The only reason I read this book is because my close friend was recently diagnosed with multiple myeloma, an incurable but treatable blood cancer. When I visited him in Ann Arbor I noticed someone had given him this book, though still was surprised he would read it. Our shared tastes would lean more toward Bukowski than Brokaw, the author of such irrepressibly plucky tomes as The Greatest Generation. Yikes. I have nothing against the guy. Seems like a good person, but he's just not the kind of thinker or writer I would go out of my way to read. I know I sound like a snob here, but I watched him on the news off and on for years. He's nice, okay, just not the kind of guy I would ordinarily read.
Except Brokaw also was diagnosed in 2013, at the age of 73, with multiple myeloma, so this got my attention. Like my friend, Brokaw had thought himself to be aging well, in all the ways he and his doctors could discern. Then he had some back pain, and was lucky to have it diagnosed early enough as not just something requiring physical therapy, but an actual malignancy. So he could begin aggressive treatment. At 73, Brokaw was only taking a multivitamin and a baby aspirin every day. Healthy and strong. Had just come back from biking with friends in South Africa, don't ya know.
I read the book for signs of what the book's subtitle promised, A Memoir of Hope, but I also read books on health issues because I don't want to be naive about the fact that I am going to die some day. How one faces catastrophic illness and the prospect of dying, that interests me. How will I do it? I don't like to think of it, but I try to periodically, often with the help of literature, which of course is often about dealing with death, one way or the other.
The main "takeway" from this book is that if you are very sick, it helps if you are very rich. Brokaw admits this privilege, though he almost seems to crow about his various lifelong successes, and the opportunities that come to him because he is famous and has the money to open doors. When he is worried he flies personal jet planes to the Mayo Clinic and gets treated in NYC at Memorial Sloan Kettering (MSK, they call it there, Brokaw tells us, wow, an insider!). He advises having a personal advocate such as his doctor daughter to help him navigate this traumatic terrain. Though it never seems quite traumatic for the optimist Brokaw, who wants to convey the importance of never giving up, educating yourself about your disease, and advocating for yourself in treatment. Who of us can pay such an advocate? Where's my jet?
I learned that while incurable, MM is now each year more treatable. Brokaw was given eight years to live, but was also told they are making advances on slowing the progress of the disease every year. He does expect to die, but bets he makes it to his nineties, and expects to die of something other than MM. But in this health care system, being rich is a distinct advantage. He can call Dr. Jerome Groopman at Harvard to get advice! I suspect Groopman will not pick up the phone when I call. Brokaw in other words, has more hope that most people, and he almost crowingly admits this, while name-dropping every famous person he has jetted the planet fishing and biking with, while along the way lightly and superficially reprising some of the highlights of his career as a broadcaster and tv anchor. The Dalai Lama, Mandela, Berlin Wall, and so on. Ho hum. Nice work if you can get it. And I am glad his cancer is in full remission now. He's a good guy, I wish him a long life. He will remind you on every page his has been a prosperous one.
But money is your best basis for hope, not--our contemporary concept of the day--grit. Brokaw credits his South Dakota working class roots for his plucky attitude. Good for him. But survival from catastrophic illness has less to do with your attitude than a team of top notch medical professionals.
Brokaw concludes his book:
Life, what's left.
Bring it on.
Tom Brokaw
Two six four oh. [his birthdate and signature in all the hospitals, ho hum]
This is the kind of writer he is, Brokaw. Not captivating, though. . . nice. Chatty. Not pretentious, for sure. But absolutely flat and boring, for the most part, as a writer of memoir. No edge whatsoever in the book, on any page.
So: I learned a few small things from this book, I got a little more hopeful for my friend, which is what I was looking for, but I was overall a little more depressed than ever about the health care system, that Michael Moore among others has made clear is deeply inequitable in this country. I'm off to look for more money, will work until I drop, maybe buy some lottery tickets. I need to get "lucky" like Brokaw.