It Takes a Worried Man

It Takes a Worried Man

4.8 9
by Brendan Halpin

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“When my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer, I joked that I couldn’t decide between alcoholism and overeating as a coping strategy. My wife suggested I write about it instead. She is always right. I couldn’t write a cloying, sentimental story of inspiring courage, so instead I wrote what was real to me—fear, lust, annoyance, love, fatigue,


“When my wife was diagnosed with breast cancer, I joked that I couldn’t decide between alcoholism and overeating as a coping strategy. My wife suggested I write about it instead. She is always right. I couldn’t write a cloying, sentimental story of inspiring courage, so instead I wrote what was real to me—fear, lust, annoyance, love, fatigue, resentment, existential terror, horror movies, alcohol, and country music. It’s not pretty, but it is real. I hope you like it.”

This book is a horror story and a comedy, but, most of all, it is a love story. It is the story of what happens to a man who fears that his best friend might leave him forever. Feeling helpless, angry, and scared, Brendan Halpin sat down at his computer late at night or early in the morning and wrote. Pages poured out of him whenever something struck him as funny, whenever he was annoyed with a medical professional or family member, whenever he was terrified, and whenever he couldn’t sleep—in other words, every day. What came out is sometimes painful, sometimes hilarious, but always honest—a journey into the head of a man whose wife is critically ill.

This book will take you to the depths of fear and despair. It will also make you laugh until you feel sick. If that sounds contradictory, well, start reading.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
Halpin's memoir of his wife's struggle with breast cancer is a heartbreaking read. In the aftermath of tragedy, people will often say, "At least it happened quickly; at least there was no pain." Not so with cancer, even for survivors. Halpin, his wife, Kirsten, and their five-year-old daughter had just moved into their dream house and imagined a reprieve from life's difficulties. A biopsy forced them to face their worst fears: Kirsten's cancer was diagnosed as stage four. She was forced to confront her own death her survival chances hovered around 60% as well as the terrific pain and discomfort of treatment. Halpin, a high school English teacher in Boston, Ma., focuses mostly on his own struggles, his silence regarding his wife seems more respectful than self-involved. His eye is unflinching and honest as he observes the medical establishment's seeming indifference, satanic folksinging neighbors, family members too human to be totally selfless, supportive colleagues and, best of all, himself. Although cancer-survivor Kirsten is the true heroine of the book, Halpin is the loving "worried man" rallying behind her. By turns nauseatingly descriptive (the hose stuck through his wife's chest makes for especially queasy reading) and wickedly funny, this memoir of a husband's fight with his wife's cancer is an excellent though painful book for anyone facing similar situations. (Feb.) Forecast: If the statistics are any indicator (approximately one in eight women will get breast cancer), this book will find its way into the hands of many a husband. Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Library Journal
Will people really want to read the rantings of a pouting, grouchy, grumbling, whiny 32-year-old? They will when they meet Halpin, a teacher in a Boston charter high school and the husband of a 32-year-old woman with Stage 4 breast cancer. Few books on breast cancer feature the husband's perspective (David Tillman's beautiful In the Failing Light, LJ 5/15/99, is a rare exception). Halpin's view is so in your face, so funny, so foul-mouthed, and so honest that everyone will want to read this and cheer for his wife, Kirsten, and their four-year-old daughter, Rowen. This is the yearlong diary of Kirsten's ordeal, which included high-dose chemotherapy and stem-cell replacement. Halpin describes every day, every complaint, every fear, along with his favorite (and not so favorite) music (loves the Carter Family, hates Dan Fogelberg), TV shows, movies, and food (especially food). He doesn't let family or friends off the hook except maybe the folks from the Unitarian Church where he belongs who do his housework, even cleaning the toilets, and his students, whom he truly loves teaching. Fortunately, there is no ending to his story. Kirsten is alive, her tumors are still palpable but considerably smaller, and she celebrated her 33rd birthday. According to Halpin, that "has to be enough." The language is graphic, which is to be expected of most 32-year-old males, but this book should not be missed. Highly recommended. Bette-Lee Fox, "Library Journal" Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A husband's frank, conflicted recollections of coping with his young wife's stage-four breast cancer. Brendan, a Boston high-school English teacher, and wife Kirsten are both 32 when she is diagnosed in September 2000. They have a three-year-old daughter, Rowen, they've just moved into a new house, and life so far has been pretty good. But the cancer has spread to Kirsten's spine, so before they perform a mastectomy her doctors advise chemotherapy. Brendan describes Kirsten's rounds of treatments (he shaves off his hair when she loses hers), his efforts at parenting, and his occasionally difficult relations with his mother and his in-laws, who are trying to help but have needs of their own. His story alternates heartbreaking moments of despair (a round of chemotherapy that doesn't work) with inspiring affirmations of love and life (a birthday party that fills their small house with supportive friends). Brendan is beguilingly frank about his fears and failings: his father died suddenly when he was nine, which has made him a hypochondriac fearful of death; he admits that he finds it easier to work than to stay home with his convalescing wife; and he does notice pretty women, though he is resolutely and lovingly faithful. At his Unitarian church, he wrestles with questions of faith, of good and evil; not always certain about God, he is deeply appreciative of fellow churchgoers who clean and pitch in when he needs them. Video games, music, and movies also help a little. Brendan admits that, although Kirsten has survived chemo, he is writing a story with a choice of possible endings, most unhappy. His prose is breezy, his attitudes hip, but he vividly describes real anguish and fears. Anaffectingly honest account of what it means to watch helplessly as a loved one suffers: a timely addition to the literature of disease.
Boston Sunday Globe - Book Critic
Raw, Undisciplined, and frequently very funny.

