Getting a Normal Result

It’s been a year since my breast cancer diagnosis.

While I feel like I have finally recovered from treatment, that doesn’t mean my cancer experience is over. I am on medication to prevent a recurrence, and of course, I still need imaging.

My wonderful surgeon told me to be prepared for abnormal imaging this month. Calcifications are common in post-surgical healing but they have to be biopsied because sometimes they are a sign of breast cancer. That is what happened to me last year: a biopsy of calcifications found cancer.

“We might see calcifications in the same place we did the surgery,” she told me, “but none of my patients have ever had those calcifications indicate a recurrence of cancer. Just be prepared for another biopsy.”

Have you ever heard of scanxiety? Scanxiety is the anxiety people feel before, during and/or after imaging scans, and it is very common in cancer patients. I’ve always felt a little nervous waiting for the results of my annual breast imaging, but after my abnormal mammogram last year it got worse. Waiting for the results of every scan has been nerve-wracking.

I was scheduled for a mammogram and MRI on October 3rd, and my scanxiety was slowly ticking up for the week before. Then I tested positive for COVID on October 2nd and had to reschedule. Fortunately, I got a mammogram appointment for just two weeks later (my MRI will be delayed until December).

Two more weeks wondering if they would see calcifications. Two more weeks of thinking that I might need a biopsy again. Two more weeks of tamping down my fear of cancer recurrence. My thoughts would race: I am just getting my life back now. I can’t go through this again.

I am very uncomfortable with uncertainty, and I have a vivid imagination, so I tell myself all kinds of stories about what will happen. One of the practices that got me through the past year is going one step at a time. I am learning to slow down and hold the empty space where information will eventually go, instead of filling that space with catastrophic thoughts. There’s no point in worrying about cancer treatment when I don’t even know if I need a biopsy yet.

Two more weeks of reminding myself that I can only go one step at a time.

I had my mammogram last week. My scanxiety is most intense before a scan and while I wait for the results. On the drive into the city, I completely shut down and turned inward. David didn’t tell me not to feel scanxiety, and put his hand on my knee to reassure me that we are in this together.

When you’ve already had cancer, you get a “diagnostic mammogram” at follow up, which means that you wait while a radiologist reads your scan. My hospital has a separate waiting room for people getting diagnostic mammograms, and I sat there for a long time. Every once in awhile, a woman would be called into a separate room and not come back, which meant she had an abnormal result and was getting an ultrasound.

Waiting is the worst. I cannot be distracted, not by the annoying home improvement shows on the waiting room television and not by thinking about normal day-to-day stuff. My mind wants to play out possible scenarios: how long an ultrasound will take, how soon they could do a biopsy, what my surgeon would say, how upsetting it would be to rearrange my life around treatment again. Scanxiety for me is not an anxiety attack, but I feel a tightness in my body and my mind is intent on predicting what could happen. Over and over, I have to remind myself that there is no problem to solve yet. I need my scan results first.

After what felt like hours but was probably closer to thirty minutes, the radiologist called me into the little side room. He didn’t even ask me to sit down, but just turned to me and said, “You’re fine. The mammogram is normal.”

I had to ask him to repeat himself because I was partially stunned. A normal result?

“There are no calcifications anywhere, and we don’t even see post-radiation damage,” he said.

I had been so certain they would see calcifications and I would be back on the cancer conveyor belt of more tests and appointments. Instead, I got to leave the hospital and start texting the good news to my family and friends.

It’s hard to describe what it feels like to have a medical test go well and produce a normal result. I am so used to having symptoms that doctors don’t understand, weird side effects they’ve never seen. My body does not respond normally to pretty much anything. Since I got sick thirty years ago, my body has not been my ally. Most days, I struggle mightily against my body and its limitations. If I could transplant my brain into a healthy body or robot, I would do it. I would leave this body behind.

Now I am getting used to being in this body that responded perfectly. My surgery removed the cancer, and I healed so well you can barely see the scar. My radiation treatment was so well designed that it did not cause corollary damage. Despite how deep my post-treatment crash was, I climbed out of it and got back to baseline. And now I know that–at least on mammogram–there are no calcifications or masses anywhere in my breasts.

