Doxicology report
This is a book “review,” or, more modestly, a book report. The book is about homelessness, the subject of my art work, and my painting. The book's title caught my eye and I bought a used copy from an Internet book seller. What is unusual about my report is the intentional redaction of anything that might enable my reader to identify the book, obtain a copy, and read it for himself. Hopefully, there is nothing contained herein that might “dox” the writer of the book under my review. It is done in accord with the book writer's own (implied) request. On page 2, of the book's preface, the author writes:
It could derail my career, hurt my family, and marginalize me even more.
Understood. Your book will be reviewed confidentially, treated as an “unnamed source,” or any anonymous tip. All that remains to be added by me is, “these are not necessarily the views of the publisher.”
If asked to provide a one-line synopsis, it would read, “A gripping testimonial of being powerless to help the desperately ill.” Granted, that's not a recommendation any applicant would want a prospective employer to read. But, that's what the book is about. It is an inside look at the homeless problem which is, to the rest of us, unknown. All of my painting's subjects are situated in public. If they are not easy to spot, they are not far to find. I wanted to get a nurse's point-of-view—that of an insider—both of the seamy physical environment, and of the writer's feelings.
The book delivers all that and more. It is inspirational. The nurse shunned private practice, going directly into free clinic residency, confronted by the hardest social ills from the start. Over 200 pages of details about conditions any sensible person wouldn't go anywhere near. Why, one may ask, would any sensible person go into this line of work? In a word: it was a calling. The exact moment came when the future nurse's mother brought the child along on a hunt for relics in the woods. The location was a Civil War battlefield in the Deep South. The mother was an avid collector of Civil War lead bullets—called Minnie Balls—as well as any relic made of a metal which doesn't rust.
In the field, the mother explained to the child that the cause of some found bullets having a regular shape, while others were deformed, was due to the deformed bullets striking a hard object—probably bone—while the smooth projectiles only penetrated soft flesh. That indoctrination alone might drive the child's lifelong ambition to follow in Florence Nightingale's footsteps. But that wasn't all; on another such expedition (the child having got the knack for spotting the bullets), reaching to pick one up, had a vision. As the writer tells it,
As if it were one of my marbles, I flicked the bullet with an index finger, and saw it had a smashed tip. In a flash, I saw the bone and the crumpled body of the soldier the bullet had entered. I froze, feeling warmth slowly thaw my neck, hearing echoes of my heartbeat deep inside my head. Before I knew what I was doing, I buried the bullet down in the spongy earth and covered it with a mound of violets. My heart still bounding (pounding?), I ran to catch up with my mother. I didn't tell my mother what I had seen and she never asked why I stopped looking for bullets.
Ah! The child is a “sensitive,” a natural medium of the spirit. The narrative goes on to tell of seeing more ghosts—and not telling anyone—until now. In later chapters, as an adult, registered nurse, the writer recounts the semi-deceased state of many of the patients treated. So many, in fact, that the examiners' board sent a representative to warn of a list of deaths having grown too long. The nurse practitioner's name was always listed as the last medical professional who had treated the patient before his death. No action seems to have been taken against the nurse or, at least, it wasn't revealed in the book. The nurse was the established caregiver of last resort.
If what I write strains the bounds of belief, let it serve as the occasion for comparison with a well-known narrative, by a successful author, on the same subject. The book I am reviewing reminds me of Studs Terkel's book, Will the Circle be Unbroken? -Reflections on Death, Rebirth, and Hunger for a Faith (1985), in which Studs Terkel relates—through interviews—personal experiences of death, near-death, and, believe-it-or-not, the dead. I have no qualms about doxing Stud's Terkel, unlike the qualms I have about drawing unwelcome attention to the writer I am reviewing. Studs Terkel is a Pulitzer Prize winner, well-known, with many supporters, and who is, besides everything else, now deceased (1912-2008).
Studs Terkel, rest in peace. My writer is unknown—still living—and wants to remain so. I intend to honor that confidentiality. I believe we all meet again. I believe, because it happens often enough in the here-and-now. I look forward to settling accounts with my enemies, and enjoying the company of my friends, many of whom are, in both columns, long gone. I'm not in a hurry to get there. One learns patience as one gets older. Finally, I had an idea for a wicked, alternate title, for my blog post: "Die Lebensgeschichte einer Heldin," appropriately in German. The German title is stronger than the English, "Heroine's Life," which sounds weak. I find the unfortunate phonetic association of heroine, with Heroin, disturbing. We all know why, upon the discovery of Heroin, it was so-called.