I’m trying to find the right words to describe how I felt about this book. It wouldn’t seem quite right to say that I enjoyed it. Who can enjoy a book in which the author details her experience in having to somehow find a way to bear the unbearable? It’s thought-provoking and sob-inducing in equal measure, a book about finding a way to move on in the face of the devastating, the heartbreaking and the unexplainable.
I started to read The Gift Giver while lying in bed beside my sleeping husband, who had turned in for the night ahead of me. Reading about how the author woke up one morning to find that her husband, Mark, had died in his sleep was… uncomfortable, to say the least. I was crying snottily through those first few chapters about the unimaginably awful, compelled to turn over and cuddle up to the snoring man beside me roughly every minute as I did so.
The book focuses on how Hawkins starts to come to terms with the loss of her husband, trying to deal with her own grief while helping her two young children through their own and somehow keep their world together as far as possible. Without giving too much away, I’ll say that a central concept to this book is explained when Hawkins recalls a discussion with Mark about the idea that, in the instant before we die, we get to choose whether it will happen or whether we will stay alive. She describes how she comes to believe in this, and this belief helps her to accept and make sense of what has happened and carry on living herself.
The Gift Giver is not easy to categorize; there’s no obvious pigeon-hole to choose for this book that sits somewhere between memoir and self-help/inspirational, while reading almost like a novel. However, for someone like me who doesn’t subscribe to any particular religion or notion as to what happens to us after we die, it is a book that will leave you feeling comforted even as you reach for another stack of tissues to sob into. I’m not quite sure I’d go so far as to say “this is what I believe”, as Hawkins does in the opening pages of the book, but I know I believe in “something”, and (despite the chorus of “buts…” and “how comes…” my more rational mind will throw out there), Jennifer’s version of “something” might be as close to making sense of the senseless as I’m likely to find.
In short, this book is well-written and moving, and if you can brace yourself for the utter ruination of your mascara and have plenty of tissues on hand, I really would recommend it. My respect and best wishes go out to the author for being such an incredibly strong woman.
I won this book on a First Reads giveaway.