The Unwinding of the Miracle - Julie Yip-Williams Page 0,72

feeling enlightened, angry, hurt, confused, sad, but mostly battered, knowing that I would never look at my family, my life, or myself in quite the same way again. Before I left my mother, I thanked her for telling me because I truly was grateful.

It’s better to know than not know.

25

A Day in My Life

After I graduated from law school, in 2002, I went to work at Cleary Gottlieb, a prominent international law firm, what you would have called a Wall Street law firm back in the day, the kind of firm that represents the great American blue-chip companies and investment banks in their many million- and billion-dollar corporate transactions and lawsuits, which more often than not make the headlines of The Wall Street Journal. Many law school students graduating from the big-name schools work for a few years at a big law firm to pay off school debt and get some experience before heading out to do other things—work for themselves, or take a job with the government, a nonprofit, a smaller firm, or a corporation as an in-house counsel. A small minority have the stamina, desire, and talent to actually vie for a coveted place among the illustrious partnerships of these traditional law firms.

I stayed longer at Cleary than I ever thought I would, and was still there when I was diagnosed. I was not on the partnership track, as I certainly lacked the stamina and talent to be a partner. After years of slaving away, pulling all-nighters, and living under the intense stress of being an associate at a place like Cleary, I had finally found a comfortable niche that was somewhat conducive to being a mother to young children. And then cancer struck.

I haven’t worked since I was diagnosed. As varied as my days were in the law, it’s even more remarkable to me now how no day in my life is ever the same. I have no set schedule other than getting the girls ready for, and taking them to, school every morning, and putting them to bed every night. In between, I cook, clean, write, read, research, talk to cancer and noncancer friends, watch TV, occasionally hang out with people, pay bills, fundraise for colorectal cancer research, and stare at the ceiling. I honestly have no idea where all the time goes, a scary thought considering how limited my time is.

I applaud all those who work while living with active Stage IV disease and even more so those who have young children; I know not working is often not an option; nonetheless, I admire those people’s ability to juggle work on top of the emotionally and physically draining life that is living with cancer.

On a Monday in early January 2015, when the news of my sobering prognosis was still fresh and painful, I woke up before dawn on the wrong side of the bed. I was plagued by doubts and questions for which I did not have the answers. Should I experiment with cannabis oil? Should I be adding or removing certain supplements? Should I be seeking a second opinion? Should I see another oncologist altogether, someone who specializes in colorectal cancer, someone at the esteemed Memorial Sloan Kettering? Should I be more aggressively pursuing laser surgery in Germany despite my oncologist’s and the lung tumor board’s opinion? That morning, for whatever reason, the worries were overwhelming.

My younger daughter, three-year-old Isabelle, also seemed to have woken up out of sorts. The darkness outside seemed to match the darkness within us both. Monday mornings during the winter are particularly painful with the kids as I struggle to get them out the door, knowing that we’ll be late, but still striving to arrive within some acceptable limits of tardiness for kindergarten and nursery school. But that Monday morning was exceptionally painful. Isabelle was especially challenging in her refusal to cooperate and in her extreme clinginess to me. When she becomes unusually clingy, I always think she knows something that I don’t, that she can sense the cancer growing inside me. She was like that in December in the weeks before my troubling CEA test and damning scan.

I kept telling Josh that Isabelle sensed the growth of metastatic disease in me, but he told me I was being ridiculous, that such behavior could be attributable to any number of things. Of course, I was right.

I always think of Mia as my stunningly beautiful and intellectual child, the kind of girl who will turn—and has already turned—heads