I am going to have a tough time writing this review. And I really don't even want to write much of anything because all my criticisms make me think I am writing just like Martha N. Beck, Ph.D., shallow as hell, narcissist above all. But anyway, the blurbs and jacket cover are misleading, so I'm adding to the reviews that attempt to give a clearer picture of what is going on in this book.
Expecting Adam: A True Story of Birth, Rebirth, and Everyday Magic is a pregnancy memoir. Beck, a Harvard graduate student, is married with a daughter when she becomes "consciously pregnant" with her son. Despite her awareness that she is getting herself pregnant, she disbelieves it can be true. What follows is an extremely difficult pregnancy, including severe hyperemesis gravidarum (she goes, at one point, almost four days without eating or drinking anything) and placental abruption at 20 weeks. Shortly after the placental abruption, knowing that there's something going on with the baby, she requests and receives an amniocentesis which reveals Trisomy 21. She spends the remainder of the pregnancy continuing to suffering from HG, while grieving her son's diagnosis and confronting the hatred and pity of her community.
And having, almost continually, mind-blowing spiritual experiences, which she hides, downgrades, minimizes, justifies, criticizes and depreciates.
Just a pause to note my own cosmology here. I am a born-again, Charismatic Christian. Which means I experience an active God in the Person of the Holy Spirit-- miraculous healing (both physical and emotional), glossolalia, all of that stuff. The Book of Acts writ large. So it's very, very clear to me that the Holy Spirit is acting in her life. I suppose the lesson for me is that God never gives up on anybody. Because while she insists on going from a super-rigid atheist worldview to a super-flexible omnispiritual whatever bring it on worldview, she goes out of her way to reject traditional Christianity. She believes in everything BUT a loving Creator.
The entirety of the book is an exercise in watching someone be handed life-changing experiences of love and grace on a silver platter, then being ungrateful about them and asking for more. Eventually Beck acknowledges this, but it's so close to the end of the book that it's hard to believe she actually understands. Her husband accuses her of receiving the universe's tastiest brownie direct from the hand of God and then pouting and asking for a whole pan. And she tells him he's right. And then writes at length about how she immediately begins praying for release from all the pain and grief of her pregnancy and the pain and grief of expecting a child with Down's Syndrome. In response [God-- she never actually acknowledges God. She just says "the bunraku puppeteers" or "the magic presence"] nigh-on knocks her out with an overwhelming sensation of love and peace. After a few minutes of this experience, it subsides. Instead of integrating it and living with the love and peace offered her, she resolves to figure out how to get back to it, to live in it more. Essentially, she was given a pan of brownies and wanted a big box store of brownies.
Much of the book flashes forward--or backward, depending on which perspective you want to take. She contrasts her run-of-the-mill life with her retarded son with her high-stress, high-achievement, all-geniuses-all-the-time Harvard life. And what it seems like the reader is supposed to glean from this just how very flexible Beck is and how much she's grown. What I and I'm sure a lot of other readers got instead was that, for a smart person, Beck just isn't very bright.
And yet I feel horrible for judging her at all because what I feel for her is largely pity. I'm so sorry that she has to work to achieve what seems like a minimal level of human spirituality. I'm so sorry that she had to be beaten with the love bat relentlessly in order to let any of it into her life. One of the only experiences I don't feel sorry for her about is one we shared-- the feeling of seeing a baby and being reunited with an old friend in an overwhelming wave of relief and love. She writes of seeing her son's profile on ultrasound for the first time (a new technology in 1987) and thinking, "Oh! It's Adam!" Not a baby, or her baby or the baby. Not a face. Not a technological marvel. No, the feeling was of recognizing a dear friend and one you'd been parted from for so long that you'd almost made yourself forget that friend to guard against the pain. Her husband had a similar experience later, via dream. I have had the exact same feeling. The first time I held my nephew Ethan, I burst into tears. And what I thought, at first, was pure joy, was actually joy mixed with an overwhelmingly powerful sense of relief at being reunited, finally, with a friend I had loved deeply and missed desperately. To Beck, it's just another in the endless Mysteries of Adam, given to her in order to help her, make her better, her her her. To me it's a precious gift from God-- a glimpse into just how eternal our spirits are and how very deeply we are loved and love in return across eternity.
But enough. Okay. Enough.
In the end, this memoir is a tale of the powerful, instructive, loving Holy Spirit of God. It's just too bad that it's getting told by one Martha Beck who goes out of her way to make it about the powerful, instructive, loving spirit of Adam. She falls into that, "all Down's people are magic" trope. And all of Harvard is full of ruthless winners, none of whom know how to love. And lots and lots of other problems. And I have to stop now. Long story short (too late!), a tremendous disappointment of a novel, poorly structured and suffering from a scorching case of cult of self.