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Last month, Melissa over at One Librarian's Book Reviews asked, "Do you find yourself viewing books through morally-tinted glasses? Do you think this detracts from your enjoyment of certain types of stories (those that grate against your personal beliefs)?" These questions kept rolling around in my mind as I read What I Thought I Knew, a memoir by Alice Eve Cohen. The truth is, there are several issues in her book that I find morally reprehensible. Because of this, I wondered if I could evaluate it fairly - not only am I "grading" her book here, but I'm also judging it against five other memoirs to determine which Elle magazine will deem best non-fiction book of 2009. This is the conclusion I came to: No matter a book's subject, I can judge its merits fairly when it comes to writing, editing, plot construction, character development, originality, etc. Of course, the best books are not always those with the best editing, or the most exciting plot - for me, the greatest are those that capture me and proceed to thrill my heart and soul. Connection is key, but when it comes to that, my "morally-tinted glasses" can sometimes be problematic. I, like all of you, approach every book I read carrying my own moral, religious, and political ideas, as well as the breadth of my personal experience - no matter how open-minded I tell myself to be, all of these things color how I view a book. This is especially true in the case of Cohen's book. Technically, it's well-written; truthfully, it turned my stomach.

In 1999, Cohen is finally happy. After battling infertility, enduring a divorce, fighting for custody of her 3-year-old adopted daughter, struggling as a single parent, and trying to make enough money to pay the bills, she's finally feeling some of her burdens lifting. She's engaged to a man 10 years her junior - Michael's her own personal fountain of youth. He's kind, creative, in love with both her and her daughter. At 44, she's found success in both her personal and professional lives; there's no reason to believe her future will be anything but bright. In the back of her mind, though, lurks her Jewish mother who constantly warned against tempting the Evil Eye by enjoying too much happiness. Turns out, her mother knew what she was talking about.

Cohen's joy drains as illness takes over. She's nauseated, sore, and completely exhausted. Any woman who's ever been pregnant recognizes these sypmtoms for what they are, except that Cohen is infertile. Because of a Bicornuate uterus, she can't get pregnant. Her doctors search for a diagnosis, offering everything from early menopause to "middle-aged loss of muscle tone" (14) to a bladder disorder. Finally, an emergency CAT scan reveals the truth: she's 6 months pregnant. Considering her advanced age, plus the fact that she's taken estrogen for years, received no prenatal monitoring, and unknowingly put her baby at risk, she's not surprised to find that the fetus is not developing normally. Terrified, Cohen considers abortion, suicide, adoption. She wrestles with herself over the ramifications of "killing ... what might be a viable baby" (55), of dealing with a preemie or a special needs child, of not raising her own baby, and of bringing to life a child she already detests. "I try every day," she writes, "to want a baby" (66).

The pregnancy ends in an unexpected way, which throws everything into a completely different light. Suffering from severe post-partum depression and an "unforgivable ambivalence" (135), Cohen makes her way blindly through this confusing, new landscape. Doubting herself, despising herself, and ultimately learning to trust herself, Alice Eve Cohen comes to revise everything she thought she knew.

Like Cohen, I possess a malformed uterus; I've dealt with infertility; I've worried over raising a premature or special needs child; I've hated myself for providing an inadequate incubator for the fetus growing inside me; and my life has been changed by adoption. Considering all that we have in common, I should have found in Cohen a bosom buddy. Maybe our differences are just too glaring: she's a liberal agnostic from New York, I'm a conservative Mormon from the west. I abhor abortion, and find the whole idea of wrongful life lawsuits (which comes into play in What I Thought I Knew) repugnant on so many levels. While I admire Cohen's courage (it takes a lot of guts to admit you hated your baby on sight), to me she came off mostly as a selfish whiner. I know that's harsh and will probably earn me an angry comment or two, but that's how I feel. I've been told I don't understand depression and chemical imbalances, and that's probably true - I've always been a happy, positive person who tends to believe that if I can deal with the crap of life without complaining, so can you. So, while I didn't enjoy this book (in fact, much of it made me sick to my stomach), I can at least appreciate the fact that it helped me empathize with another woman's heartbreak. I'm sure there are hundreds of women out there who will find that Cohen says everything they've thought and felt. I am not one of those women. But, I can admit that this book made me think. It's haunted me since I put it down. Do I recommend it? I don't know.

Technically speaking, What I Thought I Knew is well-written. Not beautifully, not brilliantly, not lushly. In fact, it's very stark and unsentimental. Honest. It's also choppy and frenzied in places. The story's engrossing, if not engaging. Cohen describes herself and her circle of family, friends, and associates in ways that make them interesting, human and sympathetic. It's an affecting story, but not necessarily a touching one. Does that make sense?

I think what I'm trying to say is this: What I Thought I Knew by Alice Eve Cohen is technically well-written, but I wouldn't call it enjoyable. Many will connect with this novel (see Melissa's review, for instance). I didn't. If it were possible to remove my "morally-tinted glasses" or if I wasn't the person I am, maybe I would have liked it better, but it isn't and I'm not. The most I can do is admit my prejudices and move on.

