We All Want Impossible Things was a tough book to review. Having just done the hospice song and dance with my late mother this fall, it was a pretty brutal read, but so needed. I was so clueless about how that stuff works, and yet it’s something that almost every single person will have to deal with at some point. It makes me furious how we don’t give the option for people to choose how they would like to shuffle off this mortal coil: the fiscal and emotional cost that goes into palliative care is just beyond wasteful and cruel in prolonging the inevitable, in my opinion.
I am grateful for a book that sheds some light on end of life care, the writing was lovely, the banter was witty, the characters felt real and pulled at my heartstrings as fellow gen-xers (the current sandwich generation). If those things appeal definitely pick up this slim volume.
Alas, I felt cringey about the logistical house of cards that Newman lays out for Edi to go to hospice too far for her only child to visit, and for Ash to become the primary caretaker in lieu of Edi’s husband. Yes, one can have hugely important relationships other than a spouse in life, but there’s at least one or two scenes where Edi asks after her son, or is thinking about her husband, and I felt like there should’ve been a background assumption that eventually she would be brought closer to her family. At the very least, have them talk on the phone more. At one point, Ash lies to Edi about texting with her child! It left such a horrible taste in my mouth. Also, speaking of children, Ash’s daughter seems to have dropped out of school and… no one cares? Not even the school? I dunno. There was a lot of suspension of disbelief.
Clearly, the author has first-hand experience with this stuff, and it shows. I wonder if it would’ve been better served as a memoir, which is already in her wheelhouse. 
“Everyone dies, and yet it’s unendurable. There is so much love inside of us. How do we become worthy of it? And, then, where does it go? A worldwide crescendo of grief, sustained a day after day, and only one tiny note of it is mine.”