When Breath Becomes Air (Paul Kalanithi)
I’m many years late to reading Paul Kalanithi’s memoir “When Breath Becomes Air,” but I now fully appreciate why it received such high praise. Kalanithi was entering his final year of a Stanford neurosurgery residency when he was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer. Overnight, doctor became patient, and the man who had chosen neuroscience to puzzle out how life, death, meaning, and identity intertwined, was thrust into the heart of the problem. At the age of 36, it felt like his life was ending mid-story. I loved the moral and mortal reflections of “When Breath Becomes Air,” the paradoxes and humanity of this memoir. And I agree unquestionably with everyone that if neurosurgery hadn’t panned out, Kalanithi could have had an exceptional career as a writer.
Two eloquent descriptions that resonated with me were:
Everyone succumbs to finitude. I suspect I am not the only one who reaches this pluperfect state. Most ambitions are either achieved or abandoned; either way, they belong to the past. The future, instead of the ladder toward the goals of life, flattens out into a perpetual present.
Speaking on prognosis and ‘time remaining,’ what patients seek is not scientific knowledge that doctors hide, but existential authenticity each person must find on her own. Getting too deeply into statistics is like trying to quench a thirst with salty water. The angst of facing mortality has no remedy in probability.
“When Breath Becomes Air” is not just a memoir, it’s a summons. An invitation to imagine how you would respond to a life-limiting diagnosis. How you would grapple with the paradoxes, regrets, and heart-wrenching decisions. What would dying clarify and how would you spend your remaining time? What regrets would you have?
For me, the most important thing is what you do with this book after you put it down.