(Note: If you're interested in reading more about wrongful life lawsuits, try Jodi Picoult's novel Handle With Care, reviewed here.)

Grade: C

If this were a movie, it would be rated: R for language, sexual content, and adult situations.

(Image from Barnes & Noble)

Best-selling author Jodi Picoult tackles the tough stuff - she's taken on the death penalty, euthanasia, rape, sexual abuse, school shootings and much more. In fact, it's become her M.O. to take a controversial subject; explore it from every angle using real, sympathetic characters; then leave the reader to come to his/her own conclusion about the topic under scrutiny. This is why I love Picoult so much. She makes me think. She makes me question. She forces me to feel for her people even when I find their actions morally repugnant. Even though her books rarely change my mind about an issue, they definitely make me more empathetic.

Her newest, Handle With Care, follows the Picoult pattern. It concerns Charlotte O'Keefe, whose youngest daughter Willow was born with osteogenesis imperfecta (also known as brittle bone disease). Although Charlotte adores her daughter, Willow's condition makes life difficult - because the 6-year-old's bones break so easily, the O'Keefe's are constantly in and out of the hospital. Even with insurance coverage, the medical bills are astronomical. Charlotte works full-time as Willow's caregiver, and her policeman husband takes on extra shifts to help pay for specially-made car seats, wheelchairs, pillows and leg braces. Despite all the pain associated with OI, Willow's a bright spot in the O'Keefe's world, with her patience and sunny outlook. In stark contrast is Amelia, the O'Keefe's older daughter. Although she's fiercely protective of her sister, Amelia's growing resentful, too - after all, the family can't go anywhere or do anything without worrying that Willow's going to trip on a napkin and end up in the E.R.

After a disastrous trip to Disney World, the family ends up in the law offices of Robert Ramirez, determined to sue everyone from the park's director to Mickey Mouse. Ramirez helps them see the futility of their case, but offers another possibility: What if their OB/GYN could have diagnosed Willow's OI sooner? If the O'Keefes can convince a jury they would have aborted their daughter had they known about her condition, they could be awarded millions of dollars in damages. Instantly, they see what the money could mean: a new wheelchair; a minivan from the 21st Century; OI camp; a future for Willow. The flip side's a little murkier - bringing a wrongful birth suit against the OB/GYN will require Charlotte to betray her best friend, perhaps ruin her career. It will also mean admitting on the stand - in front of her husband, daughters and the media - that she wishes her child had never been born. But the money means a brighter future for Willow, and Charlotte's willing to do anything - anything - to provide for her youngest. As the months march on, Charlotte must decide just how much she's willing to risk for the lawsuit. Can she sacrifice her privacy? Her best friend? Her marriage? How about the very child she's trying to protect? How far will she go to get the money that could change her daughter's life forever?

Handle With Care asks some tough questions: Do parents have the right to terminate a pregnancy if they know the baby will be born with disabilities? Should physicians even offer abortion as a possible "solution?" What constitutes a life worth living? How can parents of children with severe disabilities cope financially and emotionally? Are the sacrifices these parents and families have to make worth it? In the book, shades of grey color each of these ideas. For me, though, the issues at hand are very black and white, which is probably why I didn't enjoy this book as much as previous Picoults. I empathized with Charlotte, but I found her motives suspect from the beginning. Thus, I found myself thinking, "This lawsuit is ridiculous. Why is it still going on?" It bugged me through the whole book (since the whole book is about the lawsuit).

Still, I've said this once and I'll say it again, Jodi Picoult on her worst day writes better than many authors on their best. Like all her other books, Handle With Care rivets the reader to the page. Her characters are complex, skillfully-drawn individuals. Her plots are taut and fast-paced. So, despite my misgivings about Charlotte and her lawsuit, I still raced through this book, anxious to know what was going to happen to the O'Keefes. Which brings me to the novel's ending. I've read enough Picoult (like every book she's ever written) to see what was coming, but that doesn't mean I liked it. In fact, I'm still bugged by the ending. Grrr. I hate that. I firmly believe a book should be resolved to my satisfaction before it ends.

So, yeah. I love Jodi Picoult for so many reasons, but I'm a little ambivalent about her newest venture. The whole idea of a mother aborting her baby simply because the fetus shows signs of disability angers me, so much so that I couldn't identify with Charlotte. I felt for her, but I didn't identify with her. I didn't like her either, but that's beside the point; because I couldn't identify with her, I didn't connect with her, and that soured the story for me. Otherwise, it's vintage Picoult - solid characters; compelling topic; fast, well-constructed plot. A page-turner, for sure. I just wish I connected with it a little more. Soooo, I'm not taking Picoult off my "Favorite Authors" list just yet - I'm just hoping for better from this talented novelist.

Grade: B