Station Eleven

After a long hiatus in which I could only watch "Friends" episodes, listen to the All Souls trilogy on audiobook, walk around feeling like I'd drunk a gallon of coffee, and sometimes - sometimes - knit, I've finally read a book. Two books, in fact! I'm so proud. One seems to have a bit more synergy with my present situation, however, so I give you:

Station Eleven: A Novel by Emily St. John Mandel

Had Station Eleven been written in a chronologically organized way, it would have been a nice addition to the growing field of post-apocalyptic fiction. But Mandel instead takes readers through life before "the collapse," as well as during and after that seminal event, using a technique that reminded me of a disorganized but dazzling pile of photographs. 

Readers follow the fates of a handful of people introduced in the first chapter of the book, which occurs in a theater just before the collapse. What really makes this book sparkle is the organization - like flashes going off in the darkest of night, the vignettes in the book provide startling vision into the lives of the characters who managed to survive the collapse, and as the pictures pile up around us, the readers, we see terror, beauty, love, desperation, and insanity. Especially gorgeous was the way in which Mandel manages to tie the life and aspirations of the theater back to the stories at large in a myriad of ways, and strives to convince us that "Survival is insufficient."

Recommended for post-apocalyptic buffs, anyone who loves the theater, fans of delicate and thoughtful character development, and people in the mood to ruminate (at least a little). Four and a half stars because I didn't find the speed of the whole collapse all that plausible.

Really, a brilliantly constructed book with a handful of resonant messages. I bet you're thinking I'm about to launch into a treatise on how "Survival IS insufficient" and we should all go out and seize the day because life is precarious and swift, full of the unknown, and to pretend otherwise might be human nature but merely illustrates the folly of the human condition. And then I'll go on to say we should run and grab up our loved ones and hold them tight - sniffing their hair, memorizing every little part of them, right down to their eyelashes and freckles, imbibing the silly, winning things they say in all seriousness so that they become a piece of your heart and you become a part of theirs, and to do it before our own collapse arises, unbidden. But aha! I'm not going to say any of that, because while it's all true, to point all that out is painful enough to make people cry, and sort of cliched besides. I mean, let's face it, there are about 5,000 pages you can like on Facebook that will give you the exact same sentiment but package it all tarted up with a misty ocean behind it, or in a fancy font, or covered with conversational hearts or something, and I just can't compete with that. 

Nope. My favorite quote from this book: "That first year everyone was a little crazy." It, along with the photo pile approach to memory, describes my cancer experiences to a tee. I look back over the last 17 months and certain events and moments spring out at me, so vibrant and clear: showing my best friend where I keep all the kids' paperwork and keepsakes the weekend after I was diagnosed while we both wept; my mom, dad, and brother all standing in my kitchen, looking at me a few days before I had my first surgery, faces full of dismay and disbelief; crying in the oncologist's office,  "I can't DO THIS AGAIN!" after learning that there'd been recurrence, and simultaneously congratulating myself that I had scheduled the scan after Finn's birthday party and actual birthday; skiing down the bunny hill at Steamboat, full of glee; opening a care package from my friend Sara, whom I hadn't talked to since high school and crying happy tears...the list goes on. But so many of my memories are of feeling, yep, a little bit crazy. Vibrantly alive while in the hospital, even in the ICU, and then wilting like a two-week old flower once treatments are over. Keeping it funny even as I wonder if my kids will ever know my sense of humor (since wry sarcasm somehow doesn't seem to translate well to the junior set). Setting new goals to eat better, so aware I have the luxury of trying the nutritional approach when so many others who were diagnosed with my same disease when I was are no longer around, and then eating ice cream/drinking wine before bed. It's like I can't wrap my head around things some days. Many days. The best days are the ones when I'm so busy and have enough energy that I don't have time to think about any of this insanity at all. I hope things become less crazy, that I find my equilibrium and continue limping/lurching/leaping forward with fewer and fewer days that exist in a haze of incredulity and limbo. 

I'm starting to ramble now, so I'll shut this down. But I won't be drinking wine because I purposely didn't buy any this week! 

Thanks for listening. I mean it.