The Body Alone (University of Iowa Press) is all encompassing. Nina Lohman’s memoir describes itself as, “…a lyrical nonfiction inquiry into the experience, meaning, and articulation of pain.” This articulation comes at the reader from all angles. Yes, there are first-person accounts from Lohman that one would expect from something like a traditional memoir. But there are also forms that would feel at home in Brink, the hybrid and cross-genre literary journal Lohman founded in spring of 2021.
There are remixed and mashed-up medical classifications; sanitized letters from doctors become redacted pieces of black-out poetry, and vocabulary lessons provide definitions on phantom words. In a feat of literary prowess, all of these extrapolations feel necessary, as one of the through lines of The Body Alone is the inadequacy of language to describe a persistent and enigmatic bout with chronic pain.
To read this book is to get as far past the Cliffs Notes version of Lohman’s pain as one could get. There are multiple passages that had me wincing at the sensory descriptions.
As is often the case with autobiographical accounts, the story runs counter to typical narrative trajectories. (Woe is any reader who expects a nicely tied story-in-three-acts #summerread.) Let me be clear that this is not a fault. On the contrary, in many ways, this subversion of our formal expectations is The Body Alone’s greatest strength.
One example: after years of pain and years of exploring possible remedies, Lohman becomes pregnant with her first child. I am not proud to admit that there was a small part of me, this tiny inkling, that thought maybe this pregnancy would somehow alleviate this person’s pain. This notion no doubt fed by my implicit biases both as a man and a consumer of media inundated by tales of the virtue and redemption of motherhood. Lohman herself brings up and takes down this notion by way of one of the aforementioned vocabulary lessons. The lesson: “I want a word for the polite smile I offer when people suggest maybe pregnancy will cure your headaches.”
Used in a sentence:
She _ because it is rude to say fuck you to a complete stranger.
A substantial goal of the book is bringing to light the systemic medical, social and theological issues that target women, from doctors dismissing a woman’s pain, to the philosophical implications of original sin as depicted through Adam and Eve.
It’s a lot. Like I said at the top, this book is all encompassing. It has to be. To fully articulate that which has no prior definitions — to make sense of a pain that no else, professional or otherwise, can quantify — has to come from a place that is as exhaustive as it is deeply personal. The Body Alone is that and all of the above. It might not have the catharsis your average Booktoker expects, but that speaks to the skill Lohman wields in articulating a story that resonates nonetheless.
This article was originally published in Little Village’s July 2024 issue.
