style: italic;">The Uncommon Reader</span> was almost next on my British shelf and its 119 pages meant that I finished it just before I finally drifted off to sleep. It was a cute book to read upon as we (Canada) <a href="http://www.vancouversun.com/news/royal-visit/Photos+Prince+William+Kate+Middleton+take+Canadian+tour/5030176/story.html">are in the midst of a royal visit</a> (in fact, I heard on the CBC yesterday that over 120 foreign bureaus/journalists will follow the couple on their visit as compared to the 24 that applied when the Queen visited was it last year? We're all a little entranced by the Duke and Duchess. As Lainey says; <a href="http://laineygossip.com/Prince_William_and_Catherine_attend_citizenship_ceremony_in_Ottawa_on_Canada_Day_.aspx?CatID=0&CelID=0">it's good for gossip</a>...).<br /><br />So, The Uncommon Reader of the book's title is The Queen, who has never truly read before -- for reading isn't necessarily "doing" anything and she's been a "doer" her entire life. An ode to reading with a cheeky sense of humour, Bennett's novella remains thoroughly entertaining from start to finish. Goodness, it's even got a fascinating vein of literary criticism -- of course The Queen wouldn't understand the nuances of Austen at first, having never lived among the lower classes. Of course, if she started her ready odyssey with Henry James, well, she might as well have given up all together.<br /><br />One day, a travelling library shows up at Westminster and The Queen, on a whim, picks p a book by Ivy-Compton Burnett. Soon she's having Nathan, a former dishwasher and avid reader thus promoted to page, finding books for her from libraries all across London. They read books in aid of royal visits, they read popular fiction, they read the classics and all the while The Queen philosophically comes to understand the power of the written word in a way that was never presented to her before. The more she reads, the more she begins to write, and the more she begins to write, the more she decides she has something to say -- a voice, shall we call it.<br /><br />I won't spoil the cheeky, cute ending but I will say that I smiled a lot while I was reading this book, even at 2AM when I really should have been sleeping. And, I've knocked another one off my shelves!Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-90413277225311268142011-07-01T14:51:00.005-04:002011-07-01T15:12:56.551-04:00#51 - The Leopard<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidvbWE6guxYQ7tS_IjV48AHfgWuOPpw_6P8sr0TUxr9__nfFDdVlfEzGhJUWBDWeH1bnH9HUQ8lK2DQVB6UbN4M8J-BD0DIrRkN_UWPT05kDsRfRDkE7HUQUpC81-qAoFApYSq1w/s1600/9780307359742.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 131px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidvbWE6guxYQ7tS_IjV48AHfgWuOPpw_6P8sr0TUxr9__nfFDdVlfEzGhJUWBDWeH1bnH9HUQ8lK2DQVB6UbN4M8J-BD0DIrRkN_UWPT05kDsRfRDkE7HUQUpC81-qAoFApYSq1w/s200/9780307359742.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624463182861039042" border="0" /></a>I've been reading a tonne of Scandinavian mysteries over this mat leave -- it's not that they are mindless, that's not what I am trying to say, but they do wonders for my tired brain, especially now that the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">RRBB</span> is moving around like a maniac and I am spending a lot of my time just chasing him down. Anyway, I finally finished Jo <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Nesbo's</span> <a href="http://www.randomhouse.ca/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9780307359742"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Leopard</span></a> -- for me, these books are easy reads, one-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">nighters</span>, that kind of thing, but this book is over 600 pages long; it's an <span style="font-style: italic;">investment</span>.<br /><br />When the novel opens, Kaja <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Solness</span> hunts Harry Hole down in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Hong</span> Kong where he's gone to disappear after the toll catching The Snowman took upon him (a novel I haven't read yet). He's thin, addicted to opium, and refuses to come home even after she tempts him with a case only he can solve. But it isn't the crime that brings him back to Oslo -- his father is dying, and Harry can't bear to stay away. There's a new "sheriff" in town: a crass, crooked and unfailingly <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">asshat</span>-like boss of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Kripos</span> (which I am assuming is their national police force) named Mikael Bellman who threatens, not only Harry's success in solving the case, but his career in general. Yet, none of that matters to Harry -- brash, intelligent, strong -- he's James Bond with a drink problem, otherwise known as your prototypical hero in these kinds of books, and yet, like Jimmy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">McNulty</span> in <span style="font-style: italic;">The Wire</span>, you root for him regardless.<br /><br />The gruesome nature of the central crime -- the killer takes his victims lives with something called a Leopold's Apple, an instrument of torture that punctures (24 times) your face and throat so you drown in your own blood -- stumps the officers, and as soon as Harry joins Bellman and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Kripos</span>, they start to get somewhere. Like any good mystery, there's red herrings and twists and false leads and impeccably dangerous situations galore. There would have to be to keep us entertained for yes, like I said, 600+ bloody pages. You could cut a third of this book and it would still be a great read -- there's a lot of extraneous stuff here that could have been pared down, that would have helped the book race along instead of plodding in some places.<br /><br />Regardless, there's wonderful desolate scenery that takes place in the far-reaching snow-bound Norway that I found truly fascinating. Ski lodges that are sitting ducks for avalanches, that sort of thing, that add a certain nuance to the plot and characters. Of course, the crime gets solved and, of course, the criminal punished and I'm glad I read the whole book because there was a moment half-way through where I considered just skipping to the end because 600 pages!<br /><br />I have Norway covered already via Karin <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Fossum</span>, so <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Nesbo</span> doesn't count for <span style="font-weight: bold;">Around the World in 52 Books</span>. I need to find some Finnish mysteries!Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-17218609306580955832011-06-24T18:38:00.006-04:002011-06-30T19:13:35.000-04:00Yet Another Review Catch-Up #s48, 49, 50<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiE0QIwYJhhbhx8cNF6DIOi5slIgiUs4TsXQqYK__xhQxv21fcKk-O3a3al9RtbEfO1A3P3qpxIjgZCI2Qp4ocRi7cn2JSYW4B8iWU4410hJLVFDSjq11l-YjVkmIy7gAsiv4O0g/s1600/cottage.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiE0QIwYJhhbhx8cNF6DIOi5slIgiUs4TsXQqYK__xhQxv21fcKk-O3a3al9RtbEfO1A3P3qpxIjgZCI2Qp4ocRi7cn2JSYW4B8iWU4410hJLVFDSjq11l-YjVkmIy7gAsiv4O0g/s200/cottage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621921053697886082" border="0" /></a>Well, we were up north for about two weeks and got home the other day. A massive storm hit the greater Peterborough area, and so many trees were knocked down on our property that we were lucky that no one was hurt and/or no buildings were damaged. But goodness, as my RRHB exclaimed when he drove up just after the storm, "It's like the apocalypse hit." There are empty spaces where trees have stood my entire life. My uncle took this picture -- this pine tree just caught the edge of our sun deck and it took my husband and brother the better part of a day to chainsaw it out of there. For a while, my aunt and uncle were trapped as about six huge trees fell right by our gate making sure there was no way to drive out. I kept exclaiming, "Oh my god!" when the baby and I drove up on the Sunday after the storm. It was <span style="font-style: italic;">crazy</span>. The biggest storm anyone has seen in 40 years. What up weather?<br /><br />I did very little reading. The RRBB is a moving maniac, inches away from crawling, he's a going concern. You can't leave him alone on the floor any more. Within moments, he's miles away from where you first put him down, and he's going through a funny stage where he fusses a little if I'm <span style="font-style: italic;">not sitting right behind him as he plays</span>. That, my friends, can't continue. But I indulged him a little only because we were at the cottage for the first time and he needs to be comfortable there.<br /><br />Anyway, I am, of course, behind in my reading, my reviewing, my list-making, my life, my correspondence, just about everything. So here are some mini-reviews:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.randomhouse.ca/catalog/results.pperl?searchBtn.x=0&searchBtn.y=0&title_subtitle_auth_isbn=The+Shape+I+Gave+you"><span style="font-weight: bold;">#48 - The Shape I Gave You</span> - Martha Baillie</a><br />I have almost completely forgotten about this book, which doesn't bode well for an extremely positive review. Half-way through reading it, I decided, absurdly conceitedly, that I had solved all of the issues with Canadian publishing, it's that we read far too many Canadian books, publish far too many semi-high-brow literary novels, so that just about everyone, myself included, thinks that's what they should write. First of all, any of you who know me as a reader, know how frustrated I get on occasion with modern novels in epistolary format. It's a rare format one can make successful. This novel, the bulk of which is a long letter from Beatrice Mann (who lives in Toronto), a middle-aged woman who has just lost her teenage daughter, to Ulrike Huguenot (who lives in Berlin) explaining everything about her marriage, her motherhood, and the affair she had with Ulrike's father. It's an odd book -- a little too Ondaatje-esque for me, heavy on "literary" and light on plot, which, in my early years, I adored, I emulated, in fact. But as I get older, I like simpler prose, novels that are well paced and jolt like lightning. This isn't a fault with Ballie's writing -- it's more a personal preference. Anyway, it's not that I disliked the book, I just found it a little rough around the edges, and really wanted it to get to the point.<br /><br /><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Voyage_in_the_Dark"><span style="font-weight: bold;">#49 - Voyage in the Dark - Jean Rhys</span></a><br />This is one from the shelves too, thank goodness, at least I am clearing off some books, even if I skipped my alphabetical order. Funny, just sentences above I lamented about authors who are heavy on the literary and light on plot, and now I am about to confess that modernist writer Rhys (whose lilting, patient sentences might define "literary") is one of my favourites. I might have read this book years and years ago; I picked up my copy to find all kinds of sentences tucked away inside the back cover -- not related to the book, just odd thoughts I must have climbed over a pillow or two in the middle of the night to scribble down on the nearest paper. They don't make any sense now. Anyway, the novel, the story of a young West Indian girl who loses herself in London and becomes a "fallen" woman, caused quite a controversy when it was first published. Now, with the state of the world almost completely fallen, and the stereotypical "hooker with a heart of gold" making an appearance in many George Clooney movies (well, maybe just in the terrifically boring <span style="font-style: italic;">The American</span>), the fate of poor Anna Morgan isn't necessarily shocking, it's more tragic. Truly, honestly, utterly tragic -- if only because of the naivety, the utter essence of the girl's misery (a lack of fortune and a misunderstanding of her place in the world) comes across in every single page. She's displaced, disorganized and utterly incapable of unassisted survival -- yet, you can't help but ache when she makes poor decision after poor decision. Your heart pulls when she describes the relationship with Francine, a black servant in her father's house, with whom she was very close. And when the inevitable happens, and Anna finds herself in a world of trouble, it's not surprising the lengths she goes to fix the situation, and even less surprising, is the outcome. Rhys, whose stream of consciousness style isn't for everyone, inhabits Anna like a tic in a mattress, and its amazing how deep the character runs through language alone, not necessarily action (if that makes any sense). It took me ages to finish this book, both because I was up north alone with the baby and also because I kept starting and restarting paragraphs just because I liked them so much. She's such a wonderful writer.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.randomhouse.ca/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9780679605096">#50 - Sisterhood Everlasting, Ann Brashares</a><br />There's not much to say about this book, it tugged away at my heart because I am sentimental about these novels. I think they are great YA fiction and wished I had them to read as a young girl (vs. the trashy Harlequin-esque crap I filled my brain with). I love their magical quality, and the ethereal nature of all of the characters -- but it isn't necessarily down to earth. Yes, it'll make you weepy, especially because Brashares does something shocking (even if her readers are now mature enough to handle it -- what happens still <span style="font-style: italic;">smarts</span>) and forces her characters, through tragedy (and not just the loss of the pants) to truly grow up. It's a sweet book, a sweet read, just perfect for lying immobile after a kidney biopsy, and that's all I really have to say. Wait, just one other thing to note, having met Brashares in person, I will say that she is as lovely in person as her books, which is always a blessing and means I am ever-inclined to continue to read said author's work...Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-28903642219864368372011-05-30T20:36:00.013-04:002011-06-04T19:30:37.436-04:00Review Catch-Up #s 44 - 47<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTCSgvgAiLhf2UZFtAf01X41KGrV_sZhvzBsI0id8LBgs2eisCGfKJke27hlTCTxjgjsDTujWN7gIq20GVBAAg6SRGkbYzNWUYipxug8LKOBpOfQfKinmzXFr2hLfNxgT9CoYwqA/s1600/ethan+643.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTCSgvgAiLhf2UZFtAf01X41KGrV_sZhvzBsI0id8LBgs2eisCGfKJke27hlTCTxjgjsDTujWN7gIq20GVBAAg6SRGkbYzNWUYipxug8LKOBpOfQfKinmzXFr2hLfNxgT9CoYwqA/s200/ethan+643.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614092563336589282" border="0" /></a>I have spent three days this week at various doctors appointments and sitting waiting for blood work, and managed to read three books in five days. It's almost like I'm breastfeeding at all hours again, only I'm not. Actually, it's nothing like that at all. In fact, it's exactly the opposite. Regardless, here are some short reviews of books I've read lately.