![]() ![]() As a reader, it’s difficult to be constantly bombarded by the catastrophe of illness. But the nature of Khakpour’s existence is illness-she is constantly being hurt, getting sick, or being emotionally or physically tackled by the men who claim to love her, so much so that the experience of the book is one of walking on eggshells. It’s not that Khakpour isn’t engaging or that her story doesn’t deserve attention-it certainly does. Wondering what could possibly go wrong next was often a tiring experience. ![]() There is intimacy, care, and indulgence, but this book made me a wary reader. Similarly, to read Sick is to read a captivating story from a close family member whom you trust halfway. Everything, from the natural world to my nightmares, felt unreliable and all too parallel. In my waking life, I was wading through a bout of post-MFA anxiety the likes of which I’d never felt before, and I got a call from my older brother who told me he’d been bitten by a tick and diagnosed with Lyme disease (and successfully treated it with antibiotics) for the second time in two years. In that sleep, I had a terrifying dream that my skin suddenly ripped open between my second and third ribs, and while the air leaked out of my body, I wasted time panicking about which jeans to wear to the hospital. Recently, I fell asleep in bed reading Porochista Khakpour’s new memoir Sick, the story of her lifetime of physical and mental health crises that eventually leads to a diagnosis of late-stage Lyme disease. ![]()
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