The Man Who Couldn't Eat Book Club

 Having learned about Jon Reiner's The Man Who Couldn't Eat through St. Louis' Feast Magazine, I was intrigued about a book choice selected by a food culture magazine and regarding a topic close to home, chrone's disease.  My uncle-in-law suffers from this condition, so I thought after reading I would send it to my aunt and uncle-in-law for reading.  Besides the fact, I am a sucker for memoirs;  learning about other peoples' lives is intriguing and comforting all in one.
Reiner's raw storytelling is certainly not "sugar coated."  Chrone's disease wreaks havoc not only on the victim's health, but also his/her way of lifestyle and the lifestyle of those around him/her.  A scene where Reiner longingly looks at the salt-coated crinkles of a french fry and eventually licks despite his NPO (nil per os/nothing by mouth) status mirrors unrequited love.
When reflecting on his numerous stays at the hospital, Reiner writes, " . . . hospitals have a way of breeding confessions," (189).  Adept at description, Reiner includes the reader in every page, paragraph, and sentence.  Having recently been hospitalized, I recounted learning of a nurse's dysfunctional ex as well as the organic eating requirements of another nurse and wondering what truths I revealed while under the influence of pain killers and lying vulnerable in a hospital bed.
For book club purposes, an evening of appetizers at Nosh was offered to the Feast Book Club at independent bookseller Left Bank Books in the Central West End in St. Louis.

Ta Ta to the Ta Tas with Eileen Sutherland's "Mom and the Polka-Dot Boo Boo"

So, I've been MIA lately, but it hasn't been due to a lack of interest in reading.  It turns out that my "nothing but routine" breast excision evolved into a lumpectomy which has inevitably resulted in the need for a bilateral mastectomy with reconstruction tomorrow.  [deep breathing . . . more deep breathing]  Since I feel like an immature adolescent inside, it's hard for me to come to the realization that my body is anything but adolescent, but rather it is adult dealing with adult medical issues.  The fact is that 1 in 8 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer.  Yes, 1 in 8!  The odds that a woman will develop breast cancer are staggering.  Yet, women are not the only victims.  For every 100 women diagnosed, 1 male will be diagnosed.  Why is there no cure?
As reported in my last blog, I was virtually without symptoms prior to my first mammogram.  A couple of weeks before the screening, I had spontaneous discharge from my right nipple, but no lumps.  No lumps!!!  I thought you had to have lumps!!!  My father passed away after losing a gruesome battle with cancer of the lining of the lung.  Thus, I figured I, too, would meet cancer one day, but I didn't think it would be only five years after his death and in the form of breast cancer.
With a three and five-year-old, there is not much opportunity to come to terms with the diagnosis or wallow in any self-pity.  Instead, my "game face" must be on for them because I don't want them to be frightened or worry about their momma.  This does not mean that tears do not flow, so I feel truly blessed to have a loving support system which includes friends who know just what to do, when to do it, and won't take "no" for an answer.  Hearing "no clear margins . . . mastectomy" over the phone, I was in no shape to care for my three-year-old.  My BFFs without hesitation took turns watching my girls that day and keeping them occupied.  Just what the doctor ordered . . .  time to cry, time to think, time to research.

While researching, I came across a book which deals with breast cancer suitable for my young children.  Eileen Sutherland's Mom and the Polka-Dot Boo Boo perfectly explains breast cancer at the child's level.  Together, my girls and I have read this book several times, and I have referred back to this text whenever questions arise.  My favorite literacy device used in Sutherland's writing is the use of the simile when she compares the release of the boo boos from Mommy's chest to the flight of a butterfly.  The girls enjoyed the imagery and understood this explanation.
Mom and the Polka-Dot Boo Boo is a thoughtful gift for any breast cancer warrior . . .  If you do nothing else, though, please check your ta tas!

Save the Ta Tas!