Product Details

Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:
Product dimensions:
5.22(w) x 8.16(h) x 0.59(d)

Read an Excerpt

Kirsten told me I should write it all down. I think she thinks it will be good therapy for me. I have noticed that the stuff written about my situation is usually a line or two in the cancer books: “This is a tough time for him too.” So maybe there is some room for my story. I begin this on October 7, 2000. Tomorrow is our sixth anniversary.

The Troll
Somehow, as much as I wish he weren’t, the Troll feels like part of this story. We lived for four years in a condo over a childless couple: a Grizzly Adams–looking, dyspeptic folk singer and his wife. We’ll leave the wife out of it, though she was a pain in the ass too. The husband, hereafter known as the Troll, is a loudmouth bully—one of those guys who is angry all the time and never stops to consider the possibility that maybe it’s not everyone else in the world who’s an asshole.

After our daughter, Rowen, was born, he became convinced that we were torturing him by allowing our daughter to walk. Honestly. This despite the fact that his favorite hobby was rattling our floors with his own special brand of 1970s wuss-rock. His response to our completely unreasonable practice of allowing our offspring to move freely about our home got increasingly loony, culminating in him pounding on our door one Sunday morning and running away and then calling Kirsten a “stupid, ignorant, tight-lipped bitch” in front of our daughter the next day. He did his best to make selling our condo and moving out difficult, including squeezing 175 bucks in bogus “fines” from the condo association out of us. Our infractions included vacuuming at 9:00 a.m. and“heavy footfalls.” Our lawyer told us the fines were bullshit and he’d be happy to fight them for us for two hundred dollars an hour. We paid the fines and sold the place for two and a half times what we’d paid for it. The Troll wrote “HA-HA-HA-HA-HA” on the back of the canceled check.

I never tried to take any revenge, figuring that getting into a lunacy contest with someone who has such a large head start is bad policy and that, you know, living well is the best revenge.

This has two implications for my story. One is that I took comfort in the knowledge that this hateful fuck would remain a hateful fuck and continue to find that the whole world was against him, while we would live happy lives in our new home.

The other implication is that we were busy moving all summer, and Kirsten decided to wait until her annual checkup in August to get those lumps in her right breast checked out.

Those Lumps
The had painful lumps in her right breast. A year earlier, she’d had an ultrasound for some other lumps and been told that they were nothing. So it was easy for her to blow these off and wait.

It wouldn’t have been easy for me. I am a terrible hypochondriac. I worry constantly that every pain I have is a sign of a deadly disease, that my vision is blurring, that I have mad cow disease, that my pee is too bubbly, you name it. I also get chronic testicular inflammations. I had three ultrasounds on my nuts within six months because I was convinced I had testicular cancer. I mean, if your right nut feels like a bowling ball, that must mean something serious is wrong. Right?

