I read the news of a passing of a stranger yesterday, and it has stayed with me since because of the sheer power of his words.
Paul Kalanithi was a neurosurgeon at Stanford and a tremendously gifted writer. After he was diagnosed with aggressive metastatic lung cancer, he wrote two utterly haunting essays, entitled "How Long Have I Got Left?” for The New York Times and “Before I Go” for Stanford Medicine. Both essays are must-reads, the first especially so for members of the medical community.
It is funny that one of the reasons that I feel so particularly bad about this is because somebody with so much eloquence was taken from this world, while everyday, so many good people pass relatively un-mourned by the general public.
But anyway, it is this man's eloquence that spurred this post, and got me talking about something that I have pondered in passing for several months now. Kalanithi, addressing his infant daughter who was born only days after he was released from the hospital, said this in his second essay:
When you come to one of the many moments in life when you must give an account of yourself, provide a ledger of what you have been, and done, and meant to the world, do not, I pray, discount that you filled a dying man’s days with a sated joy, a joy unknown to me in all my prior years, a joy that does not hunger for more and more, but rests, satisfied. In this time, right now, that is an enormous thing.
These are words that will resonate with me,and with many of you, because he put into words what so many of us feel, but cannot express. And the scope of his statement is not restricted to people whose days are numbered, but ALL of us, really.
I was happy-ish before Gauri came along, but it was a low-level contentment, if you will, where I was always looking forward to the next thing to make me happy: a holiday, a book, a job, a date, the baby itself (a 4-year long wait, that); I was very rarely perfectly happy, perfectly joyous in that moment. I think there may have been a few instances where I came close: there was one, I remember, when I was out in Acadia National Park. Existential joy at its purest.
After Gauri? The moments come thick and fast. I still grumble about many things, I am still looking forward to a great many little things (getting out of India, mostly), but there are so many moments that are so perfectly joyous that they are hard to bear. Then there are moments of perfect quiet peace and contentment.
Very few things can bring this sort of joy. Very few things make us stop searching for the next best thing and let us simply bask in a particular moment. I am glad this man got to experience that, though it is such a tragedy he died just a few months short of his baby's first birthday. I do not know him, but I am so saddened by the fact that he had so little time. For all of you out there in the infertility trenches, know that the prize you are fighting for is the best one indeed. It is worth the pain of battle.
Paul Kalanithi was a neurosurgeon at Stanford and a tremendously gifted writer. After he was diagnosed with aggressive metastatic lung cancer, he wrote two utterly haunting essays, entitled "How Long Have I Got Left?” for The New York Times and “Before I Go” for Stanford Medicine. Both essays are must-reads, the first especially so for members of the medical community.
It is funny that one of the reasons that I feel so particularly bad about this is because somebody with so much eloquence was taken from this world, while everyday, so many good people pass relatively un-mourned by the general public.
But anyway, it is this man's eloquence that spurred this post, and got me talking about something that I have pondered in passing for several months now. Kalanithi, addressing his infant daughter who was born only days after he was released from the hospital, said this in his second essay:
When you come to one of the many moments in life when you must give an account of yourself, provide a ledger of what you have been, and done, and meant to the world, do not, I pray, discount that you filled a dying man’s days with a sated joy, a joy unknown to me in all my prior years, a joy that does not hunger for more and more, but rests, satisfied. In this time, right now, that is an enormous thing.
These are words that will resonate with me,and with many of you, because he put into words what so many of us feel, but cannot express. And the scope of his statement is not restricted to people whose days are numbered, but ALL of us, really.
I was happy-ish before Gauri came along, but it was a low-level contentment, if you will, where I was always looking forward to the next thing to make me happy: a holiday, a book, a job, a date, the baby itself (a 4-year long wait, that); I was very rarely perfectly happy, perfectly joyous in that moment. I think there may have been a few instances where I came close: there was one, I remember, when I was out in Acadia National Park. Existential joy at its purest.
After Gauri? The moments come thick and fast. I still grumble about many things, I am still looking forward to a great many little things (getting out of India, mostly), but there are so many moments that are so perfectly joyous that they are hard to bear. Then there are moments of perfect quiet peace and contentment.
Very few things can bring this sort of joy. Very few things make us stop searching for the next best thing and let us simply bask in a particular moment. I am glad this man got to experience that, though it is such a tragedy he died just a few months short of his baby's first birthday. I do not know him, but I am so saddened by the fact that he had so little time. For all of you out there in the infertility trenches, know that the prize you are fighting for is the best one indeed. It is worth the pain of battle.
I enjoyed those articles; thank you.
ReplyDeleteAnd yes, the joy of life with a child... it's like realizing you've woken up, not realizing that you were half asleep before.
Thank you for posting the articles. What an amazing person! And you are right, his words to his daughter "a joy that ...rests..satisfied" truly express what parenthood is.
ReplyDeleteOh such true words. It really is a peaceful, still contentedness.
ReplyDeleteI tried entering this and I'm not sure if it went through - I'm Paul Kalanithi's wife (I guess I could start saying "widow"). I wanted to thank you for the post and tell you that, funnily enough, our daughter Cady's full name is Elizabeth Acadia, named in part after Acadia National Park. I look forward to taking her there -- maybe she'll have a feeling similar to what you had. Best of luck to you all in your journeys. xo
ReplyDeleteYou should stick with "wife." Screw labels. I am so glad you found this, and very much hope that it was not too painful to read. Have emailed you.
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