Between Two Kingdoms: A Memoir of Life Interrupted by Suleika Jaouad

I had cancer in my early 30s. None of my peers had gone through that experience, and this was back in the early aughts, a few years before the birth of the social media industrial complex, so as I navigated this new space, I read cancer memoirs. A lot of them.

At first, I appreciated seeing my own experiences echoed on the pages – the time when the doctor fumbled the diagnosis, the time when locks of hair fell out, the time when a friend couldn’t cope so she disappeared. After a while, though, the stories I read started to have a sameness about them. A lot of doctors fumble diagnoses, a lot of hair falls out.

Twenty years later, I’m studying end-of-life narratives for my doctoral dissertation, and I’m still reading a lot of cancer memoirs. I grow pickier each year, but I’m happy to report that Suleika Jaouad finds fresh territory to explore with her well-crafted book Between Two Kingdoms: A Memoir of Life Interrupted.

Jaouad was 22 and working a paralegal gig in Paris when she learned she had acute myeloid leukemia, a disease usually found in people three times her age. She was living with Will, whom she had met in New York just a few months earlier, and their relationship forms the through line for the book as cancer shoves them past their meet-cute beginnings and moves them into the emotional turmoil of what ends up being years of treatment.

Suleika Jaouad

We get only Jaouad’s telling, of course, but she does not go easy on herself, describing her anger when he doesn’t give as much support as she wants, even as she shows us he was breaking with the effort to give what he did – especially considering he had never made any vows about sticking around “in sickness and in health.”

I squirmed under the tension around how much this provisional relationship could bear. At one point, Will, desperate for a respite from caregiving, floats the idea of joining friends for an out-of-state music festival, and we register Jaouad’s response:

“I wanted to be the graceful leukemic starlet who told him, Take as many breaks as you want, you deserve it, have a wonderful trip, my love, but there is spiritual exhaustion that comes with maintaining this kind of charade after a while. As a patient there was pressure to perform, to be someone who suffers well, to act with heroism, and to put a stoic façade all the time. But that night, I didn’t have it in me to listen to how hard my illness was on Will – how badly he needed a break when I didn’t have the option of taking a break from this body, from this disease, from this life of ours” (161).

Here is a side of cancer we never see in get-well cards.

The relationship is only one illustration of what can make cancer different for young adults; her professional life is another. Jaouad was floundering in the months after college with both yet-undiagnosed physical symptoms and with the existential questions of what do with her life.

She had fled to Paris with a vague idea of becoming a foreign correspondent in her father’s North African homeland. Suddenly, because of her illness, she was back in her childhood bedroom in upstate New York, rebalancing her fresh independence with her even newer vulnerability. There are the unexpected questions that arise that demand her to look into her future, one that’s almost impossible to foresee. Although she had barely thought about motherhood, for example, she finds herself having to remind her medical team to consider preserving her ability to have children.

Often-harrowing treatment consumes the next four years and takes us more than halfway through the book, which originated in a New York Times column. She finds a creative band of “young cancer comrades” that includes the poet Max Ritvo. Only three of the 10 were still alive by the time she writes the book.

The second section veers to another memoir device, the travelogue. She first visits India, then makes solitary sojourns to Vermont, leaving only the final quarter of the book for the 100-day, 15,000-mile U.S. road trip suggested by the book’s romantic cover photo, which shows Jaouad sitting atop a hipster-friendly 1972 Volkswagen camper van with her rescue dog, Oscar. Along the way, she visits people who responded to her newspaper columns because they connected to some part of her experience – people with serious illness, but also others, a grieving parent and a death-row inmate, who related to her narrative voice and found common ground with her illness experience.

The trip allows her physical and psychological space to reflect, leading to some of the book’s finest passages. After visiting Bret, a young filmmaker with lymphoma, she writes:

“I began to think about how porous the border is between the sick and the well. It’s not just people like Bret and me who exist in the wilderness of survivorship. As we live longer and longer, the vast majority of us will travel back and forth across these realms, spending much of our existence. The idea of striving for some beautiful, perfect state of wellness? It mires us in eternal dissatisfaction, a goal forever out of reach. To be well now is to learn to accept whatever body and mind I currently have” (274).

The meaningful interactions offset my sense that the trip has been manufactured for (or by) a book deal in the vein of memoirs like A.J. Jacobs’ My Year of Living Biblically and Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat Pray Love; Gilbert even provides Jaouad with a book-jacket blurb. The feeling was only heightened when I realized she actually did the road trip in a borrowed old Subaru; the van was bought long afterward, as a reminder of one she saw during the trip, as she notes on the last page of the epilogue.

