Zauner was 25 when her mother was diagnosed with an aggressive, late-stage, mid-life cancer. Zauner was a rebellious child, resentful of Umma’s version of tough love. Growing up the lone Asian student in her Oregon community, she felt both othered at school and an outsider among her mother’s Seoul relatives when she visited them each summer. Just as she was beginning to appreciate her Korean heritage and understand her mother’s love, she learned about Umma’s diagnosis.   

The first half of the memoir exuberantly brings to life scenes from Zauner’s childhood and her brief post-college years as a musician in New York City. Surprisingly, without hesitation, she paused her makeshift career and flew west to care intensively for her mother. Attempting to heroically save Umma, Zauner zealously learned to prepare the native foods they shared. “I would radiate joy and positivity,” Zauner pledged. “I would learn to cook for her—all the things she loved to eat, and I would single-handedly keep her from withering away” (69). Her optimistic culinary efforts produce a poetry of exacting descriptions of the flavors and textures and preparation of those foods. It’s grimly ironic that the chemotherapy her mother endured wiped out her ability to taste or digest Zauner’s loving offerings of health.  

The second half turns from living with Umma to living without her. Wishing to sustain her bond with her mother as Zauner grieved, she continued preparing her Korean family’s recipes. Walking down H Mart’s redolent aisles released “waves” of sorrow that mark the enduring ebb and flow of her grief. Unsuccessful with conventional therapy, she found cooking the best form of self-care: “Every dish I cooked exhumed a memory. Every scent and taste brought me back for a moment to an unravaged home. Knife-cut noodles in chicken broth took me back to lunch at Myeong Dong Gyoja . . . The kalguksu so dense from the rich beef stock and starchy noodles it was nearly gelatinous. My mother ordering more and more refills of their famously garlic-heavy kimchi” (212-213). An image of abundance in the midst of loss.

Zauner’s detailed descriptions of cooking and consuming invite readers to her table, reminding us—as previous celebrated writers have—of the power of the senses to evoke memory and the power of food to strengthen human bonds. Food also powers Zauner’s self-understanding and the unexpected transformational love for her mother: “The culture we shared was active, effervescent in my gut and in my genes, and I had to seize it, foster it so it did not die in me . . . If I could not be with my mother, I would be her” (223-224).  

Zauner’s writing is itself active and effervescent. Through her grief, she holds a steady, unflinching gaze on cancer and death. As she writes candidly about her family, Zauner is critically reflective about her own life. Her writerly achievement is the immediacy of her felt experiences, her grief and her joys made palpable. “Let me feel this,” she courageously writes, dismissing her Korean family’s admonitions to withhold tears (202). An unforgettable image of the process of loving transformation that Zauner experienced unfolds in her description of making the Korean staple kimchee. It is a slow, exacting process of fermenting cabbage that at first strikes her as “controlled death” because “[l]eft alone, a head of cabbage molds and decomposes. It becomes rotten, inedible. But when brined and stored, the course of its decay is altered. Sugars are broken down to produce lactic acid, which protects it from spoiling. Carbon dioxide is released and the brine acidifies. It ages. Its color and texture transmute. It exists in time and transforms. So it is not quite controlled death, because it enjoys a new life altogether” (223). 

As if miraculously, a few years after Umma died, Zauner’s itinerant music career took on a new life. The band she has fronted, Japanese Breakfast, recorded the album Psychopop with a song she wrote about her mother, “In Heaven.” Then they toured the U.S. and South Korea. Although her mother was skeptical about a musical career, Zauner imagined that Umma would be “glad that I had finally found a place where I belonged” (233). 

Crying in H Mart: A Memoir
Michelle Zauner

Publisher Alfred A Knopf
Place Published New York
Edition 2021
Page Count 239

Web photo by Portuguese Gravit

In that drawing a mother leans back in her chair, surrounded by clamoring children who snuggle, kiss, pull at her. Clothing is scattered about – on the floor, on a basket. Several dogs lean toward the figures, adding to the domesticity of the scene. 

Web image from National Gallery of Art.

The Names opens with a woman, Cora, accompanied by her very talkative 9-year-old daughter Maia, on her way to register her newborn baby son and officially name him. She is married to an abusive husband who expects her to name him Gordon, the name that has been given by long-standing family tradition to every first-born son. Knapp immediately confounds expectation by then splitting the narrative into three distinct streams. She creates a novelistic triptych based on whether Cora, in fact, submits and names the baby Gordon, uses a charming alternative, Bear, offered by her chatty daughter, or substitutes a name of her own choosing, Julian, that she hopes will honor and be appreciated by her husband even if it represents a break in the line of Gordons.  The choice of each one  of these three names results in a distinctly different narrative arc that emerges over the 35-year span of the book. In the Gordon stream, Cora and her children  remain trapped in the tense and hostile domestic environment. In the second, Bear version, Cora accepts her daughter’s suggestion for a name. When her  husband returns from work that day, he goes berserk  and, in a rage, commits a savage murder. He is imprisoned and the mother and children achieve some degree of independence. Finally, in the third, Julian, narrative, where Cora gives the baby the name of her choosing, the husband grows increasingly violent and kills his wife a few years later. The children end up being raised by their maternal grandmother in Ireland and are forced to grapple with the untimely loss of both parents. 

