Sing You Home

Sing You Home

Adult nonfiction
New reproductive techniques have brought joy to so many people.
Parents are raising beloved children they would not have been able to
conceive back when conception was limited to Biblical begetting.
These same technologies, however, have raised many moral, legal, and
ethical issues. Jodi Picoult examines several of them in Sing You Home.
Zoe, a music therapist, wants nothing more than motherhood.
Since she and husband, Max, have fertility issues, they've gone the in
vitro fertilization route. After miscarriages and a stillbirth Zoe is
ready to try again; but Max wants out, convinced that her pregnancy
desire has overshadowed all other facets of their life including their
marriage.
Divorced and adrift, Zoe finds a very unexpected source of love.
"I have loved before, but it didn't feel like this.
I have kissed before, but it didn't burn me alive.
Maybe it lasts a minute, and maybe it's an hour. All I know is
that kiss, and how soft her skin is when it brushes against mine, and
that, even if I did not know it until now, I have been waiting for
this person forever."
Zoe and Vanessa decide to get married and have Vanessa carry Zoe
and Max's three embryos, frozen before the divorce, to term. They're
still at the clinic. Zoe has to get Max to sign off on this.
Max, however, has become deeply involved in his brother's
fundamentalist church, captivated by its charismatic minister. He's
convinced that it would be an abomination for the children (as he sees
them) to be raised in a lesbian household. He decides to sue for
custody and give them to his brother and his wife who are childless
despite valient efforts to procreate. His church is eager to use all
its resources and connections to work in his favor.
If a riveting drama with thought provoking ethical implications
is your cup of iced tea, you'll want to get your hands on Sing You Home.
On a personal note, the powerful emotions that are making me feel like
a small boat out at sea in the teeth of a hurricane are enabling me to
write my best poetry. People think it's therapeutic. Bullshit! When
I'm seriously grieving what I want is a low grade opiate that would
come without side effects like addiction, extreme weight loss or gain,
or felony arrest record. What I find therapeutic are my friends
surrounding me with their love, telling me they've been there, telling
me they know it sucks, not busting out into a chorus of tomorrow.
Maybe my writing is for people who go through similar situations
without such great friends--my way of telling them someone else has
been there and knows it sucks.
A great big shout goes out to the awesome people who are with me
through the sometimes unbearable seeming viscisitudes of human living.
jules hathaway


Sent from my iPod