Shrinkage, by Bryan Bishop

So, I am a little backed up on my book blogging - so tonight is a double post.  After finishing 61 Hours, by Lee Child, the Husband gave me Shrinkage by Bryan Bishop.  This is another of the books that he thinks will give me an insight into him and his life.  I started Shrinkage on February 1 and finished it this morning, February 21.  The Husband has given me a few other books to read that he thinks give me insight into who he is:  The Fault In Our Stars, Angry Black White Boy, and now Shrinkage.

The Husband is a huge fan of Adam Carolla, and Bryan Bishop (aka Bald Bryan) is a part of Carolla's podcast.  Bishop is also a cancer fighter/survivor just like the Husband.  The Husband is a 3-time cancer survivor, and is very involved in patient advocacy and the cancer world (he is a facilitator for a local young adult cancer support group for cancer fighters and caregivers).  He gives a lot of his time and energy to this cause, and thought this book could give me some additional insight into his life's story and how/why he behaves and reacts certain ways in certain situations.

Bishop has brain cancer - a tumor - that greatly impacted his life.  This book details the trials and travails of his ordeal - all while he is in the process of marrying the love of his life, Christie.  You hear about cancer all the time, but these first person narratives of how life really is when dealing with cancer are all the more insightful.  I think non-cancer-affected people think they can imagine how horrible an ordeal it is, but they (and me) have no idea of what it is really like.  Bishop does a great job of detailing (yes, all of the gory details - including crapping himself and having Christie clean him up) everything - the good, the bad, the hopeless, the miraculous.

Cancer fucking sucks - I am hard pressed to think of anyone that I know who hasn't been touched by cancer in some way (whether as a person diagnosed with cancer or as a caregiver or as a friend or relative of someone who has or had cancer).  Too many people have had to deal with this disease and the devastation it can leave in its wake.  Thankfully (THANKFULLY), the Husband is happy and healthy now, and thankfully my dad survived his cancer, thankfully my good friend K. survived her cancer.  New people are diagnosed every single day.  I learned recently via FaceBook that an acquaintance who is basically my age was just diagnosed with cervical cancer.  It is everywhere.

But what do we, as non-cancer diagnosed people really know about what it is like to go through this ordeal?  We know nothing.  I think it is difficult for those with a cancer diagnosis to really talk about it - they lived it, and probably don't want to relive it by talking about it all the time.  So books like Bishop's can really help us gain more insight into the hell and torture people have gone through.  A few times when I talked with my friend K. about her cancer, she ended up in tears, and never really opened up about anything, not that I really expected her to.  The last time this happened was about a year or so ago and we were out to dinner to catch up.  K. and I used to work together and see each other regularly - but through job changes, divorces, marriages, and moves, we didn't see each other quite so often.  At this meeting, over dinner we were catching up and talking about things.  She asked how the Husband was and I mentioned that he was going to a summer camp for young adult cancer fighters and survivors for kayaking, I asked if she was interested in anything like that or if she had sought out any support groups or anything when she was going through treatment.  She hadn't.  I told her she deserved to have an outlet to talk about things with like-minded people - at this point she cried a little.  I told her it seemed to me that she went through treatment without really going through treatment - she worked the whole time, didn't take a day off.  She went through life like nothing was wrong.  Of course, that is her prerogative, but it seems to me that going through something like that, that you might need a little help and that there are a lot of places that could help her.  She agreed, and then we promptly dropped the subject.  K. is a very strong woman working in a male-dominated field and I think she feels she can't show her vulnerabilities out of fear of being seen as weak.

Bishop details the help he needed throughout his book - as his treatment went on (radiation and chemotherapy), his life steadily went downhill - his walking suffered, his speech suffered, he was exhausted, he needed full time care and couldn't be left alone. At one point he couldn't walk, he was a fall risk, and could barely speak.  This was humbling for him because he relied on Christie 100% to help him with literally everything.  His treatment was rough, and his recovery from treatment was even rougher.  Caring for Bishop was extremely difficult for Christie as well - she ended up hospitalized for several days with colitis induced by exhaustion and stress.

