I used to work for John Green.
I blurt that periodically. Like, every time he publishes a new book. Maybe because I’m an ordinary person with no claim to fame of my own, I dunno. I do know that at one point he was my boss. The last time I put that tidbit on a resume, one of my interviewers was like “no way!” and I was like “way.”
I got that job, but I’m pretty sure that’s not the only reason why. Pretty sure.
Anyway, if you’ve never been here before or you just haven’t had the chance to keep up with my blog for the last eight months, you should know I have a brain tumor. I promise it’s relevant to my review of Green’s Turtles All the Way Down, but it’s going to look like it’s not for just a minute or two.
Last night I asked Twitter what those tiny purplish dots on the pads of my fingers might be. When I first noticed them, I thought they were ink. (From what, exactly, I didn’t know; I hadn’t picked up a writing utensil in several weeks.) So I tried to wash them off without any luck.
However, with the help of the wonderful @mumsintheattic, I settled on them being chemo-induced thrombocytopenia.
Basically my blood quality sucks because of chemotherapy, and—voila!—microbruises. Turns out they’re kind of painful. The pain sensation is something akin to the prick you feel having your blood sugar tested. Only it’s hundreds of tiny locations, on all my fingers, and the pain lingers for hours instead of seconds.
I got thrombocytopenia from reading Turtles All the Way Down, because the weight of the hardcover on my hands was too much for my clot-challenged blood. So my finger tips bruised.
Suddenly Natasha Bedingfield just seems kind of, well, whiny. Am I right?
February 9, 2017 was the day Dr. Beaumont cut my head open. And though I’m certain he didn’t mean to, his knife work tweaked some already overzealous muscles in my head, neck, and shoulders. (The muscles seem to be terribly afraid that if they don’t wrench and clench twenty-four-seven, my head might actually fall off my body.)
Said muscles are so constantly worked up that they pinch a nerve, and the nerve invariably sends a signal back to the constricted muscles: WRENCH AND CLENCH HARDER. If there’s such a thing as neck sciatica, I have it.
This pain is exacerbated when I hold things like my cell phone or, say, a hardcover copy of Turtles All the Way Down. So at the end of every chapter (God bless authors who write short chapters) I’d put the book down and take a couple of deep breaths. Then I’d pick it back up despite myself and wince.
This is where the 100% spoiler free review comes in.
The fact that I read this book in less than 24 hours while causing myself more pain (more as in more than chronic pain) is a testament to how great it is. I particularly recommend it to my Spoonie friends. (Have a tissue when you get to page 89.)
If you’re thinking about buying it, do. You can use my Amazon affiliate link, and I’ll make a few cents. Which I will probably use to buy more books that cause me pain.