Flashlight is the story of a Korean man, Serk, who leaves his native country as a child with his family for a better life in Japan and grows up there. He moves to the United States as a young man​,​  marries a beautiful but mysterious woman, Anne, from the Midwest, and is hired to join the science faculty of a small mid-level college. They have a precocious daughter, Louisa, who is an amalgam of her parents’ genetic input and more than match for both of them. The novel opens with Serk and the 10-year old Louisa walking along the beach in the early evening. The following morning, the girl is found unconscious and hypothermic at the water’s edge​,​ and the father has vanished. The presumption is that he slipped among the rocks jutting into the ocean, was swept away by the waves and drowned at sea. All is not, however, as it seems. There is international skullduggery involved, though it would be unfair to disclose more. Regardless of the cause of the father’s disappearance,  just as in ​The Names​, the lives of all the main characters in  ​Flashlight​ are ​ irrevocably ​changed by the sudden unexpected event at the beginning of the narrative. The mother-daughter relationship, which can be fraught in the best of circumstances, is profoundly disturbed. The mother, who suffered for many years from undiagnosed multiple sclerosis, is unable to overcome her own physical disability and achieve inner peace. The daughter, despite her obvious intellectual and physical gifts, is incapable of empathizing with others and develops a nearly feral persona. Serk’s story resurfaces in a surprising turn of events. Although there is constant switching of viewpoints and time frames, ​Flashlight​ has a more conventional structure than ​The Names​. 

​​​Why review these two books together? Doctors are taught and are obligated to treat patients one at a time. The guiding principle is that each person who seeks care should be evaluated and managed as an individual. The underlying cause of disease should be identified as precisely as possible​,​ and the therapy should be prescribed that has the highest likelihood of success and matches each patient’s expressed life goals and priorities. However, patients are almost never seen in isolation. Doctors are trained to compare and contrast the men, and women and children that they encounter, to find commonalities and differences among them in the hope that this wider, more nuanced  field of vision will sharpen their diagnostic acumen and improve their therapeutic recommendations for each patient that they treat. 

I suggest that reading these two novels together provides a literary example of how an analysis of two books that at first appear to be similar reveals different insights about the ramifications of sudden, life altering occurrences.  This is concretized by the contrasting authorial  ​​tone, warm and fuzzy in The Names versus cool and detached in Flashlight, and how we as readers engage with these two books. 

​​The Names​ details the consequences of Cora’s impulsive decision about what name she should give to her newborn son. ​Flashlight​ recounts the unspooling of the characters’ lives after one of them disappears while walking along the beach with his daughter. In ​The Names,​ the fateful event is a personal human choice, in ​Flashlight​ it is an inscrutable act by an unseen, hostile foreign government. This stark difference is manifest in the way readers experience the subsequent stories. As one moves through the 35-year span of ​The Names​, each 7-year interval in which Knapp picks up the story of the “three” sons feels organically linked to preceding period. The actions of Cora, her children, and the supporting cast of characters follow a trajectory that feels smooth and organic. It is true that while unexpected events intrude into each named narrative – Bear, Julian, and Gordon – the global sweep feels grounded and recognizable. There is admittedly a temporary sense of disorientation and a need to regain one’s footing ​in the plot ​as Knapp switches gears and advances to the next 7-year interval in the story of the triply named son. The narrative scenery and settings are abruptly changed​,​ and it can take the reader a few pages to get oriented and mentally  ​​settled. But within each tale, there is pervading tenderness and a sense of human initiative.  

In contrast, ​Flashlight​ has a staccato disjointed feel. The novel changes location and time period without clear reason. The nature of the characters, why they do what they do, and the basis for the choices they make, seem inexplicable, as if they are acting randomly and have no control over their lives. ​​Unlike the protagonists in ​The Names,​ who one wants to see overcome their difficulties, ​ and ​for whom one subconsciously roots for their ​well-being​, there is a reluctance to embrace or even sympathize with the characters in ​Flashlight​. They feel remote and distant until nearly the end of the book. It is Choi’s brilliance as a writer that maintains the cohesiveness of the composition and ensures that the reader remains fully committed to the novel and motivated to ultimately understand and come to grips with the plight of the people who populate the literary world she has created. 