My body healed. It is such a strange feeling, to think that this body that has frustrated me so much can still function and respond normally–even to cancer treatment.

It gives me hope.

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Waylaid

Almost five years after the first cases of COVID-19 in China, I finally got it.

Honestly, I expected this test to be positive for flu. My husband and I had been testing COVID negative on rapid antigen tests for days. I knew I was sick and getting worse, but really, I expected flu.

But no, it’s COVID. Fortunately, I got this positive test within the first five days of being sick and so I was able to get Paxlovid. My husband was already outside the treatment window. And let me tell you, Paxlovid made such a difference. My fever was gone in 48 hours and and my congestion was gone by the time I finished the medication.

Yet I am recovering very slowly. I feel ok, and then as soon as I get up and do something, I feel terrible. I’m writing this post in little dribbles, quitting as soon as I start to feel brain fog and exhaustion.

This is very familiar. It feels like I did after radiation treatment. It feels like ME.

I’m not upset that I feel so weak and wobbly. I’m not even upset that I got COVID despite all my best efforts to avoid it.

What upsets me is that this is yet another delay in my writing. What upsets me is that I began the year with breast cancer and am finishing it out with COVID.

The hard experience of the Long COVID community teaches me that I must be oh so very careful right now. I cannot rush back to physical or cognitive activity, because that is where the danger lies. I must give my body the time to fight the effects of COVID, in hopes of avoiding chronic issues. I’ve always wondered if that would have been good advice when I first got sick all those years ago.

You might think that I would be used to this by now. After all, I’ve been riding waves of higher and lower functionality for decades. But even after all this time, I am still not used to having my plans ambushed by my body. I still have not learned to gently pivot. I am better at it, but I am not graceful.

One thing I have learned in the last year is when to surrender. COVID has waylaid my writing plans, and I have no choice but to give my body what it needs.

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Hello, Stranger

When I was diagnosed with breast cancer last October, I had grand plans: I would blog through my surgery and whatever treatment followed. I was hungry for examples of other people with ME who had been through cancer treatment, especially breast cancer treatment, but couldn’t find much beyond the personal stories of a few friends. I thought I could turn this awful experience into a resource for other people with ME. I guess I do that a lot–try to squeeze something constructive out of something awful.

I waited until November 20th–right before my surgery–to tell you that I had breast cancer. The truth is that the first sign of cancer showed up on October 5th last year, when I had my annual breast imaging. I had a biopsy two weeks later and got my DCIS diagnosis on October 23rd. The month between diagnosis and surgery (and telling you) was a whirlwind of appointments, research, strategy sessions with friends, and a frenzy of preparation. It also took me a month to process what was happening to me and to decide to share it publicly.

There was so much to share. I intended to write about how different cancer-care is from ME-care, about how I researched my treatment options and made decisions, about how I introduced my oncology team to ME, about the experiences of surgery recovery and radiation treatment, and about what helped me cope.

But cancer treatment kicked my ass. It took weeks to recover from my lumpectomy, much longer than I anticipated. Radiation treatment was hard on my body while I was going through it, and for months afterwards. My radiation oncologist had warned me that radiation would probably exacerbate my ME, and she was right. My decline continued for six weeks after I finished treatment until I finally started climbing back out of the crash, and it was several more months before I felt back to my physical baseline. Even then, I was still struggling cognitively.

Coincidentally, we were also going through a long-planned, major house renovation. The contractor broke ground exactly one year ago today, just nine days before that abnormal mammogram. Framing started three weeks after my surgery. Worst of all, my radiation treatment began on the same day as demolition of our kitchen.

All this is to say that I intended to be blogging this year, but I simply had no capacity to do so.

The good news is that I’m finally here again. The home renovation finished this month, and we are slowly restoring the house to order. I am back to baseline post-cancer treatment and I’m writing again.

My body took me on a long detour from the direction I was heading, and I’ve lost a year. But I’m back, and we have a lot to talk about.