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">#44 - Saturday Night and Sunday Morning</span> by Allan Sillitoe<br />Sometimes, when you see the <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0054269/">filmed version of a book first</a>, it's almost impossible not to replay the movie in your head as you read. In the case of Allan Sillitoe's <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saturday_Night_and_Sunday_Morning"><span style="font-style: italic;">Saturday Night and Sunday Morning</span></a>, this was entirely the case. Luckily, both the book and the film are excellent, so I wasn't disappointed by anything happening in my own head as I read. Sillitoe's portrait of a young man, a working class, philandering, hard-drinking, impulse-driven, anti-hero remains captivating over 50 years since its publication. I found myself violently engrossed in the film, at times disgusted by Arthur Seaton's behaviour, his attitude towards women, his own selfishness, and yet utterly thrilled by his voice, his hard-driving anger, and his youth.<br /><br />Set in a working class section of Nottingham (and forgive me if it's all working class; I am not familiar with the geography), Seaton works at a bicycle factory, where he gets paid by the piece. Work too fast, and you make too much money, the big bosses will come down on you; work too slow and it isn't worth your while to get up in the morning. There's a tender balance Seaton strikes between boredom, completely shutting off to the redundancy of his tasks and letting his mind wander (usually to the state of his love life, which is complex, and full of many married ladies). He served in the army but has no faith in it; he drinks not just because it's the only thing to do but because it <span style="font-style: italic;">IS</span> the thing to do; and all of his relationships with women are based on lying, cheating and his own awkward concepts of love. Yet, as a character, I couldn't help but adore him -- a prototypical bad boy when it still meant something to buck the system, and the dichotomy of the two parts of Seaton's life: the Saturday nights spent drinking and with his hand up the shirt of his many married lovers; and the Sunday morning when he goes fishing and perhaps decides upon one girl, nicely contrast the tenor of life in England after the war. Everyone needing to find their footing, their voice, after the collective "pulling together" (Keep Calm and Carry On) as a universal decree. All in all, it's an <span style="font-style: italic;">excellent</span> novel. (Also exciting is that it's on the <span style="font-weight: bold;">1001 Books</span> list, whee!).<br /><br /><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.harpercollins.ca/book/index.aspx?isbn=9780062074713"><span>#45 - State of Wonder</span></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> by Ann Patchett</span><br />Ann Patchett is one of my favourite American novelists. I adored <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://tragicrighthip.blogspot.com/2007/06/42-run.html">Run</a>, enjoyed <a href="http://tragicrighthip.blogspot.com/2007/09/57-bel-canto.html">Bel Canto</a>, and had my heart broken over <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://tragicrighthip.blogspot.com/2009/04/20-truth-and-beauty.html">Truth & Beauty</a>. But State of Wonder is in an entirely different class -- if I had to find a comp, like someone (I can't remember who) mentioned on Twitter, I'd too suggest Barbara Kingsolver's <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/7244.The_Poisonwood_Bible"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Poisonwood Bible</span></a>. But, truly, the unbridled success of this novel lies in Patchett's almost post-colonial "talking back" to Joseph Conrad's classic Heart of Darkness. Now, I read Conrad's book in first year university and haven't revisited it since, so it's hazy, to say the least in my memory. I recall more of Apocalypse Now than I do the novel itself but that doesn't mean that I can't theorize that Patchett set out to write back to Heart of Darkness, tackling not necessarily themes of colonialism and "going native" (shuddering to write that sentence) but more so the toll and cost of medical research takes from on our "modern" world.<br /><br />When Dr. Marina Singh's workmate and lab partner, Dr. Eckman, is pronounced dead in a far flung letter from Dr. Annick Swenson, a research doctor who has been in the field for almost decades developing and studying a very particular tribe in order to create a fertility drug that could revolutionize women's reproductive health, she (Dr. Singh) is sent out to retrieve the true story and maybe, just maybe, bring both the body and a report of where the work actually is back to the company for whom they all work. Things go wrong for Marina right from the start -- her suitcase is lost, her clothes taken by the Lakashi tribe when she arrives in camp, and soon every vestige of Western life has disappeared from around her. She wears her hair plaited by the Lakashi women, the only dress she has comes from them as well, and without sun protection, the half-Indian Marina's skin bronzes so deeply that even she notices how different she looks than when at home suffering through a long, terrible Minnesota winter.<br /><br />Classically trained as a OBGYN, Marina gave up her medical practice due to a terrible accident, and has been a pharmacologist ever since. Yet, once she finds Dr. Swenson (and the path that got her there was no less than difficult), her skills as a doctor are called upon -- an in unclean, unhygienic and utterly disorganized (in terms of performing surgeries), and Marina's life takes a turn in a direction she never imagined. The novel's ending, both spectacular and breathtaking, has perfect pacing -- I couldn't put it down, and it brought me to my knees. I found myself reading and reading, any chance I could get, morning, deep into the night, just to find out what happens. And the last sentences, just like the amazing ones that end <span style="font-style: italic;">The Poisonwood Bible</span>, stayed with me for days. Highly recommended; it's perfect summer reading in my humble opinion.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">#46 - </span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://browseinside.harpercollins.ca/index.aspx?isbn13=9780060755805">Faith</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> by </span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://jenniferhaigh.com/">Jennifer Haigh</a><br />I'm going to be honest -- the subject matter of this novel remains difficult for many reasons -- the church and its history/current struggle with pedophilia doesn't necessarily equate "light," "breezy" read. Yet, the tone and undercurrent of Jennifer Haigh's novel, while neither light nor breezy, is both generous and kind, a difficult balance to achieve when discussing Catholic priests and the matter of faith in general. The narrator of the story, a self-proclaimed (at the beginning of the novel) modern-day "spinster," Sheila McGann retells a story her half-brother Art, a priest who has found himself embroiled in a scandal that threatens not only his livelihood but also his life, and his core beliefs.<br /><br />Sheila returns to Boston to help her family in the time of crisis. Art, accused of an unspeakable act with a young boy, the grandson of the rectory's housekeeper, with whom he has a parental-like relationship, shakes everyone to their cores. I know it's a cliche -- family comes upon tragedy, novel unravels whether or not the accusations are true -- but Haigh has a gift for character, and while this novel remains very traditional in its narrative format, I was impressed at how she tackled the subject matter. Haigh never shies away from the difficult nature of it, and I like how faith as a concept remains interwoven throughout the narrative. Arthur has never questioned his calling. But, like anyone, it's impossible to know when something might happen to rock your beliefs, earthquake-like, and send you reeling in another direction. Innocent, even naive, to the ways of the world, Art finds himself questioning everything he has ever known: the church, his ministry, the idea of love, when he comes to face to face with Kath, the mother of the young boy he is accused of abusing. It takes the entire novel to truly find out what happened. And no one is left unscathed, not even the reader. <span style="font-style: italic;">Faith</span> is a novel that forces one to evaluate one's own relationship to God, to the church, even if you're a non-believer. It's impossible to stand in judgment, of anyone's life, and I think that is the eloquent point that Haigh makes throughout this book. It's one that definitely got me thinking. And I'm a girl who got the majority of her religious schooling from <span style="font-style: italic;">Are You There God, It's Me Margaret?</span> when she was a child. Of course, I read more widely about religion in university. (I still remember sitting with a particularly obnoxious Religion major at Queen's who honestly said to me, "You know, it's not as if I'm totally obsessed with God or anything, I just think Jesus was a really <span style="font-style: italic;">cool</span> guy." Seriously. That was her take on her entire degree. Good grief.) Regardless, the kind of storytelling that Haigh purports in this novel usually drives me crazy (the retelling of a story when one could choose just to tell the damn story) but it's subtly balances nicely with the seriousness of the subject matter and I don't think she could have written it another way. By the end, I was a little heartbroken, which, for me, is always the sign of a very good novel indeed.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">#47 - </span><a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.randomhouse.ca/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9780307399472">Every Time We Say Goodbye</a><span style="font-weight: bold;"> by Jamie Zeppa</span><br />This is a Vicious Circle book club book, and I'm so pleased that I'll get to discuss it with a great group of women. It's a women's novel (as you can see from the awful cover [I'm sorry but it really, really isn't reflective of the book]) rather than dreamy chicklit as the cover suggests. I know what it's going for -- there's a pair of siblings that the novel centres around, but the cover adds a layer of Hallmark Movie of the Week that dumbs down Zeppa's sharp, instinctive and eager writing.<br /><br />Told from multiple perspectives, the book follows three generations of Turner women, some blood, some married to blood, who each struggle with the idea of family, what it means to be a mother, and the difficult restrictions society, at different times over the last 50 years, for people of my gender. I fell particularly in love with Grace, a woman forced to leave her son behind to make a better life for herself in the city. Her strength, ability and the way she came into her own was particularly breathtaking. There's a lot in the novel that isn't necessarily fresh (troubled fathers, difficult women that seem cut from Lawrence, "women's" troubles) but Zeppa finds a way in that is both refreshing and real -- and I enjoyed this book immensely. I just have one tiny criticism -- there's a main character, Vera, a matriarchal figure, that we never hear from, she's only portrayed through other people's stories. I would have enjoyed knowing more about her point of view, her perspective, but I understand how too many voices could also ruin this novel. Regardless, it too is a perfect summer read. Funny how that works out, isn't it?Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-65570319186319485932011-05-30T16:29:00.001-04:002011-05-30T20:34:35.409-04:00Notes From A House Frau XXII<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNdbWRyGfCkOwPxtt23BlHZR42EDmm44D9kvqAMDjd6xlKjVmQpY4WhBNHXgXluplh73i7PxzZ8xqayGoYD9vMIEAYcAXXJt9yz-l3TpIBEms9xWayRpfnd9nXSKdytZGeerRFQ/s1600/ethan+617.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggNdbWRyGfCkOwPxtt23BlHZR42EDmm44D9kvqAMDjd6xlKjVmQpY4WhBNHXgXluplh73i7PxzZ8xqayGoYD9vMIEAYcAXXJt9yz-l3TpIBEms9xWayRpfnd9nXSKdytZGeerRFQ/s200/ethan+617.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607783692451916546" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">What A Difference A Few Weeks Make</span><br /><br />This picture cracks me up. The RRBB definitely enjoys his food -- on this day he had green beans, some chicken and vegetables, and some barley cereal. There might have been dessert. I can't remember. All I know is that by the end of it he had food from one end of his face to the other, which to me is an important part of discovering what he likes and doesn't like, of discovering the joy of eating. The RRHB does it a little differently, he cleans up the baby as he goes along, consistently wiping his face so that he doesn't spread food from one end of himself to the other.<br /><br />It's interesting, as the RRBB turned 7 months last weekend, I can completely see him start to develop more and more independence. I know, ironic, to talk about independence in terms of a wee baby who can't walk, talk or even feed himself. But, more and more, the RRBB likes to do things independent of me -- he's almost completely weaned, and while I still feed him, technically, the food isn't coming from inside of me any longer, and that takes some getting used to. He still yearns for it, and so we've kept one or two feedings until the doctors absolutely tell me I need to stop, yet he's trying and loving so much "real" food that I'm encouraged by all of his likes (and very few, read: none, dislikes). Also, he's sitting up on his own for the most part, falling over occasionally, bumping his head, bawling, and then breaking my heart. Yet, we are so very, very lucky, as I keep saying to all of my relatives, for he's truly a happy, healthy, gregarious, charming little boy. I <span style="font-style: italic;">adore</span> him.<br /><br />Independence is an interesting concept -- I am certain the RRBB doesn't understand it psychologically, or maybe he does and I am way off the marker but, instinctively, he's trying harder and harder to separate himself from us, his parents. He complains now if he lies down in the bath, before he would sit placidly, splashing a little, now the water ends up halfway out of the tub before we're even finished. He loves <span style="font-style: italic;">Not a Box</span>, but not so much <span style="font-style: italic;">Goodnight, Moon</span>. If he isn't eating fast enough, he complains; but then, if it's too fast, he gets equally upset. He makes a little strange when he wakes up from a nap. Yet, if you get him at the right time, he'll charm the pants off of you. This is the real gift of parenthood, not just the unmitigated, unceasing love that renders your heart incapable of understanding how this person was not a part of your life just months ago, but seeing first-hand the evolution of a <span style="font-style: italic;">personality</span>. Objectively, it's not something one remembers, it's not as if you can reach back into your own mind and think, "wow, what was I like at 7 months?" Yet, every day that I spend with the baby, I am seeing how fascinating it is to watch him grow -- and my heart breaks just a little each time he grows more independent, but it also means I've got a bit more freedom. Evenings, nap time (few and far between these days; teething), stroller time, visits with grandparents and granties and gruncles, and it's all a wonder to me. I can't stop marveling at him. I can't but wonder what other surprises are around the corner.