
In addressing
his twin loves of English and neuroscience, Kalanithi wrote, “I was driven less
by achievement than by trying to understand, in earnest: What makes human life
meaningful? I still felt literature provided the best account of the life of the
mind, while neuroscience laid down the most elegant rules of the brain.” He
added that his “highest ideal was not saving lives – everyone dies eventually –
but guiding a patient or family to an understanding of death or illness…. When
there’s no place for the scalpel, words are the surgeon’s only tool.”
As his death
neared and Kalanithi contemplated the life of his infant daughter, he wrote,
“There is perhaps only one thing to say to this infant, who is all future,
overlapping briefly with me, whose life barring the improbable, is all but
past. That message is simple: When you come to one of the many moments in life
where 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 job 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.”
I hope what I’ve
written tempts you to read it. Do you think about life and death as often as I
do? I’m a psychiatrist and psychoanalyst who discusses such issues on nearly a
daily basis. I found Kalanithi’s words to be profound and helpful. Thanks to my
friend Mike C. for recommending this book.
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