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Favorite Reads of 2023

Listen, I know that everyone posted their favorite books of 2023 already. I wanted to as well, but my recovery from breast cancer surgery took longer than I anticipated, and now I’m getting radiation treatment. However, I still really want to share the books I loved last year, and since it’s still January, I think this is valid.

I’ve gotten more intentional about reading in the last few years. I used to just pick whatever book I felt like reading, without trying to hit a reading goal or focus on a specific list. I didn’t keep a book journal, so I tended to forget not only what happened in books I’ve read but even whether I had read them. Goodreads was great because at least I had a record of what books I read, but I deleted my account a couple years ago after one of the many review-bombing controversies.

I was inspired by the Reading Glasses podcast to try new ways of tracking my reading, and I ended up creating a personal database to help me manage my TBR (To Be Read) list and keep notes on what I loved (or didn’t). Don’t worry, I won’t inflict my nerdiness on you. All this is just to say that now I make more thoughtful choices about what to read. I don’t set specific goals or challenges for myself, but I don’t just choose books at random either.

I read fifty-six books in 2023, about the same as 2022. Interestingly, more of my 2023 favorites were fiction (unlike last year), and some of them were big chunky books. You’ll notice that I’m not into cozy mysteries or romance, but maybe there will be something in my list that appeals to you too.

Non-Fiction

Run Towards the Danger by Sarah Polley: I received this book as a gift, and I was skeptical at first because what did I have to learn from an Academy Award winning actor/screenwriter/director? I was wrong. Polley is a gifted writer, and this essay collection blew me away. The most compelling part to me was Polley’s description of her suffering and eventual recovery from a severe concussion. This book is inspirational without being glib, and Polley’s sincerity makes her writing feel like a personal conversation. I loved it.

Some of Us Just Fall by Polly Atkin: This memoir was published in the UK last year, but it looks like it will be available in the US in March. Atkin has Hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome and hemachromatosis, although it took many years for her to be properly diagnosed and treated. This memoir interweaves the experiences of being chronically ill with being in nature. Atkin lives in Grasmere, in England’s Lake District, the home of literary greats such as William Wordsworth, and still a place of incredible natural beauty. She brings us along on her walks and swims in a landscape that can heal some things but not everything, and shares her journey of learning to live well with her diagnoses.

Fiction

Six Deaths of the Saint by Alix Harrow: This is a short story, and I generally don’t read short stories, but this one is brilliant. I don’t even want to tell you anything about it and risk spoiling it for you. I will only say that when I got to the moment when the pieces of the story came together, I put my hand on my heart and gasped. Just trust me and read this.

Ordinary Monsters by J. M. Miro: This is a honker, and it is worth every minute it takes to read. If you like reading about dark academia, the grime of the Victorian era, magical mystery, and/or remarkable children, this book is for you. It’s the story of a shining boy, the people who love him, the people who want to use him, and the strength of found family. I got it from the library and ended up buying a copy because it is that good.

Yellowface by R.F. Kuang: I love everything by R.F. Kuang, and her novel Babel was one of my favorites last year. Yellowface is a completely different kind of book but equally amazing. The narrator steals her friend’s just finished manuscript and passes it off as her own work. As the story hurtles along, the characters grapple with racism, diversity, cultural appropriation, social media, and fame–or utterly fail to do so. Kuang is such a skillful writer that I found myself caring deeply for the narrator, despite the fact she’s a complete trainwreck who makes some very bad choices.

Starling House by Alix Harrow: Read this book if you like gothic mansions, small town secrets, a young woman discovering her strength, true love and sacrifice, and/or supernatural mysteries. Harrow’s first novel, The Ten Thousand Doors of January, is one of my favorite books of all time, and Starling House is pretty high on the list now, too.

The Last House on Needless Street by Catriona Ward: This is the first book I’ve read by Ward, and her entire backlist is now on my TBR. It’s described as a mystery/thriller, but it’s horror as well. Something very odd is going on in the creepy house on Needless Street, and a new neighbor wants to find the truth. The suspense kept yanking me forward, and there’s a solid twist that I did not see coming. Don’t read this if you are easily creeped out, but if you love psychological thrillers then definitely check it out.

Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke: Most of my 2023 favorites were new releases, but this one is almost twenty years old. I read it around the time it came out and liked it, but I read it again in 2023 and LOVED it. The premise is that magic once existed in England, and now in the Napoleonic era, Strange and Norrell are trying to bring it back. They get more than they bargained for, with terrible consequences. Read this if you love the Regency period, myths and magic, faeries, and/or books with footnotes. Clarke is a quietly brilliant writer, and that didn’t really hit me until I finished the book.

Right now, I’m reading Demon Copperhead by Barbara Kingsolver, another chunky book by another brilliant author. I hope you’re reading something great, too!

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Enough

I’ve been waiting until I felt well enough to post about my breast cancer surgery and recovery, about the treatment I will begin in January. I have words to say about experiencing the healthcare system as a person with cancer versus a person with ME. And maybe I will write those words at some point.

But none of that matters to me tonight because my friend Beth Mazur is dead. Beth was a co-founder of #MEAction, a data scientist turned advocate by necessity. She was also a shining example of the very best, the best ME advocates and the most wonderful people. To me, Beth was always rock steady, a woman who protected her limits when necessary and who was fiercely committed to our community. And she was a good friend, to me and to so many others.

So very many people are hurting right now, mourning Beth. I’m sending my love and strength to everyone in our community, whether you had the good fortune to know Beth or not. If you are experiencing trauma, grief, or suicidal thoughts from this news, please reach out. Some resources are collected here, and in the United States you can call 988 to connect with someone who can help.

The only words I have tonight are that I want this disease to stop killing any of us.

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“I have cancer”

Hand drawn get well cards with stickers and rainbows from my niece and nephew.

I told my husband last week, “It’s just as hard to tell people you have cancer as it is to find out you have cancer in the first place.” So, let me take a deep breath and say:

I have breast cancer.

Everyone reacts with some degree of shock and sadness when I tell them the news. I feel like I’m hurting their feelings by saying it, like I’m responsible for upsetting them, even though having cancer is not my fault.

In an attempt to soften the blow, I focus on the good part of the bad news. I have Stage 0 breast cancer: ductal carcinoma in situ (DCIS). This means that the cancer cells are still confined to the milk duct and have not yet invaded surrounding tissue and become potentially lethal. Stage 0 breast cancer is not life-threatening and it does not have the ability to spread around the body. It’s a gray area between normal cells and invasive cancer cells.

One of my doctors described my cancer as “very curable.”

Still, DCIS has the potential to become invasive cancer and there is no way to tell whether it will or not, so DCIS is treated as if it is already invasive. I will have surgery to remove the cancer, and then I will have radiation therapy and endocrine therapy to destroy any remaining cancer cells. Layering these treatments together significantly reduces my risk of cancer recurrence.

My treatment for breast cancer will be complicated by my ME. I’m worried about crashing after surgery, and worried about how I’ll manage daily radiation appointments for several weeks. I haven’t found any published information about ME and breast cancer, although plenty about cancer-related fatigue (not helpful). Except for informal input from a few friends with ME, I’ll be making this up as I go.

I am very lucky that the cancer was caught at such an early stage, and I am also lucky to have an excellent medical team. My surgeon has recently treated two other people with ME-like illnesses, so she and her staff understand my concerns about surgery causing a crash. I’ll get extra IV saline at surgery, and I’m taking in extra hydration and protein to try and support my body.

But to be perfectly honest, breast cancer is a lot to carry. Even though all my doctors have reassured me that I will be ok, I still have moments of fear. My mother died of breast cancer in 2015 and following in her footsteps this way makes me sad. I try to gently remind myself that all these feelings just come with the territory.

I considered not saying anything publicly about this diagnosis. It feels more personal and private than ME, although I don’t know why. Ultimately, I decided that sharing my experiences might be helpful to someone else, and so it was worth doing. In that way, I guess, this is exactly like my approach to ME.

