Sadly and reluctantly, I just finished reading Wild, a memoir by Cheryl Strayed. I
first heard about this book after reading an essay by the author in The Sun magazine. Captivated by the
engaging writing style and subject matter (grief over the untimely death of the
writer’s mother), I put a hold on the book at the local library. Months later,
I finally got notification that the book was mine for the borrowing. I picked
it up that same day and then had trouble putting it down until I very slowly
turned the last page.
Ms. Strayed was in her early twenties when her mother was
diagnosed with terminal cancer. One of three children, the author was the only
one who didn’t flee when her mother became ill. In fact, she was almost
constantly with her, doing all she could to help. Nothing did help, however,
and her mother soon passed. Without her mom, the anchor of the family, the
author spiraled into a long period of depression and reckless behavior. She
lost contact with her stepfather and siblings. Except for the hapless, kind man
she had married too young and couldn’t stay faithful to, and a few friends, she
seemed to be dangerously adrift.
