In This Room

Here are today’s Wonderful Words:

In this room, I had sat with patients and explained terminal diagnoses and complex operations; in this room, I had congratulated patients on being cured of a disease and seen their happiness at being returned to their lives; in this room, I had pronounced patients dead.

When Breath Becomes Air, Paul Kalanithi, page 16

Background

When Breath Becomes Air is a memoir about Paul Kalanithi’s journey from neurosurgeon to cancer patient and his evolving understanding of life and death. This passage describes the first time he is admitted to the hospital as a cancer patient—the same hospital where he’s spent years working in the exact opposite role.

What makes it wonderful?

This passage is so powerful because it contrasts his former life with his current life—two lives that are exactly opposite but exceptionally close.

Imagine a story about a police officer arrested for murder. Or a firefighter whose house burns down. A paramedic who gets in a motorcycle accident. Or a custodian at the Capitol becoming a Congressman.

Each of those situations has a unique spin to it—an ironic twist of fate—and that is one of the main reasons it would be interesting.

To watch a character transform before our eyes from the protagonist to the antagonist, the hero to the victim, the prince to the pauper is a compelling journey to behold. It’s unusual but not impossible. Unlikely yet intriguing.

And because Kalanithi makes this journey, his story—and these words—are even more beautiful.

Let's get technical

This transition from provider to patient is one of the pivotal points of the story. Letting it pass by without lingering for a moment—without emphasizing the contrast—would be a missed opportunity.

But Kalanithi seizes the opportunity in this passage with a technique called anaphora, which is the repetition of the same phrase at the beginning of consecutive sentences. It’s useful because it makes you remember the repeated phrase, and it evokes emotion.

“In this room,” Kalanithi writes, over and over again. In this room, as a doctor, he counseled patients, cured patients, pronounced patients dead. Now he sits—in this room—not as a doctor but as a patient himself.

Waiting to be counseled. Hoping to be cured. Fearing a not-so-distant future where he, too, may be pronounced dead.

He lingers on the contrast and highlights it beautifully, not allowing the reader to pass it by without feeling the weight of the moment.

The greatest writers capture these heavy moments and frame them like paintings for their readers to admire. Not to merely see but to experience. Not to simply read but to feel. Anaphora is one of the many ways you can frame your special moments and ensure your readers feel their weight.

Happy writing,

Joe

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