This reads like an old woman’s romanticized retelling of a terrible and pointless journey down an Amazonian tributary. It lacks the visceral qualities that could bring the experience to life for the reader. Instead, FitsGerald sweetens her language, relying on cliche phrases. The jungle is “colorful.” A nurse “slips” an IV into her arm.
If this story happened, it didn’t happen as she described it. She’s tried to make it too palatable. The pictures she painted of her husband and herself are of staunch forbearance. It’s a little too good to be true.