This misery memoir, of a lass ten years younger than me who has since died with the disease featured in this book, certainly has a distinctive style. As if the least hand-written of fonts possible for the captions and narrative chunks weren’t enough, and if the sparse white of the page didn’t do enough, we get every scene’s key character in vivid colour, and the rest of the world beyond them reduced to pure outline. And not even in black, either.
This, and the coloured funkified speech bubbles, certainly makes the page lively and as I say distinctive. But it also achieves an immediacy, a foregrounding of our narrator in her battles with the leukaemia that strikes her down. At first it’s just deemed sciatica, as back and thigh pains strike her so much she is left with no option but test after test after test to find the disease and what is supposed to be the right kind of chemo in response.
I do think there are slight issues and flaws with the book. It’s not guaranteed that you will really engage with the narrator, even if the jaw-dropping amount of procedures (and equally jaw-dropping cost of the whole shebang, with just one pill being charged at $85 per tablet) do kind of force empathy. There is also the slight issue of the creator’s dates being mentioned on the title page, the earliest spoiler possible. (That said, the book does continue after her death, with a similarly-styled advert for, and explanation of, bone marrow donation.)
And of course you get the it-goes-without-saying aspect of this, that you wish you’d never had to read it. You wish the real life person behind these pages had not gone through so much, had shared her sister’s ability to procreate, and had gone for something in her distinctive style not so gallingly medical. And that’s my personal issue with the misery memoir genre, for its readers don’t seem to have that empathy, and from my POV seem to applaud their chance to read such horrors. It is a strange kind of person who finds entertainment in this narrative, and my ultimate issue with this is perhaps that it is too personal, too hair-fally-outy, and not quite as hard-hitting reportage as it needed to be. Yet for the all the punch-pulling, this can have an impactful touch, so four stars is about right.