     Life introduces people to many firsts . . .  first solid food, first bike ride without training wheels, first kiss, etc.  Females experience firsts exclusive to their sex:  first menstruation (icks), first brassiere (my dad's reference to this item of clothing), for some, a first birth, and for the fortunate forty-year-olds a first mammogram.  As of yesterday, October, 18, 2011, I am one of the fortunate to have completed all of the above.
     Interestingly enough, I can remember crying at the sight of my first menstruation and wishing it away.  The tears fell not from fear, but from the dread of becoming this "woman" with all of her adult responsibilities.  I wanted to simply remain the girl I was without having to deal, for starters, with female hygienic issues.  Then, ultimately the dread of having to wear a bra.  Witnessing the boys in elementary school snapping girls' bras created a further sense of doom.  I liked to run, bike, and swim.  I didn't want these growths sticking out of my chest and hampering my tomboy lifestyle, so I tucked my undershirt in tight in order to smash what little development had occurred and hunched forward a bit in the hopes of fooling my mom (and the boys).  As you can imagine, the jig was up in due time, and I found myself mortified standing in Kmart alongside my mother who was scanning the lingerie racks for my size (I didn't want to be a size anything).  Blue light special or not, I wanted to run for the hills.
     Now, at age forty, I have learned to tolerate the twins and have no problem searching the lingerie racks at Kohls for what I refer to as "boob cages."  Although the "ta tas" fell short when I attempted to breastfeed my squirts, I had to give them some slack due to complications with preeclampsia.  All is forgiven . . .
     Facing the mammogram, apprehension ensued since my right twin was beginning to act out with some spontaneous discharge and red streaking.  Thus, instead of a routine mammogram, I had to first meet with a breast surgeon.  Prior to our meeting, I was ordered a heavy dose of antibiotics in case of infection and am pleased to announce the red streak vanished.  Yeah team!  However, since the surgeon felt a nodule, a mammogram and ultrasound was the plan du jour.  Given a pink robe (with missing belt) to wear, I was kindly escorted to a waiting area with other women wearing the same pink robes (belts included).
     These ladies seemed cool and collected and spanned various age ranges.  A beautiful silver-haired lady was entranced in a book (should have taken her picture for my blog) while a youthful twenty-something was hurriedly texting.  I wondered if I looked as cool and collected when I knew I was full of uncertainty and trepidation.  I responded to e-mail via my phone and then scanned the room while a woman was sporadically appearing from behind a door marked "MAMMO" and calling various names . . .  "Miss So- and- So" with much kindness in the tone of her voice.
     Having once taught an ethnography (a branch of anthropology dealing with the scientific description of individual cultures) writing course, I realized at that moment in time I was immersed in a culture whose story needed to be told and told and told.  Giggling on the inside, these ladies and I were, in essence, on the same team with our pink "uniforms."  Although on the same team, we simply nodded to one another and/or smiled.  No strategies were discussed amongst ourselves or high-fives exchanged.  Perhaps, this could be deemed our private time for individual preparation (finding our zone) before the big game.
     Noticing a framed set of tiles on the wall, I knew I needed a picture, but attempted to be inconspicuous while taking the shot.