<br /><br />He's the only baby I will ever have. Even typing that sentence makes me sad. I never imagined I would love the baby stage as much as I have. I mean, I have always loved babies, but in the sense that I'd hold them for a while and hand them back. Cute, snuggly little things that smelled delicious and whose exhausted parents I'd barely notice. Parenting wasn't a reality to me -- the utter loss of self wasn't a devastating reality, the sheer tenacity of his will to break us completely in those first few months has almost been utterly forgotten. Now, I can sit and read while he plays beside me, holding one hand to steady him, the other in a book. That, I can do. He goes to sleep so early that my mind can drift (when I'm not so exhausted I can barely see) to a place where I can spend some time working on non-blog writing. In short, I feel lighter than I have in months.<br /><br />That's not to say that the disease has let me go just yet. I see the SFDD this week and we go from there. They are almost convinced they need to switch the drugs. All I know is that I need to get off the prednisone. There's a pain in my left hip. It's familiar. And tragic. And I can take a lot, a lot of punishment from the gods or the universe or whatever karmic relativity has decided that what my world means is Wegener's and all the ensuing tragedy, but if I lose my other hip, well, I am not sure I'll recover. I need to move. Without movement, without walking, biking, swimming, I will surely curl up into a ball and disappear.Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-56883303133494057512011-05-15T16:25:00.002-04:002011-05-16T16:25:29.868-04:00#43 - Last Night In Montreal<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6nNm3AFpdp3zpvTIYAEpelU_aLX4UNZxs9NuIcxV1ZRX0DqvzpzC2XWbkzekgzEikCnVg_uUGsEEa7FsqmpKx8rCVC7K1sXZB1IXno8JyrT5OfdSxUPANL4kQ50ez-_xJQ1ZrwQ/s1600/last_night_in_montreal.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 132px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6nNm3AFpdp3zpvTIYAEpelU_aLX4UNZxs9NuIcxV1ZRX0DqvzpzC2XWbkzekgzEikCnVg_uUGsEEa7FsqmpKx8rCVC7K1sXZB1IXno8JyrT5OfdSxUPANL4kQ50ez-_xJQ1ZrwQ/s200/last_night_in_montreal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607400733110309106" border="0" /></a>Before sitting down to write about Emily St. John Mandel's first novel, <span style="font-style: italic;">Last Night in Montreal</span>, I wanted to do a pros and cons list of my own <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">pre</span>-conceived notions about fiction in general. My innate likes and dislikes, if you will. There are cliches in writing that I just can't stand -- easy things that authors fall back on because they are such a part of our collective unconscious, if you will, that even if one doesn't realize you're writing a trope, you're still writing a trope.<br /><br />Circus performers. The idea of running away to the circus. And as prevalent and innovative, even successful as the modern day Cirque <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">du</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Soleil</span> might be in Canada and around the world, sentences like, 'they were part of a circus family when that was still something that could be done,' or the like, make me cringe, just a little (read: a lot). It's not that good books can't be written and/or good stories can't be told about circuses (case in point: <a href="http://www.readinggroupguides.com/guides3/water_for_elephants1.asp"><span style="font-style: italic;">Water for Elephants</span></a>, which I have not read, but has been on bestseller lists for almost four years) or great drama created out of the idea of someone walking a tightrope (case in point: the excellent <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Colum</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">McCann</span> novel, <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://colummccann.com/">Let the Great World Spin</a>). Yet, in this novel, when the circus performer characters are dropped in, it feels forced and full of anguish -- like an imagination that's had too much caffeine and is trying to finish an all <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">nighter</span> -- something just isn't right and someone probably should have started cramming earlier.<br /><br />Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself. Lilia, a distinct but also wispy and beautiful young woman, has trouble staying in one place. She was raised by her father who kidnapped her away from her mother one cold winter's evening and she hasn't stopped running since. Lilia's an interesting character -- she's bright, can speak several languages (taught to her by her father on the road) and has to work through her past by constantly moving on to the next location. She doesn't normally give her lovers any warning. She simply packs up her stuff, stashes it away, and then leaves when she feels she can't stay any longer. Her safety -- mentally, physically -- is at risk, and so she must go. Eli, her current Brooklyn-living boyfriend, can't accept that she's gone, so he goes on the road to try and find her. He doesn't necessarily want her to come back. No, he just wants an explanation, and to know that she's okay. So off Eli goes to Montreal. Why Montreal? Well, Eli receives a missive from someone named Michaela, who claims to know where Lilia is...<br /><br />In tandem with the current-day storyline that follows Lilia, Elia and Michaela, the novel drifts back in time via different characters to fill out the novel. The most engaging parts of the book take place on the road with Lilia and her father -- there's a wonderful dynamic between the two, and even if I do find Lilia kind of twee for my liking, I can see how kidnapping her both saved and damaged her at the same time. But here's also where the book goes off the rails a little bit, there's a private detective, Christopher (paid by whom, who knows? It's never explained.) who becomes obsessed by the case (he's Michaela's father; this is the circus stock family). These two families are now intertwined, and their complex relationship forms the crux of the novel.<br /><br />There's no doubt that St. John Mandel is a terrific writer. She has a gift for description and the book hums along -- it's just not, from my point of view, entirely believable. There's a 'movie of the week' element to it that I just couldn't shake and I will hold any "damaged" girls up to Baby in <span style="font-style: italic;">Lullabies for Little Criminals</span> and always find them wanting. And the circus performers. Of the entire novel, I appreciated the ending, but the penultimate scenes and resulting action, well, that also falls into the "tired" category -- to spell it out would be to completely spoil the novel, so I'm not going to do that here, as per usual. On the whole, it's a terrifically uneven first novel, but it's also just that -- a first novel, and I do actually look forward to reading more from St. John Mandel in the future.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">WHAT'S UP NEXT:</span> The last of my library books for a while -- <span style="font-style: italic;">Saturday Night and Sunday Morning</span>. Then it's back to the shelves for sure -- I am very behind in my challenge, and by <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">alphabetized</span> books are just mocking me, mocking me!Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-49882739510737445182011-05-12T14:30:00.003-04:002011-05-13T18:58:45.811-04:00#42 - Bullfighting<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD-3HPpoxcvTAt9lkmJliNuQJ_7QB-1atjoVwrOtY545zjEl6t9XBWnVh-9HA4VBCZ4N_gA1d1MklwZx9eBPhAwves-IXohhGgbK-AJVnzZug5rLTsmAgoPUrDkxNd77hmRM5m3w/s1600/bullfighting.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 125px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD-3HPpoxcvTAt9lkmJliNuQJ_7QB-1atjoVwrOtY545zjEl6t9XBWnVh-9HA4VBCZ4N_gA1d1MklwZx9eBPhAwves-IXohhGgbK-AJVnzZug5rLTsmAgoPUrDkxNd77hmRM5m3w/s200/bullfighting.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606336822195188418" border="0" /></a>There's just something about Roddy Doyle's writing that reminds me of The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Pogues</span> song "<a href="http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/pogues/bottleofsmoke.html">Bottle of Smoke</a>." It's just so quintessentially fast-paced, direct, and full of great storytelling. These short stories speed along like a day at the races, and reading them feels like you've come ahead a winner -- 'like a drunken f*ck on a Saturday night, up came that Bottle of Smoke.' All thirteen stories are from a man's point of view, that's not to say that there aren't female characters, but these men, some older, some younger, have all reached middle age. They've watched their kids grow up, they've watched their parents grow old, they've had jobs, they've lost them, they've lived and loved, but most of all, they've survived.<br /><br />Doyle's writing, so succinct, so of the moment, and his dialogue and the entire demeanor of the stories remains so refreshing, that you feel like you're sitting next to the author in a pub as he tells the story. Despite their <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">similarities</span>, the characters are all still so distinct -- and it reminds me of a great writing lesson that I was once told by a teacher who really, really disliked me and what I had to say -- they each have something that defines them, that stops them from becoming a stereotype, whether it's a reaction to a situation or a particular thing they love about the woman that became their wife.<br /><br />I enjoyed each and every one of these stories, so it's hard to pull one or two out as my favourites. They all blended together so nicely, like an evening of conversation at a pub with a group of old, familiar friends, and the writing is so controlled that there isn't a sense of unevenness that I generally find with short story collections. I enjoyed "Teacher" and "Bullfighting" -- as both dealt with interesting situations -- the former, a man's struggle with alcoholism; the latter, a group of friends who take a trip to Spain. Male friendship isn't always explored in the books that I read on a regular basis. It's either there as a crutch, a necessary side-kick and/or reason to move the plot along in a mystery, but in "Bullfighting," it's the central theme of the story. These four men have know each other forever, and they don't have to talk about their feelings or share their inner secrets, they can just sit around and shoot the shit. And Doyle knows just how to write it to ensure that there's a poignancy to the everyday that can't be avoided, that needs to be celebrated.<br /><br />It's a wonderful collection. And for all my ranting about reading far too many short story collections these days, I have to say that I'd take one by Doyle over a novel just about any day. It's just excellent.Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-33046456891859949822011-05-09T14:32:00.003-04:002011-05-09T19:04:13.658-04:00Monday Disease Blues: A Top 10 List<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUfC5LEAa9emCWGpOD8_fv6ZFt1ArAfQvreptM5_XctGRs3r48YrR7DujGm1k7ajv-OTchSx3eWIzDI8KSYJFqvKdoklbr66e-WzZhMAE8zaAuGUqdVdEXb7LcNIYK2W_RznOz3A/s1600/IMG_4878.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUfC5LEAa9emCWGpOD8_fv6ZFt1ArAfQvreptM5_XctGRs3r48YrR7DujGm1k7ajv-OTchSx3eWIzDI8KSYJFqvKdoklbr66e-WzZhMAE8zaAuGUqdVdEXb7LcNIYK2W_RznOz3A/s200/IMG_4878.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604855883418865810" border="0" /></a>The RRBB had his six month shots today, and he's a little crabby, doesn't feel like eating and his nap schedule's all mixed up. So, I'm letting him play on his activity mat for a while as I sit here on a pilates ball and try to string some words together. Ups and downs, that's what the last few days are all about, ups and downs. Far more downs in terms of the disease than ups but what can you do -- every day is different. People think I'm joking when the answer to "how are you" these days is always, "well, I'm not dead!" We were at the doctor's this morning and it's semi-official -- they are probably going to put me on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cyclophosphamide">Cyclophosphamide</a> for the Wegener's, and I have to wean the baby entirely sooner rather than later.<br /><br />1. <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.kellymom.com/bf/weaning/weaning_mom.html">Who knew that weaning lead to depression</a><span style="font-weight: bold;">?</span> Like I need something other than the prednisone and postpartum messing with my brain. It's an unholy trinity -- but maybe bits of one will cancel the other one out. My family doctor's kids are 16 months old (she had twins) and today in the office she told me she still doesn't feel back to normal, and she's not even coping with a massive, stinking disease.<br /><br />2. <span style="font-weight: bold;">It's a beautiful day today and the last thing I want to do is go outside</span>. Thankfully, the PVR is full of <span style="font-style: italic;">Oprah</span>, Friday Night Lights and other sundries for when the RRBB is sleeping. I could read but I am even too exhausted and weepy for that today. I watched the Shania Twain episode while the baby slept a few hours ago -- <a href="http://www.shaniatwain.com/">I don't think I'd ever read her book</a> -- but I'm fascinated by the fact that she wanted to lay it all out there, as pathetic and ridiculous as her actions were around the breakdown of her marriage, she simply wrote it all out and published it. Even the terrifically awful letter she wrote begging her ex-husband's mistress to leave them alone -- she <span style="font-style: italic;">published</span> it. Oversharing? Perhaps.<br /><br />3. <span style="font-weight: bold;">As if I needed a reason to feel worse about always wearing pajamas</span>. <a href="http://www.picklemethis.com/2011/05/08/mothers-are-people/">I read this beautiful post about motherhood on Kerry's blog</a>, and <a href="http://www.parentcentral.ca/parent/activities/mothersday/article/985896--these-moms-refuse-to-wear-sweats">then clicked over to the article she references about these terrifically hip and hot moms who never wear sweatpants</a>, like, ever. Seriously? It's a good day if I actually change the sweatpants from the ones that I sleep in to a relatively cleaner pair to walk to the grocery store (and by "sweatpants" I am including their ugly stepchild, the legging, which I swore I would never, ever wear as pants. One should never swear anything about fashion). I would look better if I attempted to wear makeup, dyed my hair and put away the sweatpants but, hell, where <span style="font-style: italic;">would</span> that energy come from?<br /><br />4. <span style="font-weight: bold;">The blues won today</span>. Damn them.<br /><br />5. <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.nationalparksproject.ca/">CBC Radio played some really beautiful music from the <span style="font-style: italic;">National Parks Project</span> on Sunday</a>. Man, it made me want to take a road trip to every single one. Anything to get out of the city. Anything to get out of my house really. I'd love to take a giant trip this summer with the baby, somewhere foreign and by foreign, I mean Paris, but it's not practical given our financial situation (read: we are flat-ass broke). I miss travelling. And we'll have to learn how to do it a whole other way -- with RRBB. First up this summer: new passports. It's the last piece of ID with my maiden name on it. I will be a whole other person once that's done.