When Breath Becomes Air

Each month, I promise myself things. You know, like, working out 2 times a week, socializing more (something I've lost the appetite to do since October 7th), or reading two books this month. But the promise on this last one was deeper: the book cannot be about Zionism, Israel, Jews, or the Middle East.

While I was doing my MA in Jewish studies in Manhattan, if one visited me at my 5th-floor walk-up in Harlem, he would justly call me a nutcase - as all my books were about Zionism, Israel, Jews, or the Middle East. Not much has changed since then. So, there, I promised myself to ... to pick another book.

And God listens. It was my first morning in NYC during my last visit. Somewhere nestled between Park and 28th, there was a coffee shop. I entered and asked for my usual oat latte, which had to be extra hot even when it was extra hot outside.

And there it was: When Breath Becomes Air [takes you to Amazon]- A book on the shelves of this coffee shop. It was calling me. I opened it, read a page, and teared up. Then, read the blurp. I teared up some more. It was not for sale, so I took a picture of it and went on with my day.

It was late afternoon, and somewhere between my 25,000 and 25,500 steps, I realized there was a bookstore close enough not to extend my step count much further for the day.

I walked there. I bought the book. I went home. Opened it. Finished it in 3 days. And it probably took 3 days as I was in NYC, where the streets call my name even when I want to get lost in a book.

It's a heavy book. It's a depressing book. It's not a Hollywood-happy-ending book - and with this, I do not kill the story for you as it is written in the blurbs: the book was published posthumously.

But it is also a book I needed to read. Right now. Right here.

It is about death. It is about how death comes for all of us - I know it is not a novel concept. It is about how death sometimes comes way earlier than we anticipate it.

I probably needed to read it because I needed to cry out not only the journey of this man whose life I read about but also to cry out the pain that has been accumulated in me since October 7th. So that I did. The last chapter - written by his wife - made me cry out months of pain.

Once I finished the book, I went on Amazon and wanted to read the reviews. When I saw it got a couple of 1-star, I started with those. I read them all - what a psychological social study those are.

"I know I should not write bad about someone who is dead"... [but I'll write it anyway].

" He came across as arrogant and wrote the book out of ego" [so here I am, who is still alive and going to write this review out of my ego about a guy who I never met]

We are funny creatures as humans.

[takes you to Amazon]

This being said, the book might really not be for you. After all, books have always been and always gonna be subjective. And that is the beauty of them...

I, personally, found the book touching. I felt he was vulnerable to an extent but could not go deeper because then (assumption!) he would have collapsed under everything he faced. As a sister of a doctor, I think I also understood things about my brother that I could not have otherwise.

The only feeling that kept coming for me that was a bit challenging was: could he have extended his life by making different choices... Of course, we cannot know that. But I am a what-if-person...

I just realized I have not named him yet. Maybe because it does not matter in a way - his story could be any of us. But it was Paul Kalamithi - a neurosurgeon and writer. A person who definitely was shooting for the stars and was a perfectionist and maximalist to the T. None of these are to be judged. It was his life, and he wanted to devote it to something - that might have made him sick - or at least sicker.

This book is about the choices one faces when he himself is facing death. Should one have a child when he knows he won't be around for long? Who are you when your career is taken away from you? What is the meaning of life?

One of the 1-star comments, having tarnished this book, said that we should read Victor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning [takes you to Amazon] instead. Sure - except that the nature and purpose of the two books are as far from each other as the ideology of Western Europe and Eastern Europe. (sic)

Here I am, having fulfilled another promise to myself: I read a book this month that was not about Zionism, Israel, Jews, or the Middle East.

And it felt refreshing.

What's the last book that left a lasting impression on you?

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