My surgery is this coming week. If you are so inclined, send me good thoughts and healing vibes. I’ll be back to let you know how it went.

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29

I got sick on October 6, 1994. Writing a memoir that spans almost three decades requires a lot of self-reflection, not only about what I’ve been through but about the choices I made, what I got wrong, and what I could have done differently. Sometimes, looking back feels like looking at a different person.

I feel such compassion for the young woman who got sick twenty-nine years ago. She was building her career, and was newly in love. It makes sense that she trusted the doctor who said she had a virus and would feel better in a few weeks.

Twenty-four years ago, her doctor said that people with ME do not get better after five years, and she thought her life was over. I wish I could tell her: Not yet, my dear.

Seventeen years ago, she began to invest all of her energy and effort in advocacy because she was trying to make something good from her pain. Yet I wish that she had held some energy back for herself. She didn’t see it at the time, but she could have experienced so much more happiness if she had approached life with more balance.

Ten years ago, this woman was bending beneath the weight of her suffering. She had no idea that she had not reached the bottom, that things were going to get much worse. It would have done no good to warn her.

Eight years ago, she thought she had triumphed–not over illness, but over grief. She was so certain that survival was enough, even akin to winning. I wouldn’t tell her otherwise, even now.

I have felt every possible way on my sickaversary, from numb to content. Now here I am, looking back over twenty-nine years of illness. Doctors were wrong. I was wrong. Sometimes, what looked like the right thing to do was more harmful than I realized. It has taken me this long to learn that we cannot predict the future, and that we can take nothing–absolutely nothing–for granted.

For a long time, I have struggled with the impermanence of existence, the reality that everything changes. Impermanence can feel like a liability or a gift, but it is a fact regardless of how we feel about it. The challenge is what we do in the face of change. Things go right or wrong, and all we can control is how we respond.

If I could reach through some crack in time to give my younger self advice, I wouldn’t warn her about what was coming or try to direct her path. I would simply tell her what I have learned:

There are times of great hardship and times of great joy, and there are all the choices you make along the way. It’s the choices that matter.

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Ed Yong Made Me Cry

There I was, reading Ed Yong’s latest newsletter, and wondering if I had the energy to go downstairs for a cup of coffee. Near the end, Yong listed his upcoming appearances along with an invitation:

Come say hi; please wear a mask.

And I burst into tears.

It’s such a simple request, “please wear a mask,” yet no one is saying it anymore. Most of the healthcare personnel I interact with no longer mask, and neither do many of my beloved family and friends. The general public in suburban Philadelphia gave it up long ago. And who can blame them, when this is the message being trumpeted by our government. Even President Biden flaunted mask guidelines recently.

It’s tempting to “get back to normal,” to go along with everyone else. It would be so easy to follow the crowd, give up the mask and take my chances. But I haven’t because, as Yong wrote in the same newsletter, “it’s still worth avoiding infection.”

I’ve lived with physical and cognitive disability for 29 years. At my worst, I was bedridden. While I’m doing better right now, I know my situation is precarious and can be taken away from me at any time. And I know firsthand that COVID is a big risk. My husband’s brain fog, a problem since his stroke in 2015, has been markedly worse since he had COVID one year ago. The ranks of people with Long COVID continue to swell, and I keep hearing about people critically ill or dying from vascular issues after COVID.

For awhile, early in the pandemic, it felt like we were all on the same page about flattening the curve and protecting the vulnerable. We accepted collective responsibility for individual welfare. Now, though, I mostly feel left behind.

Yong won a Pulitzer Prize for his reporting during the pandemic, but this time he wasn’t explaining the science or commenting on public policy. This was a simple request, made in the midst of a pandemic, person to person. We still need to protect one another, so please wear a mask.

I cried, because I felt less alone.

In that moment, I felt like someone else understood that a small inconvenience for one person could make all the difference for another. We can’t know for certain how our actions affect others, yet our small, individual choices matter. Maybe wearing a mask will prevent an infection, save someone’s life, or protect someone from Long COVID. And even if we never know for sure, it’s still worth it to try.