I wish her publisher had resisted this urge. The golden-yellow van makes a great photo, of course, but the quest it suggests plays neatly into conventional hopes for what the psychotherapist Kathlyn Conway calls the triumph narrative, where illness only makes us stronger and wiser. In fairness, Jaouad herself follows this route to close the book, declaring that she treasures her heightened awareness of her finitude even if her early adulthood was “wrenching, confusing, difficult – to the point of sometimes feeling unendurably painful … I would not reverse my diagnosis if I could. I would not take back what I suffered to gain this” (340-41).

This may be true, but the reflection comes together in less than two pages, suggesting her feeling during an NPR appearance when she was “determined to end the interview on a strong note” (135).

And then there’s the book’s subtitle phrase “life interrupted,” no doubt meant to remind readers of her newspaper column of that same name. The allusion to Girl, Interrupted, Susanna Kaysen’s 1993 memoir of mental illness is especially clumsy coupled with the reference to Susan Sontag in the main title – if not as profound as Sontag, Jaouad’s writing certainly stands on its own. More significantly, however, the phrase implies that her illness was not part of her life. Her book tells a different story.—Cherie Henderson

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Cherie Henderson

Cherie Henderson is a doctoral candidate in communications at Columbia University. Her dissertation explores stories told by younger adults with terminal illness, and what we can learn from them about the cultural models of behavior for the ill and dying. She has also worked at the intersection of death and humor. Henderson, who has initiated and led writing workshops for patients at Memorial Sloan Kettering cancer center, holds a master’s degree from Columbia in narrative medicine and was a faculty associate, fieldwork supervisor and post-graduate fellow in that program. Earlier, she was a staff editor and reporter at The Miami Herald and The Associated Press. She graduated from The University of Texas at Austin in journalism.

Ask Me About My Uterus: A Quest to Make Doctors Believe in Women's Pain by Abby Norman

The budding of feminist activism in recent decades has accelerated the rise in literature that tackles the topic of the female experience. Illness memoirs written about, by and for women are a growing genre, and Abby Norman’s 2018 book Ask Me About My Uterus: A Quest to Make Doctors Believe in Women’s Pain makes a powerful contribution to the field. Telling a personal story about battling not only an illness but the entire medical system, Norman explores topics relevant for all, but especially for those who are ill.

The book is a brilliant blend of memoir and theoretical text, telling a compelling story of an unorthodox childhood and a life suddenly disrupted by a debilitating pain nobody believed was real. The story follows Norman growing up neglected by an anorexic and bulimic mother, absent father and abusive grandmother. As a teenage girl she becomes emancipated and aims to reinvent herself as a professional dancer while attending Sarah Lawrence College. Her ambitions are thwarted by episodic pain that becomes a permanent ailment controlling her life. There is a futile surgery and an endless string of hospital visits, during which she faces skepticism, doubt and dismissal by the medical staff, only to finally be diagnosed with endometriosis. Norman’s quest for answers leads her down an unlikely path of working in the healthcare system and eventually becoming a science writer and advocate for women with endometriosis.

Endometriosis, often regarded as an illness of the uterus due to the synchronization of the symptoms with the menstrual cycle, is one modern medicine has been aware of for centuries. Even so, there is still no clear cause for the illness, what influences its development or how to cure it, due to lack of research and the scarcity of information on the subject. What we do know is that the condition is estimated to affect one in ten women and can take up to ten years to diagnose. The main reason for the detrimentally slow diagnosis: Women seeking help aren’t believed to be experiencing the ailments afflicting them. The first assumption is that the patient is having psychological issues reflecting her inability to cope with the natural pain of menstruation. It is baffling that an issue as common as endometriosis is greeted with so much skepticism and appears to be of little to no interest to medical scientists.

Abby Norman. Discover more about this writer’s work here

Abby Norman asks the question “Why is this so?” She’s not alone in wondering, but what sets her apart is her creative way of illustrating the issue in an engaging, easily understandable text. Norman opens up many chapters with a comprehensive overview of particular medical cases or bigger medical studies dating back to the 19th century, effectively illustrating the history of the female patient. From illness explained as hysteria to the exclusion of women from medical trials and drug testing, the narrative illustrates that medicine is not only sexist but also how that sexism is often lethal for the female patient. Norman flawlessly transitions from factual to creative writing, using personal reflections and commentary as ways to segue into telling her own story.

