Baltimore-based author Leslie Gray Streeter and I met one another in 2020 just when our memoirs — mine, Uncomfortably Numb, and hers, Black Widow — hit the shelves. Our book promo plans upended by the pandemic, we joined a group of 70+ writers who all had books released at the same time, and we collectively tried to help one another.
A few years later, I met Leslie in person when I invited members of our writers’ group, Lockdown Lit, to a group book event at Tatnuck Bookseller in Westborough, Mass.
When it came time to solicit blurbs for Louie on the Rocks, her name immediately popped into my head because she and I are frequently liking one another’s posts on social media.
I also had the pleasure of reading an advance copy of her forthcoming novel, Family and Other Calamities. I LOVED it and can’t wait for others to have the delightful experience.
Here’s her full blurb:
Louie On The Rocks is a frank and, at times, blisteringly funny testament to the corroding influences of grief, addiction , polarization, regret and emotional abandonment. It’s told with multiple vivid voices giving witness to a tragic chain of events that might be stoppable – but probably aren’t.
Please join me in celebrating the launch of my latest book, Louie on the Rocks, at Tatnuck Bookseller in Westborough, Mass. on Saturday, Feb. 15 at 4 p.m.
I’m honored that Worcester writer Kevin Koczwara — a former UMass-Amherst journalism student of mine — will be there to lead a writerly conversation with me about the book and its many themes, ranging from how political polarization affects families to how adult children should deal with struggling older parents.
After the conversation, we’ll do a Q&A, I’ll read a bit from the book, and then sign copies.
“Louie on the Rocks perfectly captures our divisive era. We all know a Louie–someone who has been changed indelibly by the last several years of politics. O’Brien writes him, and his devastated family, with precision, humor, and grace.”
The web site Ms. Career Girl has pulled together a list of recommended reads for 2025 — “a book for every type of reader” — and Louie on the Rocks made their list.
Ms. Career Girl recommended the novel — out Feb. 4 from SparkPress — for liberal adult children “living in their parents’ conservative world.”
“Life is messy, but family and politics are even messier. [The MAGA dad Louie and his progressive daughter Lulu] must confront their differences and find a way to heal—or risk letting their fractured relationship become their ultimate undoing.”
While I’ve already announced the upcoming February release of my second novel — Louie on the Rocks, a dark comedy set in central Massachusetts about a dysfunctional family influenced by Trump era politics, circa 2019 — I can now proudly announce my second 2025 book.
Uncomfortably Numb 2: An Anthology for Newly-Diagnosed MS Patients is slated for publication in May 2025 by Wyatt-MacKenzie, which published my 2020 medical memoir, Uncomfortably Numb, about the life-altering impact of my MS diagnosis.
This nonfiction book will feature the stories of MS patients at varying stages of the incurable autoimmune disease of the brain and spinal cord, and of MS advocates who work to better the world for multiple sclerosis patients. Additionally, I share new stories about how I have morphed from being a stunned, newly-diagnosed patient to an MS Activist who lobbies state and federal lawmakers on behalf of the National Multiple Sclerosis Society.
It’ll be quite the tonal shift to move from promoting a dark comedy about an alcoholic MAGA dad squaring off against his progressive, bookseller daughter just weeks after the presidential inauguration, to discussing the experiences of MS patients. I hope you’ll join me on what promises to be one bizarre ride.
In the predawn hours on the day after the election, I processed my angst through my writing. I submitted this piece to GirlTalkHQ and they graciously decided to publish it.
If you’re feeling the way I’m feeling, you likely need to cope with your grief, your anger, your dismay. This is for you.
Here’s how the piece begins:
They chose the rapist.
They empowered the serial, sexual abuser.
The one who famously values women only for how sexually attractive they are to him.
The one who hand-picked Supreme Court justices who then stole reproductive rights from American women, rights they’d previously sworn were safe.
The one who bragged about that revocation of reproductive rights, how he was responsible for turning the clock back fifty years.Who selected a running mate who assesses females based on their reproductive status and their usefulness for the tasks of bearing, raising, and caring for children.
Supporters of this presidential ticket openly laughed about how their opponent — a former prosecutor-state attorney general-US senator-vice president — was a prostitute who gave blow jobs in order to get ahead, that she worked street corners.
They called their competitor stupid. A bitch. A hoe. The c-word.
Feeling stressed out about the US presidential election? Experiencing tension with friends or family members? You’re not alone.
@girltalkhq has published a sneak peek preview of my Feb. 2025 darkly comedic novel, Louie on the Rocks, about how Trump era politics exacerbated the estrangement between a retired MAGA dad and his progressive Millennial daughter.
Set in central Massachusetts, readers hear directly from a trio of narrators: Father Louie, daughter Lulu, and recently-deceased wife/mother Helen. Things get, shall we say, profane and heated.
Ten years ago today, I was discharged from a Boston hospital and officially received my MS diagnosis. My husband Scott and I left the doctor’s suburban Boston area office and drove directly to Firefly’s, which served our son Casey’s favorite BBQ. It was his 13th birthday and we wanted him to bring him some of his beloved dishes because we NEEDED to celebrate.
Let me back up a bit and set the stage …
In the preceding week, my family of five had taken a much-needed trip to Los Angeles. It had been four months since my 65-year-old mother had died from a fast-moving cancer. It had been a couple weeks since my 67-year-old father was admitted to the hospital and then to a rehab center to regain his strength. It’d been weeks since my young nephew had been treated and released from Boston Children’s Hospital after what was believed to have been a pancreatitis attack. It hadn’t been very fun around my house. We wanted to flee Massachusetts, so we sought a journey to the land of make-believe, hoping to outrun our bad luck.