Occasionally, as readers, we may encounter two novels that complement one another. ​The Names​ and ​Flashlight​ fell into that circumstance for me. As a pediatrician, I was taught to try to understand the impact of primordial events on the life trajectory of my patients, how singular experiences can have long lasting repercussions for health and disease. But these events are not all the same. Some are internal, reflecting private human decisions, and others are external, reflecting trials and challenges imposed unpredictably by the outside world. The warmer narrative of ​The Names​ reflects the former circumstance while the opaque tone of ​Flashlight​ mirrors the arbitrary and cruel act that launches the story. ​For physicians, ​appreciating the disparate impact of vastly different life events on people will improve our understanding of patients’ experiences and help us provide more compassionate care. These two books, taken together, illustrate the underlying objectives of MedHum, namely, to explore how humanities can meaningfully shed light on ​the ​human experience and the practice of medicine​.

The Names  
Florence Knapp  
Pamela Dorman Books/Viking, New York  
2023, 328pp  

Flashlight 
Susan Choi 
Farrar, Straus, Giroux
2025,  450pp 

Web image created by Medhum.org

Before modern medicine, superstition mediated pregnancy and childbirth. Once, divine wrath or distressing mental images risked what was called a monstrous birth. To reduce risk today, pregnant women consult prophetic prenatal technologies and the ceaseless cacophony of digital media. Twice pregnant, New York Times pop culture and internet reporter Amanda Hess found herself both drawn to and repelled by media advice and the collection of data enticed by apps or insisted on during clinical encounters.  

Her book Second Life: Having a Child in the Digital Age—part wry memoir, part savvy investigative reporting—asks whether current technologies deliver a better, if not perfect, baby or the maternal well-being they augur. She, even more significantly, worries about the consequences, personal, relational, and ethical, of pursuing perfection.  

Hess couldn’t resist interacting with chatty, advice-giving apps. One first tracks her fertility and then, in weekly installments, shows her what a developing “creepily realistic CGI fetus” looks like. (Another app likens fetal development to the temptations on Parisian bakery shelves. A macaron, for instance.) Visual creepiness aside, Hess has unsettling thoughts about surrendering intimate information about her body to unknown recipients. She discovers that a popular app she regularly consults was developed by two brothers in Belarus backed by venture capitalists. Its surveillance exposed her to endless marketing schemes that hardly considered anyone’s well-being or financial resources. Curious about the history of fertility tracking before and after apps, Hess discovers a throughline of troubling eugenic ideologies. It travels through the advice of a popular pregnancy influencer. 

Deep into Hess’s first pregnancy, a “concerning” routine ultrasound detected what could be Beckwith-Wiedemann syndrome (BWS), a rare genetic condition. Its possibility sent Hess anxiously scanning the internet, against her doctor’s advice, for medical information and possible maternal causes. Was it the wine? The Ativan? A fever? Her age? Unspecified guilt followed. But neither the internet, genetic testing, nor her doctor could reassure her about a cause or the possible extent of the condition. The internet images she sought of children with the full range of BWS anomalies hardly quelled her anxieties. Only after her son’s birth was a form of BWS confirmed.  

Hess sympathizes with the wish to deliver a healthy baby and the temptation to seek any available service or technology to that end. After all, that’s what she wanted. However, the prospect of birthing a child with an anomalous body leads her to question the meaning of the ubiquitous parental qualification: “As long as the baby is healthy.” Healthy, she finds, translates to normal. Anticipating a not-normal child makes her feel protective of her son even before his birth. After it, she deflects thoughtless remarks from strangers about his enlarged tongue protruding from his lips. (Corrective surgery later enables less compromised breathing and speech.) She and her husband care for and about him for the distinct person he is. About her initial anxieties about his body, Hess writes, “My nightmare . . . ended when I met my son.”  

Hess’s standout chapter “Growth” recounts her evolving response to her son’s imperfections and her efforts to manage others’ IRL and internet responses to him—a task she finds essential to parenting him. I hope this chapter is widely read, certainly by future parents, but also by clinicians, genetic counselors, and those who teach them.  

Some accounts of caring for an imperfect child cast the child and the parental relationship as special. Some view chronic illness or disability as a familial burden. Hess does neither. Instead, she folds caring for her son into the course of her life and her family’s. In that way, she continues a contribution of Michael Berube’s complicated 1996 Life as We Know It, however, adding a millennial’s navigations of current medical technologies and media static. Hess further envisions a world that participates in the care of all children, one that refuses to blame or isolate families with less-than-perfect children. That world would reduce parental anxieties more than screening for concerning “problems.” Philosopher of care and mother of a profoundly disabled child, Eva Kittay, would agree. 

Some readers might say that Amanda Hess’s financial and other resources make her generous perspective possible. She agrees. She’s half of a two-parent family. As journalists, she and her husband have more flexible schedules than countless other parents. But in the world Hess encourages, parental status would be irrelevant to their child’s care. 

