I think this time we've got some promising suggestions. They are, in the order they arrived:
Everything is Illuminated
Snow Crash
Slowness
Good News: A Novel by Edward Abbey
Looking for something to load on the i-pod for the long holiday flight? Check out the RadioLab podcast....a quirky science show that often features interviews with Oliver Sacks and Robert Sapolsky. The shows on the brain are terrific.
Now, to the voting. Polls close Monday, 5pm.
Friday, November 30, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
I think I’m having a mid-life crisis. Could I be having a mid-life crisis? Do women have mid life crises? What are the symptoms? A flashy new sports car? No, I love my boxy old Volvo too much. A fabulous new wardrobe? Really, when would I have the time to go shopping? And where would I wear it? A daring new hair cut? The last time I had my hair cut, I was so allergic to the shampoo, my eyes swelled shut. I’m afraid to go back.
No, I’m afraid of my own mortality. Last week, I officially put 40 even farther behind me. My husband, who has cancer, just turned 50. We have reached, if not passed, mid life.
Perhaps that was why I was drawn to The Diving Bell and the Buttery, the “uplifting” and “inspirational” autobiography of Jean-Dominique Bauby. In his early 40’s Bauby suffered a stroke which caused paralysis of all but one eye. He dictated his memoirs letter by letter by blinking to indicate his choice of letters as someone read an alphabet out loud. He tells of longing to once again tousle his son’s hair, of reliving favourite meals he could no longer chew, and the horror of seeing his own “scarecrow” face in the mirror. He relates these stories, of trip to the beach, of visits to Lourdes, with self-mockery not self pity.
But is it uplifting? No. It is terrifying. Someday that will be me. Age or disease will one day leave me unable to move. Will I be able to communicate? Will I too scare small children? Will my family and friends, like Bauby’s, find me horrible to visit?
I’ve made those visits to the hospital. My grandfather was a business owner and, to hear the ladies tell it, a handsome, well-dressed gentleman. By the time I was born, a series of accidents has cost him the full use of his legs. His legs hurt, his pride hurt, and he became increasingly cantankerous. A quadriplegic in his last decade, he was largely unable or unwilling to communicate. It broke my heart to visit him in the hospital. Where was the man I loved? Could he tell how uncomfortable I was, how anxious I was to leave? Now it breaks my heart that I didn’t spend more time with him, when for that one week a year I was in driving distance.
When I suggested we read The Diving Bell, I listed its chief selling points as being short and a medical freak show. While reading it, I told others that it was not inspirational. In retrospect, it is. Not in a Lifetime movie “Look-at-me-I’m-Lance-Armstong-I-Can-Overcome-Cancer-and-Win-Four-Tours-de-France” sort of way. It is a sincere celebration of the life he lived, a savouring of his favourite memories. If forces me to wonder if I will have his grace and humour as I face my inevitable decline or will I become bitter as my grandfather.
No, I’m afraid of my own mortality. Last week, I officially put 40 even farther behind me. My husband, who has cancer, just turned 50. We have reached, if not passed, mid life.
Perhaps that was why I was drawn to The Diving Bell and the Buttery, the “uplifting” and “inspirational” autobiography of Jean-Dominique Bauby. In his early 40’s Bauby suffered a stroke which caused paralysis of all but one eye. He dictated his memoirs letter by letter by blinking to indicate his choice of letters as someone read an alphabet out loud. He tells of longing to once again tousle his son’s hair, of reliving favourite meals he could no longer chew, and the horror of seeing his own “scarecrow” face in the mirror. He relates these stories, of trip to the beach, of visits to Lourdes, with self-mockery not self pity.
But is it uplifting? No. It is terrifying. Someday that will be me. Age or disease will one day leave me unable to move. Will I be able to communicate? Will I too scare small children? Will my family and friends, like Bauby’s, find me horrible to visit?
I’ve made those visits to the hospital. My grandfather was a business owner and, to hear the ladies tell it, a handsome, well-dressed gentleman. By the time I was born, a series of accidents has cost him the full use of his legs. His legs hurt, his pride hurt, and he became increasingly cantankerous. A quadriplegic in his last decade, he was largely unable or unwilling to communicate. It broke my heart to visit him in the hospital. Where was the man I loved? Could he tell how uncomfortable I was, how anxious I was to leave? Now it breaks my heart that I didn’t spend more time with him, when for that one week a year I was in driving distance.
When I suggested we read The Diving Bell, I listed its chief selling points as being short and a medical freak show. While reading it, I told others that it was not inspirational. In retrospect, it is. Not in a Lifetime movie “Look-at-me-I’m-Lance-Armstong-I-Can-Overcome-Cancer-and-Win-Four-Tours-de-France” sort of way. It is a sincere celebration of the life he lived, a savouring of his favourite memories. If forces me to wonder if I will have his grace and humour as I face my inevitable decline or will I become bitter as my grandfather.
Suggestions for our Holiday Read
Looks like a selection of classics:
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner
The House of God by Samuel Shem
The Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller
Sorry Erica, but we read Middlesex not that long ago.
Deadline for voting is Wednesday at 5pm.
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner
The House of God by Samuel Shem
The Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller
Sorry Erica, but we read Middlesex not that long ago.
Deadline for voting is Wednesday at 5pm.
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