Wrong, as it turns out. Sometimes my epididymis, which is a tube that carries sperm out of the testicle and sort of loops around it on the way out, gets inflamed. No big deal except, you know, my balls hurt a lot. C’est la vie.

Kirsten is always the steady one in these situations. She reassures me that I don’t have testicular cancer, that I don’t have mad cow disease, that my kidneys aren’t failing. She is the voice of reason.

So when she said that those lumps were probably nothing, I didn’t, you know, insist that she bust her ass into the doc’s office because it could be serious. She wasn’t concerned. I wasn’t concerned.

My Crisis of Faith
My dad died when I was nine. He fell over dead for no apparent reason. Kind of like a grown-up version of a crib death. He was thirty-five. I’m now thirty-two. Now you know why I’m such a hypochondriac.

My parents had been raised Catholic, but had lapsed. I grew up with a terrible fear of dying and a kind of vague fear of hell informed mostly by my five visits to mass with relatives and some horror movies.

My mom returned to the Catholic Church when I was in college. I still remember getting this letter one day in which she said, “I have been going to mass every day.” I was convinced she had lost her mind. Even Catholics think it’s weird to go to mass every day. Nobody does that except for the priests, who have to, and old ladies.

Well, she hadn’t lost her mind, and though now she only goes to mass weekly, the church has been a very positive force in her life. While she could return to the Catholic Church, I, who had never been in it, could not return. (I mean, yeah, they got me baptized just in case their parents had been right, but they stopped going to church about a week later. It doesn’t seem like it counts, though if the Catholics are right, this ought to be enough to get me past limbo and into purgatory, assuming I don’t do anything horrible between now and when I die.) I didn’t know what to do. I had vague religious leanings and too much skepticism to profess belief in Christ’s divinity or resurrection, both of which seem to me to be kind of beside the point of his message anyway, which I know is some kind of heresy. So, naturally, I became a Unitarian.

I have been going, more or less regularly, to the Wednesday night prayer group at my church. This is an unusually Christian kind of activity for Unitarians to engage in. We’re much better at petition drives and protests. Not only do we say the “Our Father and Mother” (we are still Unitarians, after all), we also sort of chant the 23rd Psalm at the beginning, without even trying to correct for patriarchal language. The 23rd Psalm, by the way, is great. Thinking of yourself as a sheep being led around by a benevolent God is a pretty comforting thought when things are tough. I also like the end: “surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.” We’ll see.

Though Emerson, the man who sort of runs the prayer group, is a spiritual superhero, and I do love everybody there, I found this summer that I was going less than I used to. While I like to pray, I need to go to group because I am too lazy to do it by myself. I started to have doubts, though. I know prayer makes me feel good, and I believe it’s effective, but if God can intervene in the world, I guess I wonder why he doesn’t do it more often. If God intervenes, where was he in Bosnia, Kosovo, Rwanda, etc. etc. etc.? Therefore God doesn’t intervene. So why am I asking him to look out for people, or grant healing to people, or to bring somebody home safely? What am I doing? Does it matter? I think I have now officially become a Unitarian. I am too tied in knots intellectually to pray.

This crisis of faith comes before—before, mind you—the Diagnosis.

The Diagnosis
Kirsten went for her annual physical. When she came back, she said that her doctor had recommended that she go for another ultrasound. So she went. Rowen and I went too. We walked around the pond near the doctor’s office looking at the geese and feeding them. Rowen picked up a stick and announced that it was a magic wand. There was goose shit everywhere, so we imagined that she could make it go away with her magic wand. “Zoop! No more poop!” she’d say. It was a beautiful summer day and I was happy.

Later I heard that they had found a dead bird carrying the West Nile virus very near to where Rowen and I had been walking. I worried about West Nile. Had I been bitten by a mosquito that day? Had Rowen?

The ultrasound came back inconclusive. The doc said something like, “It doesn’t really look cancerous. It doesn’t really look benign.” Apparently it was round on one side, which is cystlike, and nubbly on the other side, which is cancerlike. So they set up an appointment with a surgeon who is some kind of breast specialist.

