“In Love” (Random House):
One job of a writer is to go where others are unwilling to go -- and it seems to me that Amy Bloom has done this, and she has now written the book she was born to write.
Around fifteen years ago, Bloom was unhappy in her relationship, and she met a guy in the local chapter of the Connecticut Democrats. He liked fiction and poetry, liked Planned Parenthood, and he designed housing for people who couldn't afford housing. Of course, the two had an illicit kiss, then avoided each other for a year, then began dating in earnest.
This guy--Brian--proposed, and the proposal took this form: "You need someone who is content to be the less-smart partner, who knows that you will pretty much always be the main event. You need someone who recognizes how hard you work, and who will make you coffee in the middle of the night. I don't know if I can be that guy, but I'd like to try." And a wedding ensued.
What is it like to be married, on a day-by-day basis? This book has the answer. Bloom jokes about Brian's trip home to his conservative Catholic mother: "I met someone. She is Jewish, an atheist, divorced....and she's bisexual!" Bloom's sister meets Brian, and she doesn't turn from the kitchen counter before saying: "If you hurt her, I'll kill you." Brian objects when Bloom fetches the Sunday Times from the mailbox--each week--in Wesleyan boxer shorts. The two have rough patches, and Bloom's heart breaks when Brian writes her a note: "I am going to be kinder to you."
Why do the rough patches become more of a constant? Why does Brian stop reading Bloom's scripts? How can he feel so confused about the meeting spot for the Stony Creek "Men's Book Club" -- when the spot is around the corner? And why does he stop calling his granddaughters by their actual names?
When Brian gets his Alzheimer's diagnosis, it isn't a shock to Bloom -- though she has been in and out of denial. Within three days, Brian has resolved to end his own life: "I will die on my feet, I won't live on my knees." The options for assisted suicide in the US are limited, at the least: You have to be within six months of dying, you have to have control over your body so that you can administer the poison, you have to be of sound mind. It's incredibly difficult to find a doctor who will sign papers that say: "This guy is definitely going to be dead within six months." If you have Alzheimer's, your option is (essentially) this: Live, jump in front of a moving train, or fly to Zurich to work with Dignitas.
I find the end-of-life portions of this book to be surreal. How can I imagine what it's like to take an emetic, then sip phenobarbital? What it's like to be the spouse sitting nearby? What it's like to get on a plane after you have assisted with your husband's suicide? What it's like to write about the experience? What I do understand is the anger you feel as other people offer breezy, unsolicited judgments: "Your husband surely had more years in him." "I would never write about that." "How can you romanticize suicide?"
It's amazing to recall that we all swim in the same water. No matter how smart, how accomplished, you are, you will deal with insensitive doctors, nutty bureaucracy, loudmouths at a funeral. Although Bloom has extraordinary courage and grace, she also has a great deal of anger -- and it's therapeutic to encounter that anger, and to understand you're not alone. ("You say that a doctor will contact us sometime after January 6. Please understand that this phrasing feels vague to us. When you say sometime, can you be more specific, please?")
These are just musings, and I'll keep thinking about this book. I was really grateful to read about the questions that many of us will face -- the questions that people are afraid to ask. I think this book is a gift to readers in the US.
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