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Lightning Book Review: Crip Up The Kitchen

I’ve loved to cook since I was a kid. I wanted to grow up to throw fancy dinner parties like my aunt, complete with appetizers and an elaborate dessert. And I did give some pretty awesome dinner parties, with menus and coordinated table decorations and so on.

Then I got sick with ME. I still love to cook, but now it’s a Chore. Some days I’m too sick. Some days I have the energy to cook, but I have to make a choice between expending my energy there or something more fulfilling. I’ve tried batch cooking and freezing meals ahead. I’ve tried eating the same meal three nights in a row. I’ve tried to make convenience foods a little bit healthy (Tip: add broccoli.) But I’ve always felt like I was figuring it all out on my own, and I was never satisfied with the energy/nutrition balance.

Crip Up the Kitchen: Tools, Tips, and Recipes for the Disabled Cook - Sherred, Jules

Enter Crip Up The Kitchen by Jules Sherred. Sherred writes the blog Disabled Kitchen and Garden, and describes himself as “a gender noncomforming autistic disabled trans man,” with multiple health issues. He was frustrated that there were no resources about cooking and gardening with disabilities that were actually written by disabled people, so he started the blog to fill the gap. Crip Up The Kitchen is his first cookbook.

I pre-ordered Crip Up The Kitchen for the subtitle alone: “Tools, Tips and Recipes for the Disabled Cook.” I was hoping for some hints on how to cook more efficiently, or maybe some new recipes for stocking my freezer.

Y’all. This book is so much more than that.

Sherred writes, “The kitchen is the worst room in the house if you are disabled. I’m about to change that and make life easier for everyone.” *praise hands*

This book explains it all: what you need for your kitchen, how to organize it, how to meal plan and meal prep, how to cook safely, how to store food, and how to right-size your cooking to the amount of energy you have. The advice is customizable based on an individual’s disabilities and food requirements.

An electric pressure cooker, like the Instant Pot, is the foundation of the methods in this book, along with an air fryer and bread machine. That’s the only downside to the book, as all the recipes rely on one of those appliances. I only have an Instant Pot, but there were plenty of tempting recipes for that equipment alone.

The recipes in the book tend towards Asian cuisines, including Thai and Panjabi. There are also dishes that will be familiar from Western cultures, including chicken stew and matzoh balls. All of the recipes rely on strong spices and flavors.

I tried the Effin’ Good Chili recipe, and it was fantastic. There are some foods, like chili or pot roast, that really benefit from a long, slow cooking time (like in a crockpot), but the Instant Pot offers the advantage of much faster cooking. I thought I had to choose between the best tasting chili and fast/convenient chili, and I was never happy with either choice. However, Sherred’s chili recipe splits the different by incorporating strong flavors to overcome the impact of the faster cook time, and it came out great.

If you follow Sherred’s methods for prepping and freezing ingredients, cooking will get even faster. This is a cookbook worth reading from cover to cover for all the suggestions on how to manage cooking with disabilities. My copy is now full of bookmarks for all the recipes I want to try. I highly recommend this book!

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Favorite Reads of 2022

Books are one of my favorite things, and I love to talk about them. Every reader is unique, of course, and we each have a wheelhouse–characteristics that will make us love (or hate) a book. Maybe you love stories about magical portals (I recommend The Ten Thousand Doors of January) or LGBTQ romance (definitely read Red, White and Royal Blue). Maybe you can’t stand purple prose, or you can’t focus well enough to read non-fiction.

What I want most in a book is to fall through the page. I want to forget I’m reading and just be in the story or the author’s thoughts. Yet I also read for craft. Why did one author present her memoir in a non-linear way, jumping back and forth in time seemingly at random, while another chose straight factual chronology? What makes a thriller so compelling that I can’t stop reading it? What can I learn from this book to help me improve my own thinking and writing?

Of all the books I read in 2022, these are my favorites. These stories moved me, impressed me, and stuck with me. I’m presenting them in no particular order, and I recommend them all equally. I hope whatever you read this year meant as much to you as these books did to me.

