To Paul

Just about an hour ago, I finished reading When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi (recommended by a friend). Gosh, what a book! In short, it’s the heartbreaking, but beautiful story of a 36-year-old man about to become a neurosurgeon after more than 10 years of training, but is then diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer. His book highlights his journey from doctor to patient and also addresses the deep questions about the meaning of life when confronted with death.

After reading it, I compellingly wanted to tell Paul what it meant to me. Although his physical self is no longer here, I believe he still lives on through his book and its readers. So, this letter is dedicated to Paul:

Dear Paul,

Thank you. While reading your book, I never cried. I got close, though, when I read your wife’s epilogue. While writing this right now, I am.

Thank you for shedding light not only on what death can or will mean, but on time. Becoming a doctor in America is a long journey, but many who want to be doctors, like me, often forgo it in hopes of the rewards we reap after earning each degree, whether that be compassion, learning, or money. Your book gave me the sharp, agonizing reality that we may never reap those rewards at the end, and that we must still strive to be compassionate and do our best to be a good doctor in every moment along the journey. This time-consuming path to becoming a doctor is a true testament to one’s love for the profession, and you say when becoming a neurosurgeon, “People often ask if it is a calling, and my answer is always yes. You can’t see it as a job, because if it’s a job, it’s one of the worst jobs there is.” That right there hit me; this profession’s not easy, and it never will be. It also hit me that you would have been, no, you are one of the best neurosurgeons ever.

Also, thank you for your bravery. Leaving behind one’s life, or anything for that matter, is not easy. My first thought reading the description of When Breath Becomes Air was how agonizing it must have been to leave behind over 10 years of studying, but your book was never about that. It was about purpose. It was about the definition of death in terms of yourself, legacy, and philosophy. You strived to do your best in every waking moment, and it was clear to me with each word on that page. Your book awakened in me the message that this wasn’t about living life to the fullest, but about living life so you could just look back and say: It was a good, good run.

Thank you, most of all, for opening my eyes. To resilience, to intellect, and to love. These three things filled every one of your actions, and now they influence me to fill them in mine. I read, but it seemed like I watched, how you navigated through medicine from the books to the flesh, then to the care. In your book, you reflect on who you are after each moment of your life, and it has now pushed me to do the same. You opened my eyes to the courage we have within us to face every and any situation, but also the care and obligation we hold to treat those around us well.

Thank you for bringing me near tears, not just because of your situation, but because neurology patients will never be under your care, although they will know you, look up to you—like me—because of this book.

Sincerely,

Aishwarya Kadavil

Full disclaimer: my interpretation of this book might be vastly different than others; When Breath Becomes Air is deep and philosophical in a way, so to see if my thoughts align with yours, give it a read!