Why do I feel compelled to read about death, all the time?

Our book club just read, and adored, When Breath Becomes Air. Of course, since it’s a memoir about a physician who discovers he’s dying of lung cancer, and then writes a book (this book) that he had always aspired to write, I had already read it. Some months ago. Shortly after it was published, in fact. Because, it’s a memoir about dying, and I am compelled to read them.

I just bought:


These are the latest in a long line of books about dying  I have read in recent years. (I particularly like dying spouses, but very sick spouses and friends qualify also.)


Books about women with breast cancer were a theme for a while (inspired by my sister, undoubtedly):

And now I’m newly bummed to see that Meredith Norton, the author of Lopsided (she had an extremely aggressive form of breast cancer), died FOUR YEARS AGO:


If anyone has suggestions for memoirs about dead and dying friends and spouses – let me know. It looks like I’m staying on this path for a while now.