The dedication of this book reads:
“There are two copies of this book that matter. There are two pairs of eyes I imagine reading every word. There are two adult hands which I hope will hold a battered paperback when others have long forgotten me and what I have to say. I write this for Oscar and Isaac, my little Knights, my joy and my wonder.”
Oscar and Isaac were her twins, around three years old when she was diagnosed with a stage four cancer, and who were both about five years old when she passed away. The death sentence that was her cancer came with only some vague warnings (which she ignored), at a time when she appeared to have a very promising future ahead of her: a brilliant career, financial security, a loving husband and their two young boys. She had written this book with a full, conscious awareness that the end of her life is near and inevitable. She passed away in the Christmas morning of 2014 aged just thirty-six.
Dying, weakened by the disease and the futile attempts at a treatment, her prose nevertheless came with remarkable power, haunting at times, as if all the remaining energy within her mind and wasting body, sensing the overwhelming forces that would soon snuff them into oblivion had decided to retreat, regroup and make their one last stand in their chosen place of rest and make their final statement to the world.
The cadence of the author’s grief, controlled yet searing, pulls you in page after page. She’d talk about her imagined self, old at eighty; her longed for daughter who will never be; the times of her boys’ lives which she will never see. She who loved to travel, at one point seemingly engaged in a bargain—she thought of how wonderful it would be, even if she would have to stay in one place all her life, maybe in her room as an invalid, if only she’d live long enough to see her two boys grow, finish their studies, marry, have children and raise their own families. But she knew this won’t be, just like the daughter she had imagined she would have had.
Inside her room, where she did most of her writing, she composed and left us with this gem of a thought:
“I have told the story of two hinterlands, in the hope that they will help you decipher your own. But I think I must end this chapter with a warning. It is too easy, as an adult, to let life rush past with its business of succeeding, working, consuming, rearing. All of that can be joyful and fulfilling, I grant you. But it is so, so easy in the rush of lift neglect your inner world. I know mine was dead for many years, squeezed between work and achieving STUFF and my darling little ones—it’s a choice I made, and gladly. But one of the unexpected blessings of illness is that it has given me time to tend my mind again. And how I have enjoyed this, how much pleasure and solace it has provided even when things have been at their bleakest. I can see my own hinterland, and that means I can see other people’s too. Conversations have become more than merely transactional exchanges (‘How are you?’, ‘What are you up to?’). I talk about things that really matter. My voice—quiet for too long—roars. Even as one little room becomes my everywhere, I roam the wide plains of my mind. When I finally stop reading, I will be read to, departing this world as I arrived in it, with the sound of stories echoing in my ears.”