Assuming these were tiles created by breast cancer warriors, I wanted to take the time and savor their work;  "An apple a day didn't keep the doctor away" and "Duct tape fixes everything; try it" were two of my favorites.  Alas, though, "Miss Winkler" was called, and I was able to glimpse what was awaiting behind that door. . .
    Finally coming face to face with the opponent, I was not looking forward to what my buddy referred to as the smashing of the boobs.  After a brief history was entered into the computer, I was asked to disrobe one side of my upper body and place the body part in question on the machine.  The clear tray lowered and lowered and lowered onto my poor "girl" and felt like someone had placed a concrete block in its place.  "Ouch," I mumbled as my breast seemed to be separating from the skin near my shoulder.  Yet, after being told to hold my breath, the clear tray was quickly lifted, and the radiologist was soon adjusting my other "girl" on the machine.  Luckily, there was no time for modesty;  the radiologist manipulated my "twins" with experienced, deliberate movements, and I was told to return to the waiting area.  Crossing my beltless pink robe in front of me and carrying my jacket and purse, I returned to my seat in the waiting area and noticed some new faces had joined the "team."
      Just as I was eyeing my bag and wishing I had prepared better by including water in it, a voice interrupted the silence asking if anyone was interested in a bottle of water.  With a grin on my face, I retrieved some water from the trick or treat bowl she was carrying and promptly quenched my thirst.  Score!  
     While wondering what the stories were of the other women seated on this metaphorical pink team bench, another voice called me by my first name and escorted me into the ultrasound room.  Lying on the bed next to the ultrasound machine, I was thinking how reassuring it was to have a woman surgeon, woman ob/gyn, and woman radiologist when entered a young, tall, dark, handsome male doctor stage right.  Nice!
     After he and his supervisor both had a look with the ultrasound, I was informed I had an enlarged duct in my right breast.  Told my surgeon would come up with a plan, I was walked back to the initial examining room and told to dress.  Through the thin walls, I could hear ladies exiting their rooms and told to schedule mammograms for a year from this date.  Yeah pink teammates!
     Soon, a knock was heard on my door, though, and coach (i.e. the female, close-to-my-age surgeon) entered the room and thoroughly explained the duct excision procedure I was to have.  Responding with, "Sounds great!  Let's do it . . ."  I really just wanted to exit the office, make a call, and hear the voice of my number-one fan, the hub.
     Feeling better having shared the news with my lover and best friend, I purchased a breast cancer awareness cookie from the cafeteria (chocolate cookie with pink M&Ms) and pink bulbs from the Siteman Cancer Center in order to benefit breast cancer research.  Thrilled with the odds of my procedure being nothing but routine, I couldn't help but think about the other women I laid eyes on earlier in the day in the waiting room and hoping their news, too, turned out to be just as routine.

Purdie Magee Book Club

    I am not sure why I continually do this to myself, but I cannot help myself.  Rhonda Tibbs' written works are addicting even though they cause me much anxiety during the reading and much sorrow after the reading of her novels.  With the release of her third novel Purdie Magee, I, in essence, had no choice but to immediately download the e-version.  Yes, my name is Courtney, and I am a Tibbsaholic. . .
     Intrigued by the backstory of the main character, Purdie Magee, there was no turning back once I turned the page to chapter six and met Gabe Austin, the green-eyed, Camel-smoking man with a "cat-like walk"  (33).   Not simply due to the "va va voom" effect of this character description does Tibbs entice the reader, but because of Tibbs' ability to create in the reader a true empathy for her characters.  Two souls literally and metaphorically abandoned by their families cross paths, and what evolves are two complex histories interwoven with plot twists which keep the reader on the edge of her seat throughout Purdie Magee's entirety.
     For the purposes of book club, a field trip to a local pottery studio would be ideal.  An English teacher's dream, Purdie Magee revolves around the theme of creating beauty from what was once deemed ordinary or imperfect.  Thus, The Jacoby Arts Center in Alton, Illinois, offers such classes where one may manipulate clay into an object with aesthetic value.

Rhonda Tibbs

The Necklace: Thirteen Women and the Experiment That Transformed Their Lives Book Club

     While searching for Cheryl Jarvis' The Necklace:  Thirteen Women and the Experiment That Transformed Their Lives in the library, I was surprised to find myself in the non-fiction aisle.  The title conjured memories of reading Guy de Maupassant's short story, "The Necklace."  Interestingly enough, though, having finished Jarvis' The Necklace, the two works together spark a thoughtful comparison of themes while encompassing two opposing genres.
     A literary sap when it comes to biographical non-fiction, this is, in essence, what kept me turning the pages.  Intrigued by these thirteen women's truthful revelations, I was compelled to understand the seemingly shallowness and pride which seemed to exude from the pages in a rather (as Dr. Howard would say) sophomoric style of writing.  Yearning for more substance, I struggled within chapters trying to determine whose story was actually being told as well as waiting for a dramatic conclusion to each individual's tale which never came to light.  Feeling I would find what I was hoping for in the final chapter: growth, redemption, resolution;   instead, I was and still am bewildered.
     For book club purposes, a read which may not make everyone's "Top Ten" usually makes for the liveliest discussions.  An imitation (cheap!) version of the diamond tennis necklace may be purchased for your book club in order to fulfill the guidelines offered in The Necklace.  Tamales are a must since it was revealed in Mary O'Connor's section that they are "a Southern California holiday staple" (179).  In addition, a nod to each woman should be incorporated into the meal;  for example, local-grown organic strawberries to represent Roz McGrath and perhaps a bottle of Dom Perignon (or not) to represent Priscilla Van Gundy.  What ideally one should come away with from this reading is the motivation to create change, find a cause,  and fund raise for a purpose.