Without being prescriptive, Hess’s lively, self-reflective story provokes readers to think twice about rejecting imperfect children—anyone’s—and to notice the eugenic logic underwriting rejection. Her book tests the claim that ever-evolving technologies enhance maternal well-being, empower parental choice, and guarantee healthy babies. (Ironically, a researcher Hess encountered reported on increasing evidence of BWS in IVF conceptions, many intended to screen for anomalies.) In fact, far more children are permanently harmed during their lives than are born ill or disabled. Rather than relying on the billion-dollar industry of prenatal testing, aren’t we better off, Hess asks, accepting and taking better care of all children however they’re born? 

Second Life: Having a Child in the Digital Age
Amanda Hess  
Doubleday, 2025, 272 pages 

Alive: Our Bodies and the Richness and Brevity of Existence by Gabriel Weston 

Boston: David R. Godine, 2025, 304 pages 
ISBN 9781567928235 

The physician experience, medical history, motherhood, anatomy, and worries about her diseased mitral valve are tenderly sutured together by ENT surgeon Weston in her exploration of “the poetry of the body.” In thirteen chapters, she eloquently contemplates “the strange, unbridgeable gap that exists between the body science describes and the one each of us is living inside right this moment” (p194). In describing the anatomy of bones, brain, breasts, genitals, gut, heart, kidneys, liver, lungs, skin, and womb, Weston writes with a wit and intense curiosity reminiscent of popular science writer Mary Roach. But the book’s splendor arises from its attention to the art of doctoring. Weston notes how good physicians require a kind of “bifocal vision” that allows them to see the generalities of the human body but also the unique details of an individual patient. She extols empathy and elevates vulnerability: “We are not separable from those we care for, just as our strength is not separable from our vulnerability” (p263). Melding science and sentiment, mixing professional life with personal life, Weston enlivens anatomy and pays homage to the physician-patient relationship.  

The Land in Winter by Andrew Miller 

London: Sceptre, 2024, 384 pages 
ISBN 9781529354270 

Andrew Miller’s remarkable 1997 debut novel Ingenious Pain chronicles the complex life of an 18^th century highly skilled English doctor incapable of feeling pain. Twenty-seven years and many novels (Oxygen, Pure, The Optimists) later, Miller’s latest book spotlights a main character who also happens to be an English physician – but this flawed human being hurts (especially emotionally). Eric Parry is a 36-year-old country doctor having an extramarital affair with a married woman while his wife Irene is pregnant. Next door to their cottage is a farm owned by Bill Simmons and his pregnant wife Rita who suffers from mental illness and enjoys reading science fiction. It is winter (December, 1962 – January, 1963) and for a time the rural community is paralyzed by a brutal blizzard. Happy endings are in short supply here. One of the pregnant women has a miscarriage while sitting on the toilet. Characters get injured. Some patients die. Eric’s infidelity is exposed. Still, compassion and empathy occasionally sprout amidst the bleakness and the cold. Irene is cognizant that her husband’s work is hard as he “had to deal with people’s suffering all day” (p55). Eric excels at examining patients with a manner that “calmed” them. Secrets, loneliness, belonging, complicated personal relationships, and poor decision-making are essential elements of the plot. The story asks readers to contemplate whether virtuousness is a necessary requirement to be a “good doctor.” 

Doc or Quack: Science and Anti-Science in Modern Medicine by Sander L. Gilman 

London: Reaktion Books, 2025, 320 pages 
ISBN 9781836390152 

Bloodletting and purging (“heroic medicine”) employed for a wide array of diseases. Laetrile (a chemical present in apricot seeds) used for treating cancer. Hydroxychloroquine and Ivermectin prescribed for COVID-19. Spanning centuries, the list of wacky, ineffective, and sometimes dangerous remedies for illness is quite lengthy. In this standout history of scientific medicine from the mid-19^th century to the present, Gilman navigates “the ever-shifting boundary between good medicine and quackery” (p15). He reviews the rise of allopathic medicine that resulted from “following the science” as discovery and knowledge migrated from the laboratory to the bedside. He writes about the model of the physician-healer, the placebo effect (along with the morality of deception), superstitions (of both doctors and patients), and the faddish nature of medical practice. Gilman is rightly concerned about physicians experiencing burnout and patients feeling disconnected from their doctors in truncated office visits. He wonders if empathy and efficacy can coexist in contemporary healthcare. Three “case studies” are presented: peptic ulcer disease, the development of ophthalmic surgery, and acupuncture for back pain. A thoughtful study of historically “good” and “bad” medicine and the occasional blurring between the two. 

Additional recommended books published in 2025: 

The Mind Electric: A Neurologist on the Strangeness and Wonder of Our Brains
by Pria Anand 

The Age of Diagnosis: How Our Obsession with Medical Labels Is Making Us Sicker
by Suzanne O’Sullivan 

Web photo by Bermix Studio