In one particular chapter, Bishop wrote about how his cancer and treatment affected his relationship with his parents.  This gave me a lot of insight into the Husband's relationship with his parents, and also with me.  Bishop wrote about how he had to filter what he told his parents about his treatments, his doctor appointments, his test results, and his recovery.  He didn't outright lie to them, but also wasn't 100% honest with him either.  This has been something that the Husband and I have talked about a lot relative to his doctor appointments and his health.  He doesn't want to tell me anything until there is something to tell because he doesn't want me to worry.  I don't want to be kept in the dark unless I am completely left in the dark.  I know that may not make complete sense - here's an example.  If the Husband tells me he has a doctor appointment to check on one thing or the other, and then when I ask him about the appointment and he is vague in his response, I know he is keeping something from me and want to know what it is.  He'll be evasive and non-specific in how he answers my questions about the test result or follow-up, then I know or imagine something is worse then he is telling me.  So when I say it would be better for me to be completely in the dark - I mean that if he is having an appointment for something then if he can't or won't share it all with me then I'd want him to share nothing with me (not even tell me about the appointment) until there is something to share - like a clean bill of health or something wrong.  This is an ongoing discussion we have - how much he should tell me and when.  It is a fine line between outright lying to me and keeping me in the dark until there is something to tell.

After reading books like Bishop's, I think I might "get it" a tiny little bit more.  I also think I have a tiny bit more of an understanding of how and why the Husband is the way he is, about why he panics a little before every appointment with his doctors, about why he is diligent with his health maintenance, and about why he might want to keep me in the dark.  Cancer is a big, evil, scary, terror-inducing thing, and why expose more people than absolutely necessary to how horrific it really is?  But from a caregiver / loved-one point of view, we just want to make things a little nicer, easier, less horrific for those dealing with it.  I think it is a double-edged sword and a lose-lose situation - the person with cancer doesn't want to inflict their hell on anyone else so retreats into their own private hell.  And loved ones want to ease the situation for the person with cancer so they smother the person with love and attention.  As you can imagine, things can spiral downhill from there.

Where is the happy medium?  I think that after reading Bishop's book and knowing the Husband and his history, those in the loved-one / care giver role need to take direction from the person with cancer - let that person tell you what they need, how and when they need it, and when they need you to leave them alone.  I imagine there is a tremendous amount of contemplation and thought processing going on and they need space to do it in.  They know we love them and are there for them, but they need to be in the driver's seat and steer the car towards what they need at that particular time and place.  We have no real idea of what they are going through so we need to leave it to them to tell us in their own way and in their own time.  Easier said then done.

This book is funny and sad, insightful and honest.  I'm glad I read it, and I'm glad the Husband shared it with me.  When I finished it this morning, we had a short talk about the book and what I took away from it.  Then we kissed and got up to start our day.  

ps - after the Husband read this before I published it, he pulled out his phone and told me about his dentist appointment next week, his bi-annual skin check in April, all with a sly little grin and laugh on his face.  I still love him.

Angry Black White Boy, by Adam Mansbach

After finishing the Fifth Assassin by Brad Meltzer, I started reading Angry Black White Boy or, The Miscegenation of Macon Detornay, by Adam Mansbach on February 28th, and just finished it this morning.  My husband read this book and considers it one of his favorites.  He gave it to me in my last pile of 3 book options and was quite surprised to see me reading it.  To be honest, I was quite surprised to BE reading it.  This is not a type of book that I would normally pick up for myself.  All along, Husband constantly joked with me about how I would write this one up.  I'm still scratching my head about it, even as I type...

The title alone is somewhat off-putting to me.  Angry Black White Boy.  How does one even try and discuss a book of this nature without offending someone?  I, personally, was offended by the book, and some of the language in it.  When dealing with the subject of race relations, there is always a precarious and very fine line that you need to not cross.  Adam Mansbach gives that line the finger and just goes for it.

This book (fiction) chronicles a period of time in the life of Macon Detornay, a white boy who loves Black culture.  

But we're all white people devils?  Could there be exceptions?  What about that dude Paul C., who'd engineered Eric B. & Rakim's album?  ...   From Macon's confusion had bubbled anger.  How dare black people not see him as an ally, not recognize that he was down?  He retaliated by studying their history, their culture: He was a thirteen-year-old whiteboy in a Malcom X T-shirt, alone at the first annual Boson Hip Hop Conference, heart fluttering with intimidation and delight as scowling bald-headed old schoolers pointed at his chest, demanding, 'Whatchu know about that man?' Which was exactly what he'd wanted, why he'd worn it.  He ran down Malcom's life for them, watched them revise their expressions with inward elation, nodded studiously at their government assassination theories, rhymed when the chance presented itself.  Tagged other graffiti writers' blackooks and wondered what it would take to be scratched from the devil list for good.

