Not Okay: A Discussion of Grief and the Books That Helped

Serendipitous factors always deliver the right book to the top of my reading stack. A Man Called Ove by Fredrik Backman, followed by Lois Metzger's YA novel, Change Places With Me encapsulate the intensity of grief. Ove, a curmudgeon, surly enough to claim king of the cranky old man castle woke one Tuesday morning without purpose. This is a funny, odd book about an odd, funny man who doggedly attempts to quiet his mourning widower's heart. In Change Places With Me we swing to the teenager, lost without her father, freezing the pain, and subsequently herself. Rose, or is it Clara sleeps in late, childishly giddy with wanting to explore the wonders of her world. As we walk along her high school hallways, we as with Rose begin to notice that not all is what it seems. Ove, and Rose have lost someone, as they meander through and around their anguish, they reluctantly embrace their sorrows, learning to live again. 

A great writer died on Monday. And while I have read only one of her books, Ursula Le Guin’s passing has left me glum. Not delusional regarding my role in her life, the emotions conjured by her death honour my melancholy as I continue to walk the road of my grief. 

Eugene Everett Best died September 16, 2016 - it took me, his daughter one year to arrive at my own season of sorrow.

The autumn of 2017, the acceptance of my loss filled me with oppressing heartache. Anxiety crept in like a cancer, holding me hostage as I cried alone, looking out my living room window as the leaves gradually turned from green to orange. School morning drop-offs, I circled the blocks of my downtown neighbourhood, gasping for breath, attempting to lay back claim to my lungs that seemed imprisoned in spinning fear. I continued to maintain a shell of normality, keeping fit, smiling when deemed appropriate, willing to laugh, to crack the joke, drink that coffee even when the bitterness rang to the bottom of my toes. 

I began to question happiness, intently curious if the emotion was achievable once one’s heart exploded. Surely the serenity permeating from my acquaintances, friends and strangers was an abnormality conjured by their own dismay? Gradually, I began to substantiate my life in two fractured parts: the Holly with a father, and the Holly Without.

The Holly Without transitioned to the beginning flurries of winter with a scream locked at the top of her throat. That siren of sadness needed to escape but the shame of not feeling better kept it at bay. When someone dies, people legitimately want to ease the burden of the bereaved; flowers sent, casseroles made, hugs given all within an acceptable period that too quickly closes. Time, as the adage claims does not heal. Each second the clock ticks is a reminder of how long it has been since I last spoke with my Dad. Time was a curse, not the conceived Band-Aid that everyone assumed it to be. And then the day came, as days do come to pass when the barriers crashed down around me, and I confessed to my mother, standing on a bustling city street, that I was not okay.

I wasn’t okay. The very utterance of the word unhinged the scream, and I willingly wanted to make myself whole again. Where to start, counselling was a startling daunting process that I barely could navigate, books on mourning, prescribed reading torture. Eventually I honed my circle for help into a tighter, more malleable process by cloaking myself in honesty. I began to share my truth. Confessing myself as not okay, unhinged some friendships; sadness is an emotion few of us are willing to be comfortable with, let alone allow in a friend. The loss of a few people in my life gradually made room for me to find myself. 

We all have our story of grief, our moments of not being okay. I am a daughter, eternally grateful for my father's love, finally able to walk down my own road to happiness. Sad days come, but they no longer define me.

Murderbot: A Review of All Systems Red, Martha Wells

There is no better adjective for today but disgusting. The rain gods must surely love Toronto as they have showered down their love for 24 hrs. My kitchen view expands out onto a dreary, grey-soaked winter day, snow banks depressingly vanquished, debris sadly on display all the while the mercury plummets. We have been promised an ice palace by this evening, one that no one wishes to enter, least of all visit by car.  Standing outside my library branch, damp and windswept my thoughts jumbled from the morning argument with child regarding appropriate garments to Murderbots. 

The nominations for 2018's Philip K. Dick award for science fiction novels published in the United States for the previous year were released. A living breathing paradox, my very geeky science fiction proclivities extend not to the conventions, awards and publishing houses that make what I love available. Indeed, Arthur C. Clarke and the tantalizing lists that have come out of The Kitschies have only recently piqued my interests, giving momentum to my recent year's reading piles. Sorry for the dis Hugo, but this girl is just not into you. Yet, here I sit having read one of the nominees, debating whether to continue with my planned review, feeling slightly annoyed that an award has deemed it reading worthy. 