<br /><br />6. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Teething + Needles = One Crabby Baby</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;">Sigh</span>.<br /><br />7. <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0381681/">The novel I'm reading for book club reminds me of <span style="font-style: italic;">Before Sunset</span></a>. Still, I can't get passed page 15 and started reading Roddy Doyle's new collection of short stories instead. I'm already halfway through; it's terrific. God, I love his short sentences.<br /><br />8. <span style="font-weight: bold;">I can't believe I am this upset about having to wean the baby</span>.<br /><br />9. <span style="font-weight: bold;">The disease is winning</span>. And not in the #winning sense that crazy-ass Charlie Sheen's barking all around Twitter about. Today, the family doctor actually said, "We need to save your kidneys now." And I got totally freaked out and almost started bawling in her office, and it wasn't even an appointment for me -- it was supposed to be all about baby. For the very first time in my life, I don't know if the Wegener's will win. I'm scared. I am honestly terrified.<br /><br />10. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Feel like the worst friend in the world</span>. I haven't talked to or seen so many people that I adore, and one of my New Year's Revolutions was to be a better friend. I'm just not hitting that goal at all and it's making me feel <span style="font-style: italic;">awful</span>.<br /><br />Okay, enough self-indulgent, feeling-sorry-for-myself claptrap. I am now going to go and eat some dinner. Perhaps I'm just hangry (hungry + angry = one irrational girl [as coined by <a href="http://twitter.com/#%21/charidy">Charidy</a>]).Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-52599475091937992642011-05-08T19:22:00.004-04:002011-05-08T20:00:37.900-04:00Notes From A House Frau XXI<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm5MwPod5gNZQFIwOX-1_AlOu21qjjaeLWvkG_FyA-1jNcFt231APdeXa872eR7w2rr8NQjT91TgQoZKIF63OwVZs_sWy1gxfndiaC4oeTUmsAWsPVxvPk3i7zE7oguh4k8sKGww/s1600/IMG_4899.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm5MwPod5gNZQFIwOX-1_AlOu21qjjaeLWvkG_FyA-1jNcFt231APdeXa872eR7w2rr8NQjT91TgQoZKIF63OwVZs_sWy1gxfndiaC4oeTUmsAWsPVxvPk3i7zE7oguh4k8sKGww/s200/IMG_4899.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604491349646883986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">Nostalgia: Pictures For My Kid</span><br /><br />Last night, my RRHB and I went to see The Lowest of the Low play Massey Hall. For a long time, he and that band's lead singer have been good friends. It's a pretty amazing thing to see someone you've known for twenty years (they were celebrating the 20th anniversary of <a href="http://www.lowestofthelow.com/?p=43"><span style="font-style: italic;">Shakespeare My Butt</span></a>) up on stage at one of Toronto's most prestigious venues. It's also really cool to see Massey Hall packed with people who have adored that record as a life anthem for as long as its been pressed jumping up and down in their seats, singing along, knowing all the words, and clamoring after the band post-show for autographs etc. It was a <span style="font-style: italic;">delightful</span> evening.<br /><br />But, as with everything these days, the whole evening just got me thinking about where the heck twenty years disappeared to. The disease had just been diagnosed, and I was out for one of the first times since getting out of the hospital. The same side effects (puffy face, hair loss, pimples, weight gain) on a much younger, non-postpartum body seem almost glorious in retrospect. I was wearing a cute, flowered dress, this I remember. We were upstairs at Sneaky Dees and my RRHB's first band, Dig Circus, opened up for The Lowest of the Low. The RRHB sang me the dirty bits of "Rosy and Grey." I danced a lot. We weren't together but it seems almost prophetic to think back now as to how we were probably always destined to be together anyway. He's still the very best person I know. He was back then. Brought me a hilarious Pepsi hat when I was in the hospital and hugged me like I was no different. He still holds me like that today. I treasure that, it's something to cling to during all of this, and how hard it's been for so long.<br /><br />Annnywaay, I got stinking drunk. And managed to get stinking drunk for many, many Low shows in the coming years. There was one point when we (my dearest Hannah) saw them play in Kingston, and then drove all the way to Banff where we were working for the summer, only to see them there as well. Knowing the band, because so many of my friends from high school were in Dig Circus, was a highlight of my young life -- it felt so <span style="font-style: italic;">cool</span> to go to the club and talk to the band. I had grown up with obsessive love for so many bands, a lot of it I outgrew (goodness, I listened to so much U2 in high school and then never again), but it also set the tone for so much of my life. I love live music, prefer it in dingy clubs before the bands are big enough to hit Massey Hall where you can get right up close to the front of the stage and go deaf listening to the up and down and back and forth of it all. And I've seen so many life-changing rock shows with my RRHB and they always make me nostalgic. Not like the nostalgia of last night, of a misspent youth, of the hundreds of hours I've spent drinking beer and jumping up and down, of thinking about all of the things that have passed since the very first time I'd seen the Low until now, but of how rich my life is because music, good music, has always been in it.<br /><br />Before the show, the RRBB and I danced around the kitchen to "Come on Eileen", a favourite song that just happened to be on the radio. A few weeks ago we went to see The Pixies (also at Massey Hall; they played another anthem album, <span style="font-style: italic;">Doolittle)</span>, and a couple weeks before that we went to see the Elephant 6 Collective (although another throw-back to the 90s, I had only started listening to these bands in the last couple years). I'm lucky to know some of the musicians whose words and sounds have made such an impact on my life. I feel words deeply. They are more than letters strung together. They are always pregnant with meaning and precious with pause -- they keep me whole and make me who I am. Without them, without being constantly amazed by how other people use them, I would be lost. Without my own words, I would have drifted off into the abyss of the disease, of the general overwhelming tragedy of my life, years and years ago. And then to know the incredible human beings behind the words, the melody, the tunes that are as familiar to me as the smell of the city after a delicious rainfall, well, I'm lucky.<br /><br />In a way, I want our RRBB to know his parents outside of this role we have fallen into simply because of his creation. When we first announced his impending arrival, thus dubbed "fig" for the duration of his incubation, our families and friends were really excited for us. The baby became the centre of our universe. It's all anyone talked about, and now that he's here, he's the star of the show, and rightfully so. He's a gregarious, delicious little creature who brings the joy like nothing I've ever had in my life. But we were people before him. In fact, I think we were pretty interesting people. And for him to appreciate how rich he has made our lives, he needs to know how rich our lives were before he was a fig in my belly. Our lives aren't captured on film, so he'll rely on photos and stories and seeing the people we've known for more than 20 years at birthdays and occasions and dinners and we'll become the "parents" -- it's generational, and it's not something that can be changed. I don't want to be his friend. I am his mother. This is a role I take very seriously, but I do want him to know us as friends in relation to the people we know, to the goodness we've put out into the world, to the weight we attach to words in both of our lives. We can play him the songs. Perhaps he'll fall in love with them too. Perhaps he won't. Maybe he'll hate music and want only to play hockey. Maybe he'll really not like books (argh!) and love video games. Who knows. For now, I'm satisfied to let him in a little bit at time -- to dance around the kitchen yelling "Torra loora rye aye" and hoping he feels the joy I feel when I hear that song.<br /><br />It's Mother's Day. We are not celebratory people, in a sense, no, that doesn't describe it. Celebrating life on specific, somewhat made up holidays (Valentine's Day, etc) has never really been my/our thing. I mean, I know I've told this story before, but neither of us can ever remember our wedding day -- RRHB because he wasn't convinced about getting married in the first place and me because I was always convinced I just wanted to be married and couldn't give a whip about a wedding. People look at me strange when I say I honestly have no idea when my anniversary is, but I'm more interested in being with my RRHB on a daily basis, on celebrating my marriage in my own way, than I am about making a big deal about anniversaries, holidays, etc. We love our families. We love our family. We love each other. We love him. I've survived another day with the disease and, in ways, I think nostalgia truly takes up enough space in my life in so many good ways that I don't need to save it all up for one day. When my RRHB kept asking me what I wanted to do for Mother's Day, I didn't have an answer. And then, I'm glad I didn't. Because today was perfect and perfectly us. We got up, had pancakes, took the baby for a wonderful walk by the lake, and spent an afternoon talking nostalgia about the last twenty years. And, for the first time in a long, long time, my eyes are wet and dripping with tears that feel like little blessings and not the unbearable weight of the disease.Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-62354270518222390052011-05-08T16:15:00.004-04:002011-05-08T19:22:11.970-04:00#41 - Must You Go?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikk_wLGqzicWYZthMgozjJFr3Bup7JtW7Op6CRM4z05Wt_707WoO3tyJgRtsXCAL4GnVFofunF1a6Imo4yguhLC7UXKR_zCDfRwwyG51cjSBX0hMXlr_28s4nl-59eIff2gpZUuA/s1600/must_you_go.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 135px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikk_wLGqzicWYZthMgozjJFr3Bup7JtW7Op6CRM4z05Wt_707WoO3tyJgRtsXCAL4GnVFofunF1a6Imo4yguhLC7UXKR_zCDfRwwyG51cjSBX0hMXlr_28s4nl-59eIff2gpZUuA/s200/must_you_go.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604447801962635842" border="0" /></a>Antonia Fraser's <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2010/jan/16/must-you-go-fraser-review">memoir</a> <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/29/books/29book.html?ref=books">of her life with Harold Pinter</a> could not have been more delightful had it actually been delivered to my door as ice cream, toffee and chocolate sauce. Sweet, but not saccarine, sharp but not severe, it's simply an account of two people who met, fell in love, and then spent the rest of their lives together. Fraser, well known for her biographies of Mary, Queen of Scots, all of Henry's wives, among other writings, met Pinter, the infamous playwright, while both were ensconced in other long-term marriage (each had been with their spouses for eighteen years). Neither expected to leave their marraige. Neither expected to fall so deliciously in love with one another -- but that's exactly what happened.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/10/29/books/excerpt-must-you-go.html">Fraser's elegy to her late husband opens with the explanation of the book's title</a> -- Fraser, having met Pinter in passing, was about to leave a party, when she stepped over to say goodbye, he said, "Must you go?" She didn't, and they spent the rest of the night and a good part of the next morning talking. Thus setting the tone for not only their relationship but for how the two would build an exceptionally happy marriage. Taken almost exclusively from her Diary writings, the book's construction remains remarkably linear, a story told from beginning, to the middle, and to the end, which might feel tedious in the hands of a lesser writer. Even Fraser's everyday notations are fascinatingly witty, endearing and utterly full of heart. The entire book has a sweetness to it but, at the same time, it's also an incredible glimpse into the private lives of two very famous writers. How they work seems almost secondary to the everyday goings on -- the lunches, the friendships, the travelling, their children -- and the creative process is never discussed in any depth, simply mentioned in passing as a part of the rest of their lives.<br /><br />Diary entries seem so private. And I'm sure a solid amount of sculpting and editing has gone into shaping them so that they make sense in a more public way. This isn't a traditional memoir, and even though it's so very different stylistically, it's just as moving as Joan Didion's <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2005/10/09/books/review/09pinsky.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Year of Magical Thinking</span></a>. Yet where Didion almost collapses under the weight of her loss, Fraser seems to be more intent upon writing a celebration of their lives. I'm certain that Fraser deeply mourned the loss of the love of her life but she's got a wonderful attitude towards life -- always enjoying the experience, always looking for the next bit of history to capture her attention, always celebrating her immensely happy marriage -- that's infectious. It's a great book to be reading when your own life isn't necessarily going in the up and up, especially health-wise, especially to see that Pinter was still acting, still writing (but not necessarily new plays; more poems and short pieces), and still incredibly active politically even when he was suffering from cancer, yet another disease, and then the painful side effects of all the medication.<br /><br />I'm consistently amazed at the amount of true work that they both managed to accomplish, especially in the middle years of their lives, what with seven kids (Fraser had six; Pinter, one) to raise and plenty of drama (Pinter's ex-wife had a hard time accepting that he had left and refused on numerous occasions to grant him a divorce). In the truest sense of the word, for me, this was a book that proves that love triumphs, that a good attitude can battle any adversity, that it's worth standing up for your politics, for your love, for your life, and that visiting dead writers's graves always makes for an excellent photo opp. I had a library copy, which I had to return, or else I would have quoted from the book directly -- but what I would have loved, as well, is a bibliography of everything that Fraser and/or Pinter read over the years, an addendum to their writing lives -- what a fascinating study that would have made as well. Regardless, it's an excellent read, and one that I'm so happy I found.<br /><br />Also, <span style="font-style: italic;">Must You Go?</span> REALLY makes you want to keep a daily diary, but knowing my life isn't remotely as exciting as the Pinter/Fraser household, perhaps I'll refrain and just steady on here as I've been doing the last few years.Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-40941787519736846152011-05-06T15:55:00.003-04:002011-05-08T16:15:04.369-04:00#40 - The Troubled Man<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQ25wJt_bueClXW0tqKYzpxS8ARYfJ_uJQ-YkubfgxRcsEGCIpdwQI4ReV04PHP_2EGbIFG_rBH9Y4CG-AZEY5I9Rs_BeN6NuJH8UET4Vg_fiqrl184B6Igrv-aOk0YXWZG5vhg/s1600/troubled_man.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 137px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQ25wJt_bueClXW0tqKYzpxS8ARYfJ_uJQ-YkubfgxRcsEGCIpdwQI4ReV04PHP_2EGbIFG_rBH9Y4CG-AZEY5I9Rs_BeN6NuJH8UET4Vg_fiqrl184B6Igrv-aOk0YXWZG5vhg/s200/troubled_man.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5604057679964974530" border="0" /></a>This novel was incredibly bittersweet -- not 100% mystery, not 100% your typical Swedish thriller, and there's an element of incredibly honesty about aging throughout these pages. So often, male authors of a certain age (ahem, John Irving, Rushdie, ahem) tread and re-tread their same themes: men sleeping with younger/older women, ridiculous novels that they've written thrice before, and the banner of "literary fiction" seems to save them from ridicule. They rest on their laurels. They rest on the fact that they've written great works before. But I call these novels "mid-life crisis on the page." They generally frustrate me critically and as a reader -- they aren't pushing any boundaries and there's not a lot of honesty going on. I respect honesty on the page, from a writer, from their characters.<br /><br />Mankell's <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.randomhouse.ca/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9780307398833">The Troubled Man</a>, which is not without its problems (the dialogue, in particular, between Wallander and his daughter Linda is rather painful), but at its heart, the theme that touched me most was seeing how such a vibrant, aggressively distinctive man reacts to getting older. And not just middle age, but old age, as Wallander starts forgetting things, losing time and generally suffering from the first symptoms of dementia. It's actually quite heartbreaking -- yet, it doesn't stop Wallander from solving the novel's key mystery -- the disappearance of Linda's quasi-father-in-law.<br /><br />The mystery in the novel seems straightforward at first, HÃ¥kan von Enke, a highly decorated, extremely respected naval officer (he was the captain of various Swedish submarines) simply disappears on day while on his daily walk. There's nothing missing from his bank accounts, he has taken no clothes, and it's as if he vanished into thin air. And when, a few weeks later, his wife also vanishes without a trace, the entire story becomes more complex. Are the von Enke's what they seem? Are they alive? Are they dead? Wallander does his best to solve the mystery -- looking at things from a different perspective, turning them over in his mind, until the book comes to its penultimate action, and the case is solved.<br /><br />Mankell writes in tangents, suddenly Wallander's making steak or doing something that simply appears in the story, and there are a lot of characters that seem to show up to tie up loose ends -- both in terms of the detective's life and of the central mystery. It's interesting that much of this novel takes place outside of Wallander's actual police duties. He's on sick leave and/or vacation for most of the book, but like many hero's of crime fiction, he just can't stop working. The case sits before him, eating away at his subconscious, until he finally figures out the answers. Taking the focus away from traditional police work allows the novel to pay attention to Wallander's personal life -- his old relationships, the loss of good friends, the general sense of melancholy he feels about aging, about what's happening to his brain.<br /><br />Again, the tangents that Mankell intersperses throughout the text are sometimes daunting, they pull away from the story and allow the narrative to wander. In a way, it feels as if Mankell, by consistently pulling Wallander in all these different directions, is narratively representing the state of his mind -- disjointed, sometimes confused, sometimes razor sharp, agile, angry, yet always on the cusp of discovery (and eventually he does solve the crime). All in all, like I said at the beginning of the post, it's a bittersweet read -- but one that challenges the idea of "genre" fiction, more 'end of life' (is there a word for this, like the opposite of buldingsroman?) novel than anything, and there's nothing that makes you think more than the mortality of one of your favourite characters on the page.Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-81761215038168783222011-05-02T12:39:00.004-04:002011-05-03T14:29:48.231-04:00The Prednisone Crazies: A Top 10 List<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpeVo6tPu03cyo3WA0kivocc24TLNNcAOYDJnk7O31bUvfA-kjhQl39HbDUEQeiElqlRZKRSC8gNUBXKpGQCQSqT_W2Yc3sq8FTKMnhUKAoKUQ725XJnDvqSfMNVEYs-193RFpQQ/s1600/ethan+360.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpeVo6tPu03cyo3WA0kivocc24TLNNcAOYDJnk7O31bUvfA-kjhQl39HbDUEQeiElqlRZKRSC8gNUBXKpGQCQSqT_W2Yc3sq8FTKMnhUKAoKUQ725XJnDvqSfMNVEYs-193RFpQQ/s200/ethan+360.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602159559372828578" border="0" /></a>Throughout the history of my having <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wegener%27s_granulomatosis"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Wegener</span></a>'s, I've been taking <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">prednisone</span> off and on for about 20 years. Not consistently, but always as the disease flares, gently in some cases, and more aggressively (like now) in others. My system seems to be sensitive to the drug, to all drugs actually, which means that I tend to experience the side effects deeply. It's how I ended up with my tragic hip -- <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Avascular</span> Necrosis brought on by massive doses of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">prednisone</span> when the disease was first diagnosed and the doctors were aggressively treating the disease to save my kidneys, and to stop my lungs from bleeding (which is what happened at Week 32 of my pregnancy as well). The most intense side effect I feel from the drug would have to be the psychosis. More often than not, it sends me reeling into a pit of depression and this always seems to last so much longer than the active symptoms of the disease. It's a hard way to live. All of the underlying issues with having a long-term disease, of battling for your health on a daily basis, of coping with the absolute fact that you can't control what's happening, of never knowing and/or feeling 100% yourself for months, even years at a time, are exhausting. So, after much thought, I'm trying to be more positive and reconnect with all of the things in my life that make me, well, me, so I don't go completely off the rails this time with the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">meds</span>. Usually, it's thinks like routine and work that keep me grounded, but as I'm on mat leave, it's harder to cling to the old ways of coping.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1. Get Outside</span><br />The weather truly sucks my ass. I mean, it's raining ALL the time, and it's oppressive. But, I find even if I take a short walk, mainly with the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">RRBB</span>, I feel better. I also managed to get an hour's worth of gardening done this week (that's my wild arugula coming up) while my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">RRHB</span> took the baby for a walk.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">2. Read</span><br />Yes, I know I do this anyway, but the more I read, the more I feel like I'm moving forward in my life. perhaps that doesn't make much sense but it helps ground my brain in more than the frenetic panic that the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">prednisone</span> causes -- it stops me from collapsing entirely into the cloud-like depression that hangs overhead. It's a cliched, but apt, metaphor for how the drugs envelop your brain. Reading gives my imagination a chance to battle it back.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">3. Write</span><br />This is self-explanatory. Last night the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">RRBB</span> went to bed at 645. If we keep this up, I can actually take an hour or two right after he goes down and after scarfing down some dinner to string some of my own non-blog words together. It's energy I don't have but that I can't afford to waste either watching the last 16 or so episodes of <span style="font-style: italic;">Oprah</span>, which is what I have been doing.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">4. Ask for Help</span><br />I'm terrible at this -- but the best and only way of coping with the psychosis, for me anyway, is talk therapy. I've tried drugs and I don't like to take them. And the fact that I've been sleepless for so long isn't helping the weeping, and if I can at least try and express some of the hopelessness I feel in a safe environment, it means that the "crazies" (and how they manifest in my brain) won't necessarily overwhelm me to the point where I'm scrubbing bathrooms with a toothbrush and bleach at 3AM.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">5. Restorative Yoga</span><br />Goodness, I wish we weren't so bloody broke. But I know now is not the time to be taking private restorative yoga classes. However, I can't say enough how awesome and healing my practice is in terms of both the disease and what it does to my brain. Right now, we're doing a bit of <a href="http://www.libertymovement.ca/Pre%20%26%20Post%20Natal/50420751-42B1-4867-9EA7-E7AB59980186.html">Mom and Baby yoga</a> on Thursdays at Liberty Movement Studio, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">that'll</span> have to do.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">6. Letting The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">OCD</span> In One List At A Time</span><br />One of the ways that the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">prednisone</span> manifests itself is through <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">OCD</span> tendencies. I make endless lists, spend hours running through figures, worry about dirt, and organize and re-organize things like shelves, books, closets. In a way, I think it's a way for my mind to cope with the overwhelming sense that I have utterly no control over what's happening in my body. The more I feel like I have control, the calmer I am, even if there's little to nothing that I can do about rising <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">creatinine</span> levels or coughing up crap -- I have to leave that up to the doctors and the medication -- I can try and staunch the rapidly increasing panic that sits in the middle of my chest with an active To Do List and more organization.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">7. Trying Not To Be So Hard On Myself</span><br />I look terrible. I feel terrible. I don't feel like myself. I don't look like myself. I could spend hours creating negative downward spirals of self-defeatist thinking, abandoning all rational thought, starting silly fights with my spouse about feeling all of the above, and then, I have to stop. Because you know what a great cure for the above is -- the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">RRBB</span>. His silly grin and absolute joy in my company, regardless of how hard it is to find the energy to take care of him, means I'm smiling for most of the day. Everyone looks better when they are smiling, even if their cheeks are ridiculously puffy and outlandish from the disease. Hey, here's a silver lining -- usually the "moon face" is accompanied by acne, but I'm guessing post-natal hormones have kept that in check because my skin is actually quite clear. This also means not feeling bad about watching too much television or all of the other goals on my usual New Year's Revolutions list.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">8. Don't Listen to the Voices in My Head</span><br />The worst of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">prednisone</span> crazies, the voices that suddenly come upon the scene and tell me to do horrible things like drive my car into oncoming traffic and/or jump off a high rise, haven't started yet. This is something I'm incredibly thankful for. The pressure of what goes on in my brain is so intense that years ago I started doing something odd -- climbing in my closet and closing the door. And when I feel most overwhelmed, when there's nothing but mud and anger between my ears, all I want to do is climb back into the closet. A long time ago, I filled them up with stuff so that it wasn't a possibility. I thought it was the most rational thing to do at the time, but now I can calm myself down by thinking that I'd <span style="font-style: italic;">like</span> to get in, but not actually crawling into the cupboard and closing the door. Even small steps are victories. Right?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">9. Weep</span><br />Better out than in.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">10. Know That I Will Get Better</span><br />This one is the hardest. Living with a long-term disease is like an endurance run -- it's a permanent change to your life, it forces you in directions you would never go, and forces you to contend with your mortality more often than not. Positive thinking, that's what so many people tell me -- my yoga teacher, in the form of a mantra; my family, in the form of how much love and good energy they have towards me; my friends, in the form of their never-ending support. Now I need to translate all of that into my own mind and know that I will get better, even if it takes months, years, this time around, I have so much more life ahead of me, I just wish I could live it. You know?Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-66443081116778531702011-05-02T09:54:00.007-04:002011-05-02T12:37:54.013-04:00#39 - The Elegance of the Hedgehog<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfv0UDtP3fUpmxQ5zwYEFEjkq63u7sLe4IDWRNfdoNFUci-vvUEcw2NyczoORhXjxucdNedhgDwuigvD0U9ZZ7TvOcGGt-Jx46ymENPZxPHxlQpkeijdNs6WmCGvufU3-0YwkZcw/s1600/elegance_hedgehog.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 170px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfv0UDtP3fUpmxQ5zwYEFEjkq63u7sLe4IDWRNfdoNFUci-vvUEcw2NyczoORhXjxucdNedhgDwuigvD0U9ZZ7TvOcGGt-Jx46ymENPZxPHxlQpkeijdNs6WmCGvufU3-0YwkZcw/s200/elegance_hedgehog.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5602155715624595650" border="0" /></a>Two very good friends recommended this book to me, and they were both so very correct to do so considering how much I enjoyed it. <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/07/books/review/James-t.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Elegance of the Hedgehog</span></a> is a compelling, intelligent and utterly charming book. From the setting, an elegant apartment building in the centre of Paris where exceptionally well off people live, Barbery sculpts the story from two distinct points of view. Renee, the building's concierge, spends her days hiding her intelligence from those who live above her -- both literally and metaphorically. Paloma, an incredibly precocious and bright 12-year-old, lives on the fifth floor and also hides -- from her parents, from her schoolmates, from just about anyone simply because she likes to be quiet and think.