Macon moves to New York from Boston to attend Columbia University.  He rooms with Andre, the great grandson of a black baseball player who played on the same team as Macon's great grandfather.  This pairing was by Macon's design.  Macon takes a job as a cab driver and begins robbing his white passengers.  Reports of the robberies hit the press, but they report them as perpetrated by a Black cab driver.  Macon, for some reason, is upset by this and feels the need to set the record straight.  So, he robs another white passenger and insists that the passenger get a good look at him so that he can more accurately describe Macon to the police.  Macon inevitably gets arrested.

Up until the point where Macon gets arrested, I had serious doubts about whether I would finish this book.  It is chock full of the "N" word, a word that I don't like to hear, let alone read.  Macon is written as that white guy who wishes he wasn't.  He makes reference to all kinds of rappers and rap lyrics, and graffiti and graffiti artists.  These are things that I'm not expert in, so it was hard for me to follow and really relate to.

However, once Macon was arrested, the proverbial shit hit the fan, and the book took on an entirely different, and actually somewhat comical and outlandish turn.  The press has a field day with a white man robbing white taxi passengers, and Macon becomes the person du jour.  His roommate Andre, Andre's friend Nique, and a token white girl, Logan, band together and come up with the idea for "The Race Traitor Project" and along with it, "The Day of Apology" whereby white people are called upon to apologize to black people for years of oppression and slavery and racism.  Prior to Macon talking to any press or taking any interviews, Andre, Nique and Logan tried to prepare him:

Macon had consented to a lengthy crash course in interview skills, and until the break of day the team had tradeoff-peppered him with questions and advice to illustrate what Nique called the Basic Presidential Principles.  Macon had learned the Reaganesque technique of responding to hard-nosed inquiries with tangential homespun anecdotes instead of facts, the Nixonian gambit of talking shit while simultaneously claiming high moral ground and a non-shit-talker, myriad Clintonian methods of sidestepping a repeated and reworded question, and the general tactics involved in subverting the agenda of any interviewer and saying what you damn well pleased regardless of circumstance or status.

Needless to say, this "Day of Apology" gets completely out of hand, and New York City becomes one large riot ground with all kinds of violence, looting, and even killing.  Mansbach's description of the shenanigans and the riot are very detailed and realistic, and I could actually imagine the things he wrote happening.  They brought back my memories of watching the Rodney King / Los Angeles riots on television when I was just out of high school.  Mansbach makes reference to those riots several times in the book, and the riots play a large part in Macon's history:

...above Nique's bed was framed a blurry black-and-white freeze-frame of a scene Macon had never forgotten: six of L.A.'s Finest, so murky that they might be figments of imagination, swinging billy clubs with pickax motions as if the huddled mass of Rodney King might be a craggy slab of granite or an arid patch of land.

     "Nice Picture."  [said Macon].

      Nique turned and scowled.  "Nice? Either you got a real limited vocabulary or a serious problem.  Ain't nothing nice about the shit."

      Macon shook his head.  "No, I mean, of course not. I-- What I meant was..."  He gave up on speaking and pushed the left sleeve of his T-shirt to his shoulder.  Tattooed on Macon's biceps in small green characters was 4-29-92.  It was the day the verdict had been handed down, the day Los Angeles had burned.  Andre and Dominique peered in to read it, then looked up at Macon.

...  Nique looked from Andre to Macon and then back to Andre.  He ran a hand over his smooth-shaved head.  "Who is this dude, Dre?" he asked with cinematic incredulity and perfect comic timing, the results of an upbringing replete with four movie channels and unlimited TV privileges. "Mufucker got a Rodney King tattoo? Shit, I thought I was black." 

Some very strange things happen in the last few chapters of the book - the whole book is strange, in my opinion - but the end gets even stranger.  The grandson of another baseball player that played against Macon's and Andre's great grandfathers makes an appearance.  He is a psychiatrist who dabbles in a kind of brain-washing of sorts.  There is an elaborate scheme between the doctor and Nique and Andre to get Macon to do something that blows up in their face.  The ending is quite abrupt and left me shaking my head in disbelief.  Disbelief that what happened in the book actually happened, and disbelief that this is how the book ended.

This book is interesting.  Would it be the first book I recommend to someone to read?  No.  Would I recommend someone NOT read this book?  No.  I say, read it with a grain of salt.