Ha, said fate.
On the first morning in our Air-BNB, I received a stilted phone call from my Boston-based neurologist. The MRI I’d had of my brain weeks earlier — the one about whose results I’d been hounding the neurologist’s staff for in the days leading up to the trip — showed I had new lesions and a couple of them were actively inflamed. The doc wanted me to see him immediately. Irritated, because this was the exact situation I’d been trying to avoid, I told him we were in LA for 10 days. He scheduled an appointment for the Tuesday after we returned home. He never officially said I had MS, never told me to avoid heat or humidity, and didn’t give me any advice for how to proceed until I got home. He must’ve thought it was evident that the presence of multiple lesions meant I had MS, but Scott and I decided, since we were in the land of make-believe we were going to make believe this call never happened.
Until the Hollywood Bowl. As comedian Jack Black took the stage to emcee a pops performance of music from Pixar films at the famed outdoor venue, the days spent in hot and humid conditions caught up with me. I became violently ill. Not only was I sick to my stomach, but I was dizzy, weak, saw flashing lights in the periphery of my vision, and couldn’t really walk. Since we were seated at the top level of the facility, staffers had to locate a wheelchair and in order to take me down to the medical station on the ground floor. My then-15-year-old twins — eyes wide with worry — “watched” over me while Scott and Casey, then-12, ran to fetch our rented vehicle. They arrived just as fireworks were being detonated in thunderous fashion, the explosions echoing against the walls, creating an ominous, end-of-the-world-like soundtrack.
Weakened, I spent the next day resting, but rallied to attend an evening Anaheim Angels’ game for which we already had tickets. Scott and I pretended the whole thing was either food poisoning or a result of me accidentally eating something that didn’t agree with my dairy allergy. In the ensuing days, we went to see the famed British football team Manchester United play the LA Galaxy at the Rose Bowl, goofed around in Madame Tussauds‘ wax museum, and visited the Ronald Reagan presidential library in Simi Valley.
On the day we were supposed to return to reality in Boston, I experienced an attack like the one at the Hollywood Bowl. Only worse. I was again sick to my stomach. Again, I was weak and could barely walk. My daughter said I was lying on the floor and so out of it that it seemed like I was drugged. The fact that our rented Santa Monica bungalow had no AC and that my damaged brain — which MS had rendered incapable of handling heat and humidity — couldn’t handle the weather never occurred to us. Then again, in that moment, I couldn’t hold a cogent thought in my head as my family packed up the Air-BNB and Scott called my neurologist to get some medication so I could board a plane back to Boston.
Two days later, on a Sunday, I woke in my own bedroom to a third attack worse than the preceding two. I couldn’t stop vomiting. I was weak. I couldn’t walk. I saw stars in my eyes. Nine-one-one was called. I was transported from a small local hospital then transferred to a large Boston facility where my doctor worked. I kept trying to get the neurologists at the hospital to contact their colleague, the one who called me that first morning in LA. But they didn’t. And I didn’t receive any treatment to stop the attack — which would’ve been IV steroids, something I received the following week.
On that Tuesday morning, Casey’s 13th birthday, I was released from the hospital and went straight to the neurologist’s office, just outside of Boston. It was there where he looked surprised when I asked him if I had MS. Clearly, he thought it should’ve been obvious that I did. He told me we had to decide what kind of medicine I’d take to try and slow down the disease progression but, in the meantime, we scheduled another MRI, which would show the presence of even more angry and inflamed lesions that would lead to three days of outpatient, steroid IV treatment. Scott and I left the neurologist’s appointment facing a new and uncertain landscape. But we had one immediate concern: Casey’s birthday.
Since my hospitalization, our dear friend Gretchen had been taking our three kids out, feeding them, and even brought the twins shopping so we’d have gifts to give Casey. Gretchen also pulled together the ingredients for Casey’s favorite birthday dessert, the lava cake similar to the one The Rainforest Cafe used to serve, only much sloppier. While Gretchen had the gifts and dessert all ready for us when we got home, Scott and I ordered barbecue from the car. Casey, who’d spent his 13th birthday hanging with Gretchen’s younger son, was thrilled with his presents, with the BBQ, and with the cake, and declared it the “best birthday ever.”
Now, that kid is 23. And he’s riding in a Bike MS event in Maine. He’s trying to raise money for the National Multiple Sclerosis Society — for which I serve on as a trustee on my local board and as a volunteer advocate. It’s an organization which has financially supported nearly every new development in the MS field. On his fundraising page, Casey wrote that he’s participating in the Great Maine Getaway because he is “inspired by my mother’s courageous battle with multiple sclerosis.” He added, “Throughout her life, she has not only navigated the challenges of MS but has also become a beacon of strength and education within our community.” He also said a bunch of other really nice things about his old mom. *Blushing.*
I’m proud of him, as well as of my nearly-26-year-old son Jonah, and my husband Scott, who are participating in their second Bike MS event together. But since my diagnosis date is so closely tied to Casey’s birthday, I’m plugging his donation page. If you have someone in your life who struggles with MS, if you’d like to see a world without MS, please consider contributing to Casey’s bike ride.
It’s been 10 years. My symptoms may have worsened but my hope has not dimmed.
Meredith OBrien 