<br /><br />Both are convinced that there are deep metaphysical and philosophical reasons to hide. Renee hides because she's convinced the boundaries of society -- she being a lowly concierge -- defines her in a particular time, place, essence. Paloma hides because she's convinced that life isn't necessarily worth continuing -- she's decided to commit suicide the moment of her 13th birthday, it's the only logical thing someone of her intelligence can do, you see. Both create personas they show to the world and keep their true selves hidden away. Until one day when a new tenant renovates an apartment in the building, a mysterious Mr. Ozu, discovers the truth about both of them, connecting them in a way that only kindred spirits (those of the Anne of Green Gables kind) can be connected.<br /><br />The novel skips back and forth between the worlds of Paloma (from upstairs) and Renee (from downstairs) and at once you get the view of the classicism Barbary seems to be exploring. There's deep philosophical undercurrents running through the novel. Renee attempts to teach herself phenomenology (which, if I remember anything from my second year class in existentialism is simply incomprehensible), she explores Japanese films, reads the Russians and generally soaks up impressive amounts of knowledge. Yet, even though she's just a lowly concierge, her intelligence can't be hidden forever -- and it takes an outsider, someone who truly "sees" her, to break open her own psychological barriers about her background and the expectations she has from her life. Renee believes she's a peasant -- and that shall forever set her aside from those she serves.<br /><br />Paloma, born into wealth and privilege, easily sees through the trappings of her societal sect. She's vicious when it comes to cutting through the nonsense, mocks her mother's seemingly useless therapy, feels her sister's academic pursuits are more for show than anything, and is constantly questioning the world around her to find meaning. In a way, she's represents an epistomological side to within the novel -- always wondering about knowledge, driving her own theories about what meaning truly is, and defining herself consistently by what she knows or how she knows it.<br /><br />Renee, if we are speaking in dichotomies, despite her Cartesian inferences, is the flipside -- more ontological, she's consistently questioning her very existence, talking in terms of not being "seen" and/or "noticed" by the people she interacts with every day. Metaphorically, it goes back to the age-old "if a tree falls in the forest..." kind of thinking. The more Renee hides, the more she proves her theory that her true self isn't worthy of existence, and when she is "found out" to be the brilliant, interesting, fascinating, self-taught lovely woman she is -- the revelation isn't lost on those around her. And love, which she believed to be forever banished from her life, becomes a very real and distinct possibility.<br /><br />The novel is just full of delicious, quotable prose, but because I had a library book, I didn't want to ear mark the pages and was never around a pen and pencil to jot things down. Just know that there were moments of absolute bliss when I was reading this book -- a clarity of character and perception that I found so refreshing -- and the ending, oh, the ending, it's very sad, but oh so fitting, and I am ever so glad that I read this book.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">WHAT'S NEXT:</span> I'm reading the latest Wallander novel by Mankell. Hoping to get it finished and then on to my other library books before I take everything back this week. And get back to my shelves for the next little while.Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-7999836417636252692011-04-28T16:52:00.003-04:002011-04-28T17:21:01.274-04:00Notes From A House Frau XX<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqedk8OIAdXUpOT5fv7AEeKmUkm181d4vUd-4tOEGWeL6a-g9U7vEsaMp78TgOkOJ1cc05SE87wrUVW0vXnJRfZVxUOfADLWmP6jMBr77joCyHt_XTzmFSH9aAkm9ZclEmYixlrA/s1600/ethan_six_months.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqedk8OIAdXUpOT5fv7AEeKmUkm181d4vUd-4tOEGWeL6a-g9U7vEsaMp78TgOkOJ1cc05SE87wrUVW0vXnJRfZVxUOfADLWmP6jMBr77joCyHt_XTzmFSH9aAkm9ZclEmYixlrA/s200/ethan_six_months.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600740479517974418" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">I Am Drowning in Empathy</span><br /><br />At this very moment, my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">RRHB</span> is serenading the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">RRBB</span> with very sweet guitar sounds, singing softly to him, and I am finding it a struggle not to bawl. I am not going to lie. Things are hard right now. It's been a long six months of fighting the disease with very little good news. As a result of my blood work being so wonky, I'm back on a higher dose of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">prednisone</span> and it's actually taking its toll this time around. I am defeated and down. I am hoping every moment of every day that it isn't reflected in my parenting. That the baby can't take one look at his puffy, grey-haired mother and think: "Why did I end up with <span style="font-style: italic;">her</span>?"<br /><br />He's six months old now, and we officially have to start weaning him. I need to start taking not one but probably two different medications for the disease, and neither are compatible with nursing. I am so hesitant to let it go, not because I think it's so good for him, or because we've created an accidental parenting nightmare with him only nursing to sleep for the most part but, rather, because it's truly the one thing that's gone so very right amongst all of the wrong the last few months. He's a champion nurser -- has gained a great deal of weight, and is rarely waking up more than once a night now that we've got a semi-decent bedtime routine going. I'm clinging to breastfeeding in the sense that it's a symbol of normalcy in terms of my life at the moment. I feel like a regular everyday mom, and not one whose exhaustion comes from a battle going on within her own body rather than the comforting tiredness of raising an infant.<br /><br />I can't seem to hold back the blues any longer. I've tried. I'm doing it all right: I'm getting out, getting exercise, seeing friends, have a great support system, but when my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">creatinine</span> hit 180 and I knew the disease was back to its nasty, aggressive self, I felt palpable fear. A panic in the middle of my chest. An ache in my belly. A tell-tale sign that if you don't fight psychologically as well as physically, the disease can beat you on all accounts. But thinking positively has never been a strong suit of mine. It's funny -- I like to think of myself as relatively upbeat person. Glass half-full. Glass half-fun. Lots of jokes. Laughing a lot. Enjoying life however it comes to me, but then, pour the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">prednisone</span> into my system and I become entrenched in the cocoon of depressive thinking, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">everything's</span> going wrong, I suck at it all, I look terrible, I feel even worse, and it's a vicious cycle that seems as hard to get off as a British roundabout.<br /><br />And I cry. And cry. And cry. Not in front of the baby. And not about anything in general. I just feel so bad about so many different things -- silly TV movies, an episode of Law and Order, a book, a newspaper article, the state of the environment, the election -- the list goes on. I'm drowning in empathy. Goodness, my mother, who lived for over twenty years in a chronic care hospital, had a horrible existence. And I can't stop thinking about her lately, feeling such epic pain on her behalf, and I know it's not rational, she has thankfully passed away now, that it kept me up for hours the other night. Like Leonard Cohen sings, "I ache in places now where I used to play." I know he means it slightly differently than I would interpret, more bodily, but my mind is aching in ways I haven't had to deal with in decades. And I can keep it together. I am keeping it together. But I'm missing out on my own life in a way too. That's what disease does to you -- robs you of your potential. I've always thought that I've put up a really good fight of taking that potential back, of climbing out in ways that I can feel proud of: advanced degrees, writing, a career that I enjoy, a family, but for right now I'd settle for progress in a medical sense. For better test results, for my body to respond to the treatment, for someone to find a magical solution that rips the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Wegener's</span> from my body once and for all.<br /><br />Funnily, the baby and I are struggling together. He's trying so desperately to move. He rolls and rolls and rolls and rolls but can't get any further, and then he fusses because it's frustrating not to be able to go where you want to go. I roll him back and pat his belly, tickle him a little, sing a little song, and he grins -- it's so delicious it could be a vegan cupcake -- and then we start the whole ritual over again. But I know while he can be the "measure of my dreams" (so say the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Pogues</span>), he can't be the solution to what's going on in my brain. He doesn't need that kind of pressure -- I have to pull myself up from the malaise myself. Burdening your children with your happiness -- what could be worse, I think, in terms of screwing them up for life.<br /><br />Yet, there's so much joy in the everyday. We took the picture above yesterday when all three of us sat outside on our back porch and just watched the rainstorm. Pounding down all around us, we three happy and dry, the rain was another new experience for him, and for us too, in a way, looking at it from his point of view, wanting him to know weather, life, the outdoors, our backyard, all the potential of his life. Maybe that's the point, to remind myself that I still have potential, that the disease can't take it all, I don't have to let it win. But today, it's winning. Today, I'm crying a little bit too much. I don't want to leave the house. I want to eat Doritos, nachos and all kinds of other bad food. Thankfully, the Nephews are coming over for an hour and that should distract all of us from the maudlin feeling-sorry-for-myself kind of day I'm having.Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-45863489611116034292011-04-28T14:16:00.004-04:002011-04-28T16:52:37.648-04:00#38 - Anthills of the Savannah<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnYNrXNZ3KtYdxAqX8JTDek_IjrribvLBiZacERYXkc3bRJ02-g4cbG_sL2Y4eA7DSVcfkAlBw7YE0A3xYMwyJd1qYIJYk38Bld9W_KxO7oo_iacIzeNqFkAdvQhbrlbBtgcos7g/s1600/anthills.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 125px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnYNrXNZ3KtYdxAqX8JTDek_IjrribvLBiZacERYXkc3bRJ02-g4cbG_sL2Y4eA7DSVcfkAlBw7YE0A3xYMwyJd1qYIJYk38Bld9W_KxO7oo_iacIzeNqFkAdvQhbrlbBtgcos7g/s200/anthills.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5600711939510222818" border="0" /></a>Because we had been reading a lot of Can Lit in our book club, and a lot of short stories to boot, I put forth <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chinua_Achebe"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Chinua</span> Achebe</a>'s <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/1988/02/21/books/a-tyranny-of-clowns.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">Anthills of the Savannah</span></a> as our April selection. Over the years, my post-colonial reading has declined dramatically, and it was one of the goals of having an Around the World in 52 Books challenge -- to end up reading more non-Canadian fiction. Alas, it was probably a good thing that I decided to actually make dinner for The Vicious Circle Book Club, if only so they'd forgive me for choosing such a dense, complex novel.<br /><br />It took me six tries just to get passed the first few chapters, and we decided as a club that once you got to page 40, the book became readable, and you were somewhat home free. With respect to construction, it's the most post-modern novel I've read in a long time: perspective switches from first, to third, from character to character, and the narrative often circles around events, moving back and forth in time, just assuming the reader will keep up. Here's where we bring out that old <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">po</span>-co staple -- that a lot of African fiction follows more oral than narrative traditions, but I'm not sure I'd make the sweeping generalization that Achebe was setting out to prove that -- maybe it more like he was trying to reflect the impossibility of telling a story, a straight forward, this happened, and then this happened, and then this happened, kind of story, when your world is in utter chaos.<br /><br />Set in the fictional West African nation, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Kangon</span>, three old school friends, Sam, Chris and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Ikem</span>, Western-educated men living among the upper echelons of society, must redefine their relationships now that Sam has become His Excellency -- the country's dictator. As Chris, one of the main characters says, "I have thought of all of this as a game that began innocently enough and then went suddenly strange and poisonous." As the rest of the novel unravels, the story is strong: Sam wants to stay in power, and even though there's an uprising "in the north" against him (which is a product of deep misunderstanding and miscommunication), lifelong friends Chris and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Ikem</span>, now the Minister for Information and the editor of the national newspaper respectively, bear the brunt of Sam's fall from grace and are fired, forced into hiding and fighting for their lives.<br /><br />Because characters are "witnesses," the novel changes form on the drop of a hat -- you can be in the first person with Chris in a meeting, then be reading some whimsical treatise by <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Ikem</span>, listening to Beatrice, Chris's girlfriend, speak pidgin English with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Elewa</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Ikem's</span> girlfriend, and then be in the middle of some strange scene involving non-doctors and other visiting dignitaries from all of their time in London. Structurally, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">narratively</span>, the novel makes little sense, but the story is so powerful and the writing so excellent that instead of writing the book off as "bad" per <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">se</span>, I spent a long time trying to unravel why Achebe chose to tell it this way.