Ask Me About My Uterus: A Quest to Make Doctors Believe in Women’s Pain is a memoir that educates as much as it entertains. The riveting stories of the author’s unusual life are cunning bridges between important analyses of the complex relationship between Western medicine and female patients. An interesting read for anyone wanting to be challenged by literature, the memoir offers significant relevance for women suffering from illnesses of reproductive organs. Its involving prose offers comfort as well as specific information empowering women to find their voices, take control of their illness and demand medical justice. —Alekszandra Rokvity

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Alekszandra Rokvity

Alekszandra Rokvity is a PhD candidate working in medical humanities and cultural studies between the Karl Franzens University of Graz, Austria and the University of Alberta in Canada. Her academic interest lies in the experiences of women with endometriosis within the healthcare system. “It gives me no pleasure to confirm that my academic research has only proven what I've personally experienced and intuitively known: that there is relentless, systematic sexism present at the heart of Western medical practices which not only reflects the position of women in society at large, but seriously affects the care ill women are provided.”

This is Going to Hurt by Adam Kay

This is Going to Hurt by Adam Kay

This Is Going To Hurt is a memoir from British comedian, writer and former doctor, Adam Kay. The book, published by Picador in 2017, follows Kay’s journey from a junior doctor to senior registrar (or resident to attending physician) specializing in obstetrics and gynecology. The memoir is presented as a series of journal entries that he wrote throughout his former medical career, originally intended as a means of cataloguing intriguing clinical cases.

However, his recollections are far from formally academic: Kay’s unabashed bluntness allows for an unfiltered and honest reflection of his time working under the UK’s National Health System (NHS). The book covers a wide array of healthcare topics including the doctor-comedian’s thoughts on the NHS’s treatment of its doctors; his co-workers or “drug-dealing scrotes” that erroneously prescribe diuretics to dehydrated patients; and what he describes as “Eiffel Syndrome”—the common “I fell” etiology voiced by patients presenting with household items lodged in their nether regions. Kay’s wicked commentary keeps the reader engaged with risqué, crude humor that no practicing physician would (rightly so) feel comfortable dispensing.

 A praise-worthy feature of Kay’s narrative is his inclusion of informative and equally entertaining footnotes on the bottom of each page to explain the medical terminology referenced in each account. This makes the book accessible to the non-medical reader, who will learn more than a thing or two about medicine by the time they’ve reached the last page. For example:

 *APGAR scores are the standard measure of how well a newborn baby is doing—they get marks for Appearance, Pulse, Grimace, Activity and Respiration. It was devised by a doctor called Virginia Apgar, which makes me think that she chose arbitrary measures just because they fitted with her surname. Like if I decided that the best measures of a baby’s health were Kicking, Applauding and Yawning. 

 This Is Going To Hurt is steeped in themes of physician neglect, a topic of growing relevance in today’s healthcare climate, with increasing concerns over physician-burnout and resilience that have been elevated during the novel coronavirus pandemic. While the memoir’s title is a nod to the cliché that a doctor tells a patient before inflicting procedural pain, it also reflects the mental and emotional toll physician-hood took on Kay. In one example, Kay cites a traumatic case involving a patient with placenta previa, for which he received no support from the NHS after its devastating effects. The experience was a tipping point for him that led to depression and eventually prompted him to retire his white coat for good. Physicians, Kay reminds the reader, are just people too, something he believes healthcare establishments and patients often lose sight of:

“…patients don’t actually think of doctors as being human. It’s why they’re so quick to complain if we make a mistake or if we get cross. It’s why they’ll bite our heads off when we finally call them into our over-running clinic room at 7 p.m., not thinking that we also have homes we’d rather be at. But it’s the flip side of not wanting your doctor to be fallible, capable of getting your diagnosis wrong. They don’t want to think of medicine as a subject that anyone on the planet can learn, a career choice their mouth-breathing cousin could have made.”

Author, comedian and former doctor Adam Kay.

 Still, he gives equal time to the rewarding feelings he experienced when helping patients, delivering babies and treating couples with infertility issues. At trying times, it made him feel like a “low grade super-hero,” and it was this sense of satisfaction and purpose that allowed him to continue being a doctor for as long as he did. He finally summarizes his medical career with both dreariness and heart:

 “The hours are terrible, the pay is terrible, the conditions are terrible; you’re underappreciated, unsupported, disrespected and frequently physically endangered. But there’s no better job in the world.”

Adam Kay’s memoir is an entertaining account of a physician-turned-comedian’s triumphs and struggles through their medical career. His new children’s book, Kay’s Anatomy: A Complete (and Completely Disgusting) Guide to the Human Body, will be available this year.—Fredrick Martyn

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Fredrick Martyn

Fredrick Martyn is a Canadian writer, poet and medical student at The George Washington University School of Medicine and Health Sciences in Washington, D.C. This summer he will be beginning his residency training in family medicine at Western University in Ontario, Canada. He is a contributing writer for the medical satire website Gomerblog, as well as other online humor publications including Points In Case, Slackjaw and Little Old Lady Comedy. He also acts as a director for his medical school’s comedy show and can sometimes be found performing his poetry at Busboys & Poets, in D.C.