All Systems Red by Martha Wells is an adequately satisfying read for a novella, providing enough world building to enrich the reader's imagination but brief enough to encapsulate a mood fully. Truthfully, the time spent between waiting for the second book of a trilogy to arrive through the library hold system can be a bleak experience. The pull of the first novel is so complete that any book read in the interim can be lost, used mostly as filler. Not so is the case with All Systems Red, the confessions of government SecUnit gone rogue, who darkly refers to himself/herself as Murderbot. 

This is a future in which sentient constructs of synthetic and organic parts exist to fulfill specific societal roles. Not quite a robot, defiantly not human, our Murderbot is in security, owned and hired out to protect the corporation's contractual obligations for myriad of clientele. On an unexplored planet, Murderbot contentedly streams hours of hacked entertainment feeds, successfully convincing the small survey team it works for that it is a focused, professional SecUnit. Things begin to unravel as it becomes clear that someone wishes them all harm. 

The Murderbot Diaries have an Isaac Asimov, 'I, Robot' quality, interlaced with a twang of Philip K. Dick's 'Do Androids Dream of Electric Sleep'. Because it is a novella, information that would normally develop is eluded to, giving All Systems Red a real-time perspective. We meet Murderbot, speculate on his/her existence, and surmise that Murderbot is more than the constructed parts he/she presents to the world. Martha Wells has created a powerfully humane sentient being, alarmingly alien yet complex enough that we want to be his/her friend. I look forward to the movie that hopefully will spawn from this little gem of a book. I have a deep desire to see a meaningfully deep science fiction film, sprinkled with murder and mayhem. 

Art Installation: A Review of Illuminae, Amie Kaufman, Jay Kristoff

The morning sunbeam that brightened my yoga practise while cheerful was ineffective in bringing warmth. Canada has frozen over as has my toes, little stubborn icicles refusing to believe in green leaves, soft winds. A fan of extreme weather patterns, the -36 wind-chill does little to squash my winter love. If we are going to do this season, might as well do it with gusto. 

The tree continues - ornaments catching my favour attempt to convince me to extend their reign for one more day. January 6th has always been our tree-tossing day. Yet, with the furnace roaring, the hubby playing Zelda and the kid heading back to school on Monday, what harm could a little extended sparkle cause? A diluted Christmas, with barely an attempt to formulate a book list, Santa still left me a little parcel of science fiction wonder under the tree. Gleefully happy that my hubby continues to understand my intense desire to read over the holidays, I cracked open my first book of 2018 on New Year's Day.

And what an adventure, Illuminae by Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff brought me right back to those wonderful feelings of 2012 when I read Leviathan Wakes. We all have those book moments we wish we could relive. Understanding the genius of War and Peace, experiencing the encompassing thrill of Dune, wanting nothing more to live in a peach with James and his insect friends. With every book cover I crack, anticipation rises as I hope for vomit zombies. After all, don't we all just want to curl up during the holidays reading about the coming end of the universe? Maybe, that is just I but to win my heart, gift this girl a good space operatic adventure that throws all the tropes right in my face.

A small illegal mining operation on the planet Kerenza has been violently attacked by the mega corporation Beitech. Our hero Kady, having just broken up with her boyfriend Ezra, watches her world explode. Her transition from survivor, to refuge to conscripted reluctant hero moves at the speed of light. As the last shuttle bay doors close, the beitech battleship Lincoln pursues the small fleet of survivors aboard the freighter Copernicus, science ship Hypatia and their crippled saviour, the battle carrier Alexander. There can be no survivors to report this take-over. Plague virus, psychopathic A.I, a battle cruiser on the hunt smashes us with detail. This is a ride that will not let you go. 

Dare I say, Illuminae is so much more than a science fiction book, it is an art installation. Beitech's crimes against Kerenza are catalogued through hacked emails, medical and classified military reports, sensor arrays, and diagnostics of battlecarrier Alexander's corrupt A.I., AIDEN. Nothing seemingly new, as SF has been doing this technique of world-building since the 60s but the sheer audacity to publish a SF story with the soul of EE. Cummings is bold. Holding Illuminae in your hands, having to turn the pages upside down to read battle text, you feel immersed more effectively than tradition paragraphs. Sheepishly, my first wayward thought as I opened its illustrative pages was it wasn't my thing - dialogue heavy this had to be a pseudo attempt at science fiction. Thankfully, the plot is a grabber. The initial design began to fade to quickly becoming an increasing important element to the dramatics of the book. I prefer my science fiction served up one way: prose. How wrong I was. 

2018 began with a work of art, how exciting this year is turning out to be.