<br /><br />There are moments of pure grief in this novel. Acts of senseless violence, struggles that seem utterly relevant now, especially in light of what's happening in the Middle East and in Northern Africa. There's also an element of futility to the story, and the strength, the power in the continuation of life comes from the female characters. This was not something that went unnoticed by our book club -- we all really loved the character of Beatrice, and I even went so far as to suggest that I probably would have found the novel <span style="font-style: italic;">easier</span> if the entire book was written from her point of view. But easy isn't the point, life itself isn't easy, and living in a nation that's having violent growing pains isn't a story that can be told in traditional ways. In a sense, Achebe's novel proves that our "canon," the Western tradition, isn't necessarily up to scratch when it comes to the complex and difficult "isms" surrounding the characters in this novel. I could think about it for weeks and not unpack it completely. And, if I were still in school, I think I'd be very happy to write a long, complex paper about it.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.picklemethis.com/2011/04/27/the-vicious-circle-reads-anthills-of-the-savannah-by-chinua-achebe/">Kerry does an awesome job of recounting our discussion from the other night</a>.<br /><br />What's Up Next: I'm devouring <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/09/07/books/review/James-t.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Elegance of the Hedgehog</span></a>. It's delicious and delightful and utterly engaging. I'm almost through and I only started last night! And then I've got a long list of library books AND a beautiful friend who knows me so well sent me Roddy Doyle's latest book of short stories -- I couldn't resist, I've already read the first 5 pages and can't wait to read the rest. I <span style="font-style: italic;">adore</span> him. So, I've abandoned Off the Shelf for now, but only because I needed a break. I was reading far, far too many mediocre books (with the exception of Julian Barnes, natch) and needed a breather. But I will go back. I am determined to read every single damn book that's perched there, just to say that I did. Stubborn, yes. <span style="font-style: italic;">I know</span>.Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-34813483591868604062011-04-22T17:53:00.005-04:002011-04-25T09:55:44.351-04:00TRH Books - Catching Up<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTa8XLewOCIu6OFWyRUd7DXQ-HvTHJUocxMrY93xEsF0nbpCQ88Wu2iUn637KdX8zI_gnZ0ehB_mfcbpcSW1VX3HtonZDijvSwNn2Jus8bcATqtQbXaY8nYaFKd17C7HbiJPU_Ng/s1600/stonecutter.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 131px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTa8XLewOCIu6OFWyRUd7DXQ-HvTHJUocxMrY93xEsF0nbpCQ88Wu2iUn637KdX8zI_gnZ0ehB_mfcbpcSW1VX3HtonZDijvSwNn2Jus8bcATqtQbXaY8nYaFKd17C7HbiJPU_Ng/s200/stonecutter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599519448752885682" border="0" /></a>I don't have time these days for individual posts but I do want to catch up so that I can take the time in the next couple weeks to really talk about a few books on my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">TBR</span> pile. I've abandoned my stacks lately and have been reading library books for the most part, or books that the publishers have sent over. But here goes:<br /><br />#33 - <a href="http://www.penguin.ca/nf/Book/BookDisplay/0,,9780141399973,00.html?THE_BRIGHTEST_STAR_IN_THE_SKY_Marian_Keyes">The Brightest Star in the Sky by Marian <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Keye</span></a><a href="http://www.penguin.ca/nf/Book/BookDisplay/0,,9780141399973,00.html?THE_BRIGHTEST_STAR_IN_THE_SKY_Marian_Keyes">s</a><br /><br />At first, I didn't quite understand the premise of this novel. The narrative -- an omniscient "being" trying to figure out where to "land" -- tells the story of the inhabitants of a building in modern-day Dublin. Each person and/or couple who lives in the flat has his/her/their issues in terms of life, work, relationships. You know, vintage Marian <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Keyes</span>. It's a swift, sweet and predictable read, but I enjoyed the book.<br /><br /><a href="http://browseinside.harpercollins.ca/index.aspx?isbn13=9780061938368">#34 - The Girl in the Green Raincoat by Laura <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Lippman</span><br /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Rear Window</span> meets <span style="font-style: italic;">She's Having a Baby</span> (without the histrionics) -- Laura <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Lippman's</span> Tess <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Monaghan</span> is laid up with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">pre</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">eclampsia</span> prior to the birth of her daughter. When she sees a dog race by without its green raincoat wearing owner, she finds herself embroiled in a missing persons case she needs to solve from her bedside. I missed the novel when it was serialized in the New York Times Magazine, but I loved the story anyway: it's short, yes, but it's also vintage <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Lippman</span>, smart, sassy, and truly addictive. In the post-script, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Lippman</span> explains the particular challenge of writing an ongoing character and/or story in serial format, and how she made each chapter complete while progressing the larger narrative as a whole. Fascinating.<br /><br /><a href="http://browseinside.harpercollins.ca/index.aspx?isbn13=9781554680528">#35 - Foursome by Jane Fallon</a><br /><br />Jane Fallon's latest novel, Foursome, tells the story of two married couples who have spent the last fifteen or twenty years being a, well, foursome. The two fellows are best friends; their wives the same. They make perfect pairs -- happily married, great kids, fun, full lives in London -- until everything starts to crumble the minute that one half decides to get divorced. Or, rather, one husband decides he simply isn't happy and doesn't want to be married any longer. When her safe, secure group breaks down, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Rebecca</span> isn't quite sure how to put her life back together. Sure, her marriage is stable, and she's got a job that she loves, but the minute Alex, the husband of her best friend Isabel, professes his undying love for her (oh boy; he's her husband's best friend!), which she has absolutely no interest or willingness to reciprocate, well, all hell breaks loose. And it only gets worse before it gets better when Alex starts to date the loathsome Lorna, her "work enemy." In the end, it's a book that knows that life can never stay the same once major shifts have happened, and whether it's for better or for worse, change really must be accepted. Fallon's such a refreshing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">chicklit</span> writer -- it's hard to describe these novels as "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">chicklit</span>," though, they're well-written, with great characters, more family drama than shoe shopping, and I just adore her sense of humour.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.randomhouse.ca/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9780394221793">#36 - A History of the World in 10 1/2 Chapters</a><a href="http://www.randomhouse.ca/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9780394221793"> by Julian Barnes</a><br /><br />My reading affair with Barnes continues, and I adored this book of short stories. In fact, I'd say that the opening story, "The Stowaway," might just be one of my all-time favourites, moving right up there beside "Hills Like White Elephants." I love the tradition of writing back to our creation stories -- Timothy Findley's <span style="font-style: italic;">Not Wanted on the Voyage</span>, Tom King's <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.harpercollins.ca/books/Green-Grass-Running-Water-King-Thomas/?isbn=9781554685257">Green Grass, Running Water</a> -- and Barnes does it exceptionally well. He winks at the reader throughout with the woodworm popping up in the most peculiar of places, and "Parenthesis," might just be the most <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">heartbreakingly</span> beautiful discussion of love I've read in ages. Overall, these stories are brilliant, vintage Barnes and I can't wait to read <a href="http://www.julianbarnes.com/bib/fp.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">Flaubert's Parrot</span></a>, which is next on my Barnes Read-a-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">thon</span>.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.harpercollins.co.uk/Titles/38435/the-stonecutter-camilla-lackberg-9780007253975">#37 - The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Stonecutter</span> by Camilla <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Lackberg</span></a><br /><br />I wasn't too terribly impressed with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Lackberg's</span> first novel, <a href="http://tragicrighthip.blogspot.com/2010/10/48-ice-princess.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">The Ice Princess</span></a>. But <span style="font-style: italic;">The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Stonecutter</span></span> is a definite improvement, despite its utterly confusing title -- perhaps it should have been called The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Stonecutter's</span> Wife, but whatever. After reading an article from NPR about other Swedish crime mysteries to equal THE Swedish Crime Series of the Century (<span style="font-weight: bold;">The Girl With The...</span>), I thought I'd give her another try. There's still a lot of sloppiness to her novels: far too many characters and subplots meant to throw you off the "scent" of the main mystery and its conclusion. But I enjoyed the back and forth, past to the present, of this truly horrible character named Agnes -- she's was deliciously wicked in an awful way. And how <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Lackberg</span> ties everything together in the end is quite satisfying. And I'm ever enjoyed the progression of the relationship between Erica and Patrick, who's charged with solving the murder of a seven-year-old girl.<br /><br />So, short mini-reviews of my reading this month. Now I am desperately trying to finish Anthills of the Savannah for book club tomorrow evening. No napping for me today! I think <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">RRBB's</span> still got a contact high from all the Easter chocolate his mother may or may not have ingested yesterday anyway.Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-17896651643117202212011-04-19T13:06:00.008-04:002011-04-22T17:53:07.110-04:00Notes From A House Frau IXX<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvyuQNsulVpvcc_Pei1yHQqVZ9TuxedyhSglv5i6G9S5H30O1lM1qOLH0wzXLIa3xOI1uVCyjZsx5hrkKbmNtP9UMTZ7hw33vI0o3ks9giaqTKZ2hX9ChRmjz3rZXd-UNRhhGIKQ/s1600/ethan_cooper.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvyuQNsulVpvcc_Pei1yHQqVZ9TuxedyhSglv5i6G9S5H30O1lM1qOLH0wzXLIa3xOI1uVCyjZsx5hrkKbmNtP9UMTZ7hw33vI0o3ks9giaqTKZ2hX9ChRmjz3rZXd-UNRhhGIKQ/s200/ethan_cooper.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597350256837202274" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">All The Boys In The House</span><br /><br />We baby sat my two nephews the other weekend -- two six-month-old babies (see left) and one five-year-old. And it was chaos. My RRHB had The Nephew outside to do some yard work while I took care of the two wee babes. For a while, it was Keystone Cops: put one baby down, the other would cry; pick him up, then the first baby would cry. Wash. Rinse. Repeat for about 25 minutes. Then I got wise to their mojo and just walked around the house with a baby in each arm. Every now and again the cousins would reach over and hold one another's hands. Babble a little bit. There was a point they were both in the crib and I heard SBC (Sweet Baby Cousin) screaming -- RRBB had turned himself right around and was hoofing him in the head. <span style="font-style: italic;">Hilarious</span>. Then it came time to put them all down: RRBB down first, nurse him while reading The Nephew some stories. RRHB rocking SBC as I put The Nephew to bed. I take SBC and continue to rock him to sleep. The whole production took <span style="font-style: italic;">hours</span>. Seriously, how do people do it? It's an art form, that's for sure. But it was also completely fun.<br /><br />The lessons I learned? Even though it was hard to have more than one baby at one time, and that my body can not remotely sustain another pregnancy, but if I was 10 years younger and 100 times healthier, I'd think I'd have bucketloads more kids. It's just so <span style="font-style: italic;">fun</span>. And that's not to say that my RRHB and didn't have a rich and fulfilling life before RRBB. We did. We travelled and made music and wrote unpublished novels and have wonderful friends and lovely families and loads of nieces and nephews and were considering moving to the UK (just because neither of us have lived anywhere else). But I'd always wanted to have children, and I am so glad that we did -- I'm exhausted, still dealing with a disease that doesn't seem to be quieting down, bored most days with being at home, but feeling enriched emotionally in ways that I find hard to describe. There's an element of patience and kindness in my life that was absent before. I had a terrible temper growing up, and well into adulthood. Apartments with holes in the walls where I kicked them once I realized I'd lost my Metropass or was late because I couldn't find my keys -- all kinds of trivial things that didn't remotely deserve the emotional response I gave them.<br /><br />It's so interesting. Humans have emotions to burn. Piles of pent up anger, rage, discomfort, and some of it's absolutely debilitating. When you add tragedy to the mix, things intensify. There's no where for the energy to go -- and if you don't find active, positive ways to disperse it, I think that's when your brain just goes into overdrive. At least, that's the way it is for me. When I was younger, I held it all in, the pain of losing my mother, the frustration of constantly dealing with a life-threatening disease, a string of ridiculously bad, terrifically awful relationships -- constantly putting pressure on my brittle heart to take more and more. Gaining perspective isn't easy. For me it took one major prednisone-induced breakdown in my 20s. I'm not sure how much I've talked about it -- I couldn't leave the house, was cleaning with bleach at 3 AM, never ate, and was listening to voices in my head telling me to jump off of buildings. Oh, and did I mention I was trying to finish my MA? It was the most difficult emotional time of my life -- I didn't have any coping mechanisms. And once the psychosis hit its peak (the voices), that's when my kidney doctor at the time sent me to a shrink. I credit him with saving my mind and the "prednisone crazies" as I like to call them have never been so bad since. I have tools now of dealing with them -- of knowing what it is and the right way to approach the overwhelming emotions.