Non-Fiction

The Invisible Kingdom: Reimagining Chronic Illness by Meghan O’Rourke: Finalist for the National Book Award, New York Times best seller, and hitting many Top Books of 2022 lists, this book should be required reading for all med students, as well as anyone affected by chronic illness. O’Rourke seamlessly blends her personal journey with chronic illness with superb reporting on the medical, scientific and social issues that chronic illness presents to us. This book will make you feel seen, and it will make you think.

Long Covid Survival Guide, edited by Fiona Lowenstein: This book is an instruction manual for dealing with Long Covid, and is relevant to many other chronic illnesses as well. The contributing authors share much needed, diverse perspectives on how to manage the practical, medical, and emotional challenges of living with serious chronic illness.

What Doesn’t Kill You: A Life with Chronic Illness by Tessa Miller: I wish I had this book when I got sick. Miller has Crohn’s disease, but the lessons she shares in this book apply to anyone with chronic illness. From identifying good doctors to managing relationships to coping with trauma, this book covers it all with detail and compassion.

About Alice by Calvin Trillin: I listened to the audiobook, read by the author, which made Trillin’s portrait of his late wife feel even more intimate. Trillin shares what Alice meant to him and their family, how she helped him be a better writer, and how sharp and incisive her own writing was. It’s sad and amusing, and left me wishing I could have known Alice myself.

In Love: A Memoir of Love and Loss by Amy Bloom: This book is a New York Times best seller and is on many Best Of lists for 2022. Bloom’s husband developed early Alzheimer’s and eventually chose to end his life at Dignitas. In this memoir, Bloom shares her husband’s life and his death with heartbreaking love and grace.

These Precious Days: Essays by Ann Patchett: This is the first Patchett book I have read, and I immediately put all her other books on my TBR list. These essays are somehow entertaining and poignant all at the same time, and Patchett’s delightful personality shines through.

Fatigue by Jennifer Acker: This Kindle exclusive packs an enormous experience into a small package. Acker became sick with ME, and then her husband became disabled with a frozen shoulder. She describes how their dual challenges required them to care for each other in new ways and how it changed their marriage. I learned so much from this that I am applying to my own memoir of disability and marriage.

Fiction

Babel by R.F. Kuang: Sometimes I read a book and am destroyed by how good it is. Babel wrecked me. Set in an alternate Victorian world where the British Empire is the seat of power and magical silver-working, this book examines class, language translation, colonialism, and revolution, and somehow makes you care so deeply about it all that the ending breaks your heart. I have been a fan of Kuang since her very first book, but this is a master work.

My Best Friend’s Exorcism by Grady Hendrix: The title is the premise of this horror novel. Abby, the narrator, is a high school student in 1988 (and the cultural references throughout warmed my Gen X heart) when her best friend begins acting strangely. Events snowball to a terrifying conclusion, but this is a book about friendship and I loved it.

The Golden Enclaves by Naomi Novik: This conclusion of the Scholomance Trilogy was one of my most anticipated books of the year, and I was not disappointed. Like the first two books in the series, this was a combination of teenage angst, magic, monsters, and a love story, and manages to be suspenseful, funny, and touching. That’s a lot to pack into one book and Novik does it with ease.

The Violin Conspiracy by Brendan Slocumb: Ostensibly a thriller about a stolen Stradivarius (and it’s a great thriller), what I really loved about this book was the inside look at racism in classical music. Slocumb is a professional violinist and educator, and he drew upon his own experiences to portray the main character’s challenges as a Black classical musician.

The Travel Guide to the Dimension of Lost Things by Effie Seiberg: This one is a short story, not a novel, and I don’t read many short stories, but this one stuck with me. It’s about depression, and losing yourself, and maybe finding yourself again, but told with just the right amount of snark.

And one last note from me: support your local libraries! Libraries are key to an educated citizenry and functioning democracy, and knowledge should be free to all. Do what you can to use and support the libraries near you!

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