 |
|
| Amy Low (photo: Brigitte Lacombe) |
|
Amy Low is a communications consultant and advocate, a mom to two young adults, and an expert at living with cancer. The Brave In-Between, an account of her experience living with a terminal diagnosis, is her first book, and will be published by Hachette on June 4, 2024.
What made you decide to write The Brave In-Between? One could argue you had other things to deal with during this time!
A few months after my diagnosis, I went looking for contemporary memoirs and wisdom from other single parents facing similar end-of-life dilemmas. Single parents navigate a terminal health prognosis holding a different set of questions. We center our survival in service to our children, while wondering who will tell our stories when we leave them too soon. The act of fighting to stay alive becomes the north star of parenting--don't leave them, you think--and yet the main task at hand is about yourself, rather than your kids. Paradox felt like a constant reality for what I assumed was a community of millions.
And yet: I couldn't find any relatable or contemporary books that spoke from the vantage point I was living. Over time, I came to see my vantage point--a single mom who most days felt quite well, while living with a grim prognosis--as deeply relevant to my fellow single parents in medical waiting rooms, and also to a larger expanse of people navigating precarity.
The book's structure is inspired by St. Paul's words in Philippians 4, focusing on whatever is true, whatever is lovely, whatever is noble. How did you choose to structure the narrative that way?
When I first got sick, I assumed that I would be a mess of constant illness. Instead, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that most days I felt quite well. I had a hard time squaring it all--how can my scans tell me I'm dealing with late-stage cancer, and yet I basically feel okay? In my first days dwelling within this last room, I spent time thinking about who else might have inhabited this place: knowing your days are limited, and yet feeling physically well.
I was looking for kinship and companionship, yes, but what I was yearning for was wisdom. And I found a gem. The Apostle Paul wrote a letter to his dear friends who lived in Philippi. He wrote the letter from a Roman jail, probably feeling physically okay, but acutely aware he didn't have many days left. And in that letter, he implored his friends to hold a collection of virtues close.
These virtues--whatever is true, noble, right, pure, admirable, and lovely, excellent, and praiseworthy--became lanterns of sorts. Too many corners of the last room are filled with uncertainty disguised as shadows and darkness. Paul illuminated those corners with these virtues.
You explore some complicated relationships in the book: your bond with your ex-husband, Don, who becomes your caregiver, and a complex friendship/relationship with Sebastien, a man who's also a surgeon. Tell us about your decision to explore those bonds.
Our days are lived through our relationships. After I got sick, I would often mention to friends that the collapse of my marriage was far more devastating than the collapse of my body. When I would say this, I would think: That sounds absolutely bananas. Yet, it was undeniably true. And as more and more people who had endured the end of a long relationship or marriage would nod in solidarity, I knew we all ought to have more allyship in this space. Most of us have a generous intuition for how to show up when a beloved is sick. It can be far more complex to know how to show up when a dear friend is moving through the end of a relationship.
The mystery of relationships is that they are never one thing. Cancer provides labs and scans and a biology that will unveil the facts of the matter. A friendship with blurry lines or a marriage that shifts can be a more uncertain and destabilizing place. But it's also a place that provides an unlimited source of discovery, and renewal.
I wasn't able to cross into a deeper embrace of forgiveness for my ex-husband until I saw his remarkable care for me when I became ill. And then I discovered how easily I could abandon my own relationship principles with Sebastien, when fear began to outweigh my self-worth. Ultimately, the wisdom I gained from my relationships with Don and Sebastien proved even more transcendent than the plot details of cancer. I still marvel at that.
Any memoir includes the cast of characters in the author's life, but their stories are ultimately their own. How did you handle writing about your kids (and others you love) knowing that their experiences with/during your illness ultimately belong to them?
There's no more important question. How do you set down stories in tribute to your children, knowing that the stories will include delicate plot details? I think most memoirists set out on that trek with the assurance that they will have years to grapple with whatever reckoning the pages might provoke. I may not get the luxury of years to laugh, argue, debate, and commiserate about what I've written with my kids. So, as I wrote, I kept Paul's virtues as my guides. Is what I'm writing truthful? Is it admirable and lovely and excellent? And even when moving through the most complex scenes, will my kids read this and feel loved?
This is my great hope. They will have a chance to know their mom in a more vulnerable way, and while that can be intimidating, it's also liberating. They will have a better sense of my flaws, my mistakes, my limitations. They will also see how I delight in their beauty, and marvel at their goodness.
I hope they read these pages more equipped to tell their own stories when the time is right. They will no doubt have important ones to tell.
You initially wanted to be a "gold star" patient--being the best at treatment, recovering the fastest. How did your experience differ from that aspiration?
Many patients learn early on that there's an inherent power imbalance within an exam room--your doctor holds wisdom and a plan, and the patient holds questions and fear. And like most patients, I initially tried to "perform well" in those conversations. I wanted my oncologists, surgeons, nurses and all the rest to adore me. If they adore me, I thought, they might work even harder for me. I suspect it's a common mindset.
But then something new evolved: I began to genuinely adore my medical team. I fell in love with medicine, with the wonder of healing. I saw them all as flawed, limited, and yet remarkably talented individuals who got up every day committed to my longevity.
I've grimaced at too many health memoirs that cast aspersions on the medical community. I understand why--I've had my share of lousy doctor's appointments. But now that I'm living within the marrow of the medical bone, I've never been more grateful for their gifts. The philosopher Simone Weil coined the phrase "dignity in vulnerability," which I think captures what I'm trying to describe. My medical relationships may have begun from a place of power imbalance, but over time they came to exist in a beautiful frame of fragile dignity. --Katie Noah Gibson