Learn More about Romance Author Heidi Hall

A film that brings tears to your eyes . . .

The Notebook! I started crying ten minutes in. My husband had fallen asleep (of course!) and when he asked me the next morning how the movie was I could hardly talk. A lump formed in my throat and the tears started all over again. Finally I squeaked out, "He loved her so much!" and ran from the room. We don't talk about The Notebook at my house ;-).

Describe your first kiss.

Eew! Sixth grade...a boy cornered me by my locker. I kind of liked him, so I didn't move away as he swooped in with puckered lips. It was the tongue that creeped me out (LOL). Very juicy introduction.

Your favorite children's book, and why . . .

Are you there God? It's me, Margaret by Judy Blume. I don't know that it qualifies as a children's book, but it made a definite impact on my life. I need to read that one again *wanders off to Amazon*.

A cause that's closest to your heart, and why . . .

The Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation. My cousin's daughter was diagnosed with Type 1 (Insulin-dependent) diabetes at 9 months. It was so tragic to watch her cope with the constant needles and highs and lows of her failing pancreas. And the disease seems to have become so prevalent. We need to find a cure! I participate every year in the JDRF walk to find a cure in Arizona...Join me!

If you could be a character in any novel, who would you be and why?

Right now, I would be Kayla McKenna - my latest heroine. She's a recovering assassin and I take out all my road rage and rude people encounters on other characters in my book through her. Pretty fun! My friends and family get into it too and can often be heard muttering, "I know who's going to get it next in your book." Bwahaha.

Explain the worst job that you've held.

I worked as a hostess in high school for a Mexican food restaurant. Yummy, but people are jerks. I am not fit for service-oriented professions, but I'm now a real big tipper!

A quote that motivates you . . .

"I want to be Barbie, that *i**c has everything." - It makes me laugh.

The title of the one song you would take with you on that deserted island . . .

Hmm... I'm not good picking one since my tastes are so eclectic. But if you insist... it would have to be "My Immortal" by Evanescense. I can listen to it over and over and never get tired of it. 

Three Wishes

I would wish for the economy to recover so we could all take care of our families. I would wish for a cure for disease (all of them - thinking big here). And finally, I would wish happiness upon those who seek it. 

Favorite game you played as a child . . .

Hungry Hippos! Loved that game.

What would you like readers to take away from your writing?

My one and only goal is to entertain. I strive for each book to be an escape from the grind, a peek into a life you might wish for, a bit of humor to hopefully surprise a laugh out of readers, and always a happy ending. Happy Reading! 

Heidi Hall

Train to Nowhere Book Club

     After completing Train to Nowhere:  Inside an Immigrant Death Investigation, a few days were needed to fully comprehend the senseless, traumatic occurrence that author Colleen Bradford Krantz features in her work of non-fiction.  Without bias, Krantz unfolds various accounts and backstories of the people involved in the gruesome deaths of eleven undocumented immigrants.  Not only does Krantz paint a vivid picture through the peppering of the text with actual photographs, but also provides legal documentation and historical backgrounds while detailing the politics involved in the immigration issue.  By the end of this written account, I felt as if I, too, had made feeble attempts to preserve dirt floors, to search tirelessly for repeat immigrant offenders, and literally to bake to death while desperately searching for a better life.
     On a grammatical note, tears welled in my eyes at the accurate punctuation of "20s" (35).  Yet, my anal English-teacher self cringed at the repetitive use of the words "got" and "things" which (in my opinion) would have read much cleaner and clearer with the use of active verbs and concrete nouns respectively as replacements.
    For the purposes of book club, no food or drink allowed.  This meeting does not call for feasting and merriment.  Instead, a productive talk about how an individual can act as an instrument of change regarding the immigration situation in this country.  Furthermore, a viewing of the accompanying documentary Train to Nowhere:   Inside an Immigrant Death Investigation  will only further place the reader inside this journalistic must-read.


Colleen Bradford Krantz