Weeks went by, as they always do when you are waiting to see a specialist. We unpacked, worked on the new house, stripped wallpaper, and made a million trips to the Home Depot.

The breast specialist looked at the ultrasound and decided to order a mammogram and a “needle biopsy.” Here’s where it started to get scary. But okay, you can still talk to ten women and probably five of them have had an ultimately benign lump in their breast biopsied.

I didn’t go with her to the biopsy. It didn’t seem important. It’s just a formality. When they described the procedure to her, they said it was basically sticking a needle into the lump and sucking some cells out.

Copyright 2002 by Brendan Halpin

Meet the Author

Brendan Halpin is a thirty-three-year-old high school English teacher. He lives in Boston with his wife, Kirsten, and their daughter, Rowen. It Takes a Worried Man is his first book.

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It Takes a Worried Man 4.9 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 9 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
My husband and I read this book together after I was diagnosed with breast cancer at age 31. This book captures the many ups and downs of the world of the cancer survivor and the man who loves her. We laughed and cried our way through it and knew that somewhere out there someone knew exactly how we felt.
Guest More than 1 year ago
Mr. Halpin i am not sure u remeber me but u taught me in city on a hill in 9th grade. I bought ur book and u signed it for me. You were the best teacher i have ver had and i was sad when u left. You made learning fun 2 me and my peers. I am now a junior (November 10th 2003) and i always tell my english teacher about how good ur class was. I read ur book 2 times and it makes me so happy that i had a chance to be taught by such a wonderful man. 'Class of 2004'
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book is unbelievably real. I'm the sister of a breast cancer patient and bought this book for my brother-in-law. This guy IS my brother-in-law!! The similarities are wild..I thought this book was tremendous!! Write On, Man!!
Guest More than 1 year ago
Mr. Halpin was my English teacher in high school for three years. He was always an inspirational figure in the midst of high school turmoil and confusion. I read this book in three days and found that the humor and sarcasm used as a way of coping with the sadness of the situation to be incredibly affective as the book progressed. Not many people can tell such a story and still be positive and humorous in light of such tragic circumstances. I would recommend this book to anyone who wants to smile and laugh at the obstacles life throws at you.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I saw this book recommended on the Rosie O'Donnell show and thought that it sounded interesting. It is FANTASTIC! I was impressed and moved by this man's honesty and integrity. He never painted himself as a saint and was frank about his struggles with his wife's cancer. I was cheering for his wife and felt so moved by his love and commitment to his daughter. This is just a great book.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This book is a wonderfully engrossing account of a dreadful experience. Everyone who has come close to losing a loved one (and those who have not) should read Halpin's story. It is at once chillingly dark and hysterically funny and in the end triumphant. It's a valuable read about the meaning of life without being preachy or maudlin. This may be Halpin's first book, but it won't (and should not be) his last.
Guest More than 1 year ago
My teacher Mr. Halpin wrote this book although I did not read it yet ,When I read his reviwes I now cannot wait to read his book! They all say it is great and I belive them He can do a lot of good this , this is surely one of them. I hope he make's it big in this world his is a really nice person and is very smar and patient. I am so proud to his one of his english student and I am proud that he is my teacher. He the best - Sequoia 9th Class Don't forget lil'ol' Sequoia when you get all big and famous,Okay! Mr. Halpin I just wanted to thank you for being such the Great Teacher you are. I'll miss you a whole lot next year:( But I will always remeber you and the things that you taught me. I will never forget you ;) I belive in you you can do many thing and already have. You are a very great rolemodle. Sequoia
Guest More than 1 year ago
Even though it sounds cliche, I have to say it: This book made me laugh and it made me cry. It's the truth. Not many books can say the same, as I tend to be a tough critic. You won't regret the money spent on this book, and I highly recommend it. It's great!
Guest More than 1 year ago
My English teacher wrote this book. I am only on page 88 but so far it is very funny. I like it because the chapters are short and it's an easy read. Thanks Mr. Haplin for being my teacher! (ok, I know that sounds corny, but it's true)