BOOK REVIEW: When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi

Why do I punish myself this way? Was all that filled my mind when I finished this book as I balled my eyes out.

I picked up When Breath Becomes Air, casually, after seeing it flashed in one of those ‘day-in-my-life’ autumn vlogs I watch on YouTube, not expecting it to resonate with me so deeply.

When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi is a poignant memoir by a gifted neurosurgeon facing terminal lung cancer. It chronicles his journey from a promising medical career to grappling with the fragility of life. Kalanithi reflects on profound questions about purpose, mortality, and identity as both a doctor and patient. With deeply moving prose, he explores the intersection of science, philosophy, and humanity, offering readers a raw, inspiring meditation on what it means to truly live.

Needless to say, there were so many parts in the book that took me back to when my mom was fighting her own cancer journey–all those nights in the hospital with her, all those times I watched her writhe in pain as she relentlessly asked us to massage her legs.

My mom passed away while I was 8,206 miles away from her. At the time, I thought it was for the best. Being far spared me the overwhelming task of having to talk to all of our relatives and, perhaps, my mom’s friends, who were all shocked from the news of her untimely death. I knew I can’t deal with all of that.

But after finishing When Breath Becomes Air and reading about Paul’s decision to choose comfort care at home, surrounded by loved ones and his daughter Cady, I was struck by a painful realization: I wished I had been there with my mom when her last breath became air.

My mom lived a vibrant life. She loved traveling and performing. In many ways, I take after her. She poured much of her energy into charitable work, embodying what it means to be a woman for others. Her selflessness was so profound that when she passed, we were astonished by the number of strangers who attended her funeral—people whose lives she had quietly touched while she was still with us.

And, every day, I still feel sorry for losing her too soon.

Every day, random moments would make me think about my mom. Some days are better, some days are just too much. But every single day, I find myself wishing she were still here with us. I know there’s nothing I could have done to change how life unfolded for all of us. While I’ve found a degree of acceptance, it remains tangled with a deep sense of lingering sorrow.

It never occurred to me that you could love someone the same way after (she) was gone, that I would continue to feel such love and gratitude alongside the terrible sorrow.

This book allowed me to get into the mind of my mom’s doctors. It gave me a peek into the decision-making process of doctors, particularly the moral dilemma of whether it’s better to fight to save a patient or to let them go. But, most profoundly, this book allowed me to see through the eyes of someone facing an illness and all the complex emotions surrounding death.

Through reading, I’m slowly allowing myself to process my grief—something I had deliberately rushed through before, as I was trying to avoid the limbo of sorrow and months of unproductivity that consumed me when my Angkong passed way back in 2019.

I once thought I could simply shove all my emotions aside and move on, but I’ve come to realize how truly difficult it is to lose a parent.

Just recently, a good friend’s dad died of stage 4 cancer. I had been busy the past week attending his funeral. Thus, I can’t help but feel all the feels once again. And though he was 87—much older than my mom, who was just 64 when she passed—death still feels impossible to prepare for. Death is death. No one can truly say what age is “enough” when it comes to losing someone.

This brings me to my own reflections on death. That if I were to leave this moment, I know I am contented with everything I’ve done with this life. I’m grateful for the friends I’ve made, the people I’ve encountered, the things I’ve accomplished, and the pets I’ve had the privilege to love and care for. I don’t expect people to remember me after dying. I don’t expect people to travel miles to see my pale, lifeless body. I don’t expect anyone to cry. I know my cats will eat, sleep, and move on like it was just an ordinary day. But I face death without fear as I know I am at peace with everything I’ve experienced in this lifetime.

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