A relatable, tenderly observed account of the “sacred joy” of tending to the dying.
A portrait of the author’s late mother that focuses mainly on her decline in her final days.
Debut author Bloom’s mom suffered from a persistent cough, which was diagnosed as being caused by pulmonary fibrosis—a disorder in which the lungs fill with scar tissue. Four years later, at the age of 67, she was struggling with her memory and motor functions, so Bloom, a registered nurse, quit her job to be involved in her daily care. As her mother’s condition worsens, the narrative slows to address one month per chapter, then decelerates further, dividing months among several chapters. This structure gracefully mirrors how a waning life slows down, forcing one to focus on small details. Bloom notes how gifts, such as a pedicure or eyeglass frames that hid a cannula, meant a lot to her mother and how using a cherry-red wheelchair and decorating a den like a Native American sweat lodge softened the sadness of immobility. The book also elegantly explores the past, showing how one memory transports the author into a related, older one. For instance, when Bloom’s mother is confined to a hospital bed, it takes the author back to her own six weeks of bed rest during high school—which were only made tolerable by her mother’s love. Bloom recognizes that her mother always “tried to teach me to pause” by arranging a beach trip to see a grunion run, for example, or finding time for a cup of tea with friends. The book’s key message is that one should slow down and appreciate each remaining day. There’s an effective recurring metaphor of a bridge as a crossing into death, and she tells of using dragonflies as a reminder to let go of anger. It’s unfortunate, though, that there are so many clichés in such a short volume: “running on empty,” pots boiling over, “the elephant in the room,” and so on. That said, most chapters do offer pithy, useful pieces of advice.
A relatable, tenderly observed account of the “sacred joy” of tending to the dying.Pub Date: Aug. 21, 2018
ISBN: 978-1-63152-469-1
Page Count: 256
Publisher: She Writes Press
Review Posted Online: June 6, 2018
Review Program: Kirkus Indie
A lively, outspoken commentary on life as a middle-aged, divorced mini-celebrity who fights fat, the dearth of acceptable men, and mortality. Levine is a successful product-pusher on QVC (the network that pioneered shop-around-the-clock-from-your-couch), her viewers attracted by a straightforward approach to shopping and a ``Jewish-mamma-of-the-'90s'' presentation. The tone here is basically letters-to-my-new-best-friend, revealing all about her latest love affairs (successful and unsuccessful, serendipitous and planned, younger and older); her face-lift (yes, she had one, but it was small and unimportant, only an adjunct to a face peel, and QVC didn't order her to do it), her weight loss (with the help of the once-miraculous, now-controversial diet pill, ``fen- phen''). Now, the reader should understand that Levine doesn't really approve of anti-aging surgery or obsession with weight. But something (a wish for another decade in television?) made her do it. Levine's talent as storyteller and coauthor Scovell's skill as a writer give enough punch to the material to make the manifold ``oy vays'' and other ethnic exclamation points unnecessary. The death of Levine's ex-husband, who had remained a loving friend, gives a sober note to the otherwise energetic tale. But the last chapter, unfortunately, is a plug for QVC. The reader has to be a really big fan to have a clue about the people she lauds or to care about the dress that she wore ten years ago when she helped launch the station. It is to laugh, yes; but, oy vay, it is also to despair of women who give priority to members of the opposite sex as simply romantic objects, to perfect bodies, and to mindless, endless shopping. (b&w illustrations) (TV satellite tour)
Pub Date: Sept. 10, 1997
ISBN: 0-671-00848-X
Page Count: 224
Publisher: Pocket
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: Aug. 1, 1997
The chronicle of a family’s first year with an almost impossible foster child. “Mike” is no poster kid for foster care. Flung in and out of foster homes before the Miniters muster up the courage to take him on, he is such a severely troubled boy that he comes their way via the Harbour Program, which places mentally ill or refractory children and provides a comprehensive training and support system for their new “professional parents.” Mike, for example, wets his bed, breaks things, and talks nonstop, and very loudly, whenever he’s feeling nervous. Antagonistic when confronted with a difficult choice, he swears like a sailor. And he’s heavily medicated. When someone suggests that he help out with the shared domestic chores, he replies, “I hate this fucking family.” Despite the inevitable strain he places on Sue and Richard Miniters, they persevere, and gradually Mike begins ever so slowly to heal and even blossom. It’s a triumphant story in no small part because Miniter so willingly admits his and other family members’ misgivings, fears, and anger about having Mike around full-time. (Miniter’s college-age sons initially ignore Mike despite their parents’ pleas.) And Mike, in the end, is not miraculously “cured.” Not at all. For though he improves, he remains a challenged boy, even after the Miniters decide to adopt him for keeps at the close of the experimental year. In choosing honesty over hype, Miniter as author provides a clear picture of the children who need parents like himself and the families who rescue them. Candid and breathtakingly hopeful.
Pub Date: Sept. 14, 1998
ISBN: 0-553-10933-2
Page Count: 288
Publisher: Bantam
Review Posted Online: May 19, 2010
Kirkus Reviews Issue: July 15, 1998
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