<br /><br />I needed coping skills this week. My creatinine spiked to 180 (keep in mind normal is 70, and my "normal" is in the 120s) -- the higher that number the less your kidney is functioning. And I was having all kinds of other advanced disease symptoms, terrible joint pain, awful ringing in my ears and ridiculously painful sinuses. I KNEW that because we had dropped the prednisone that it wasn't simply strong enough to contain the Wegener's. I cried, a lot. With the exception of when they diagnosed the disease, I've never had test results that high, and I'm living with the palpable fear that they're not going to be able to control the disease. That my kidneys will go and that'll be that -- positive thinking aside, patience aside, I needed an outlet for all the excess emotions raging through my system. The calmer I am, the better it is -- and thankfully, we got tickets to see The Pixies at Massey Hall (awesome seats, row L!). That one show, they played B sides and Doolittle only, reminded me not only of who I am but where I came from -- we've listened to that record relentlessly. It's one where I know all the words and all the songs and can place myself in different parts of my life through the music.<br /><br />These days, because it's such a fun stage -- the six-month marker, I've been craving the baby. Not like I crave Cadbury's Easter Eggs but more like something pulling at my heart. I don't want to trivialize the relationship or state the obvious, write in cliches (every mother loves their child to abandon blah de freaking blah), but when he's sleeping I wish he was awake. When he's awake, I know he should be sleeping more. On days like today, he's perfectly angelic. Not fussy, eats just about everything in front of him (with the exception of some fruits that he's not crazy about just yet), smiles, sleeps, and cuddles with an intensity that I find hard to replicate. Days like yesterday, well, he's teething, so grumpy and couldn't stand not being held, which makes the hours slow and the time creep. I wouldn't trade it for the world -- either RRBB. I know I'm struggling. I know I'm not getting enough rest. I know I need to stop nursing. I know that the disease is winning these days but I find the joy in the everyday so much more than I ever used to.<br /><br />We went for a beautiful long walk today along the railpath. There were tonnes of birds: mockingbirds, juncos, red-winged blackbirds, and a giant Canada goose. My friend Kath came with us, and she was walking her gorgeous dog, Mannix. The air's cool but fresh. The city is quiet because it's a holiday. And even though I want so much, for it to be warm, for me to lose the baby weight, to not feel the pressure of the disease, I also want to be patient with myself. We aren't having any more kids. I need to not race through this like everything else I do in life, just to get to the end, and then move on to the next thing. Yet, I'm loving every part of his growing up -- I mean, right now the RRHB's playing the piano and the baby seems to be singing along. It's so cute it makes you want to eat his toes. He's kind of screaming like Frank Black at the moment: whaaaaa! Aaaaaa! eeeigh!!!<br /><br />So my life is made up of moments lately. Some good. Some bad. But all connected by this gift of time that I have before me. Six more months and then it's back to work. Then the baby is no longer a baby but a toddler and if one more person tells me how fast it's going to go, I might just start weeping in front of them. I don't want it to go fast. I want it to be the slow food movement of maternity leave. I want it to be all savoury and with rich spices and lots of new and exciting dishes. And when we need it, a frozen pizza or two.Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-11571359403477425142011-04-12T12:56:00.005-04:002011-04-15T15:27:28.165-04:00#32 - Committed<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-2vb-twqkqSgPqlfi_LSUkVyUYYHkxQ0gEHRXZa7mxlAAsQ0cR5I70EuFTFzDMSq7gRlyinNrV722uYTQGmJWd7O_UsT7VEfPEYT9qCW-g-qmGMhguCZeYBZQzUbRctNny4nZBA/s1600/committed.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-2vb-twqkqSgPqlfi_LSUkVyUYYHkxQ0gEHRXZa7mxlAAsQ0cR5I70EuFTFzDMSq7gRlyinNrV722uYTQGmJWd7O_UsT7VEfPEYT9qCW-g-qmGMhguCZeYBZQzUbRctNny4nZBA/s200/committed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5595164293133159058" border="0" /></a>Dear Elizabeth Gilbert,<br /><br />Should you have ever come to one of my book club meetings, you will have discovered that I am not a fan of the epistolary format. It makes me a bit crazy unless it's Mary Shelley, actually. Yet, I feel the need to speak to you directly. Perhaps it's the personal nature of your book or perhaps it's my own selfish need to write a bit differently today -- regardless, here we go, an open letter to you.<br /><br />An apology to start: I really and truly hated <span style="font-style: italic;">Eat, Pray, Love</span>. I didn't give it a proper chance, however, and threw the book across the room halfway through India. The voice, the whining, the lack of appreciation for your life's gifts, it all annoyed me to no end. And then I watched the movie (why oh why does Hollywood insist upon making movies about writers where they never, ever write? Aside from an email or two -- to break up with a boyfriend none the less -- the Liz Gilbert in the film never picks up a book or a pencil. <span style="font-style: italic;">Annoying</span>. Didn't that bother you?) and it affirmed my every action in terms of not finishing that book.<br /><br />Cultural zeitgeist aside, I was weary to read <span style="font-style: italic;">Committed</span>. In fact, I'm not sure why I did -- and it took some effort, an extra trip to the library, a hold, actual dedication to read your book while caring for an ever-increasingly needy infant. But am I ever glad that I did. I'm going to say it loud and clear: I'm so very sorry. I was Judgy McJudgerson when it came to <span style="font-style: italic;">EPL</span>, I couldn't abide by the stories I was hearing of groups of women having themed parties and giving up their own lives for a year of self-journeyment. Maybe I was jealous. Maybe I wanted to be out there too -- travelling for year and then writing about it. I mean, it sounds delicious. Yet, something in <span style="font-style: italic;">Committed</span>, maybe it was the word "skeptic" in the book's subtitle that caught me, or maybe it was the subject matter (being a happily married lady myself but ever-curious about the social and political implications of the institution itself), but I was hooked by the first chapter.<br /><br />In fact, despite the odd pairing of the more anthropological aspects of the memoir with your own personal experiences, I was somewhat taken in by your obsessive/compulsive need to research just about everything you could possibly about marriage before wearily entering into your own second union. <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/10/books/review/Sittenfeld-t.html?_r=2&pagewanted=all">I know Curtis Sittenfeld pointed out that some of the connections between your own research and experiences in limbo while waiting for Felipe's immigration situation to be sorted stretched thin across your narrative, but I didn't mind</a>. I enjoyed learning about the people that you met, the marriages you came across, the kind of social history that seems to only be discussed between women but not necessarily written down. Women need to talk more about their differences. Or, rather, women need to be better aware of the social and political implications of marriage around the world -- if only to appreciate and understand our own particular wants, needs, and biases.<br /><br />But what I adored about your book, and what made me feel like a heel for being so judgmental about your first book, was the story about your grandmother. I, too, grew up with a strong natured, extremely intelligent, ridiculously amazing grandmother -- a war bride who bravely left her family behind in England to start a new life in Canada with a difficult man, who held her family together tragedy after tragedy, and whom I loved so much that I still think about her every single day. Your grandmother, with her sassy fur coat and her determination, her happiness in that tiny farmhouse with her small kids and everything that she gave up -- there's a richness to her story that I felt was missing from the bits of <span style="font-style: italic;">EPL</span> that I read. Maybe I should have been more patient. Maybe more Maud-like stories would have shown up in the "Love" section of your book. Alas, I didn't wait around to find out.<br /><br />I did, however, rip through to the end of this book and was pleased to see that the legalities of your situation worked itself out. That your skepticism still allowed you to take a brave step down the aisle and I could absolutely relate to the idea of wanting to be married but not necessarily needing a "wedding" (we called ours a "non-wedding" for a long time and got married at city hall; it took less than 15 minutes. In fact, the actual "wedding" means so little to either of us that we a) forget our anniversary just about every year and b) neither can remember exactly how long we've been married. Some people might think this strange -- but for me, and for us, it's about the relationship, not the piece of paper, about building a life together, not about the institution. In a way, why did we get married at all, one might wonder. But it was important to me to be married and I'm sure it's exactly as you explore throughout your book -- the way I was raised, the example of my parents' marriage, my grandparents and aunts and uncles.<br /><br />Also, you have such a grand sense of humour throughout this book that perhaps I missed completely while being so annoyed with <span style="font-style: italic;">EPL</span>? The tone of this book was whip-smart yet still with a questioning when it came to having to do something you were both so against from the beginning of your relationship. Lastly, I can absolutely relate to the obsessive/compulsive way you went about coming to terms with having to get hitched -- the research, the restlessness, the ideas of how to still be the "you" that you had discovered after your first failed marriage. And as one who obsesses and has their own compulsive tendencies when it comes to many aspects of my life -- it made me feel better to see someone else put it down in writing so eloquently.<br /><br />So, in short, here's my apology for being so flippant and, well, cruel. I'm sorry.Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10756744.post-74703356522227726972011-04-05T14:18:00.005-04:002011-04-12T12:12:02.917-04:00Notes From A House Frau XVIII<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6uEcrX8f7BAmWgRQKcIrdeVmiGQw_OWXPlpYtB6sdnLy_Rb2gqZ1OpXBc78lv8WsyGsnlpYGU7J3Og0ROLIGx5uzs3-4iWPjyGrh7UpYYFVZUcNP3VhZ1vjzoHuBPux_t_z6eKQ/s1600/ethan_five_months.JPG"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6uEcrX8f7BAmWgRQKcIrdeVmiGQw_OWXPlpYtB6sdnLy_Rb2gqZ1OpXBc78lv8WsyGsnlpYGU7J3Og0ROLIGx5uzs3-4iWPjyGrh7UpYYFVZUcNP3VhZ1vjzoHuBPux_t_z6eKQ/s200/ethan_five_months.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592166606671565346" border="0" /></a>At this very moment, my RRBB, after an exhausting few minutes of rolling over, fussing because he can't get himself back again (like a turtle on its back only in reverse; it's quite funny), has spent the last fifteen or so minutes looking at himself in the mirror on his activity mat. His concentration skills are hilarious. I'm not sure at all what he sees in the mirror but he's absolutely enamoured with whatever it is...<br /><br />Here is our wee boy at five months (five months!) [And this picture is already three weeks old because he's 26 weeks tomorrow]. He's starting to have quite the little personality. My temper, my RRHB's response to anything traumatic (to go to sleep), and a lovely happy smile that belongs to him alone. Everyone keeps telling us that this is the best of the baby stage -- when they get to this age, five or six months, but I'm enjoying every baby stage these days, if only because it's all so new to me, and just so damn fun. That's not to say that I'm not exhausted, because I am, beyond words, and that I'm not frustrated by how the disease still refuses to calm down, because I am, but I'm trying to be calm and collected, find a quiet routine we can settle into, and make the most of the time that I have before heading up to the cottage for the summer (without plumbing!).<br /><br />We gave the RRBB some sweet potatoes this afternoon. His very first non-cereal food. He decided about four bites in that enough was enough and he'd really just prefer to breast feed. It's a slow, patient process, this real-food business. Like anything, I am excited for him and want to record every little thing that happens -- but I can't be sure that when he's older, he'll actually want to know.<br /><br />Over the last few days, I've seen many doctors: SFDD, kidney doctor, gastro doc, and had some blood work done today. I'm not going to lie -- I've been panicking inside a whole lot about the state of my poor kidneys. I have tried to be positive, tried to look at the bright side of it all (that my condition is essentially unchanged since two weeks before having the baby), and yet regardless of all the drugs, of all the "resting," of all the not working, my creatinine is still sky high as is my blood pressure. In all the years I've had the disease, I've never had high blood pressure -- and I hate taking medicine for things that my body should just do right -- and it scares me when I put the cuff on and get a reading like 146/98. We can't afford any more restorative yoga at the moment, and the money I thought would last us a year barely made it through six months. Such is life, right?<br /><br />Last time, I promised I would stop complaining about being sick. Or tired. Sick and tired. A lot of residual shock and awe about how everything turned out led me to try and read other birth stories. <a href="http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=10756744&postID=4334794398303692651&isPopup=true">Helen left a comment letting me know about a collection</a> called <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://www.anansi.ca/titles.cfm?pub_id=1294">Great Expectations: Twenty-Four True Stories About Childbirth</a> edited by Lisa Moore and Dede Crane (#31). And it's <span style="font-style: italic;">excellent</span> (thank you Toronto Public Library for loaning me a copy). I whipped through it in just a couple of hours (over a few days) and came to the conclusion that not a single birth plan goes according to, well, plan. For something that women have been doing since women were, well, invented, childbirth is as complex and ever-changing as people are themselves. I needed to read this -- I needed to know that despite all the best laid plans (birthing tubs, doulas, midwifes, home births, drugs, no drugs) that a women might set out before her due date, chances are something dramatic will change in the minutes when she shouts "it's time" at her husband and/or significant other. It's a bright, fascinating collection -- not a single one of the writers fall back into cliche to describe their experiences, which I felt was a revelation considering most pop culture birth stories coming to us via television and the movies aren't remotely realistic. Like firefighters heading into a blaze without their masks, they're all panting and fake screaming, with babies popping out looking six months old already. But this collection is painstakingly honest, achingly real and just what I needed to read.<br /><br />Anyway, I don't have much else to say. I've been trying to write this blog post for over a week now and the RRBB hasn't let me get much done. I've got two book reviews to get to and a to-do list that is as long as my arm. So, I will stop rambling, for now.Deanna McFaddenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16697013097418998187noreply@blogger.com6