Breath by Carly-Jay Metcalfe
“I am dying. I know that I’m dying despite not having been told by my doctors that I am dying. I know I am dying because I’m in the dying room.”
Breath (2024) is the debut memoir from Queensland-based writer and organ donation advocate Carly-Jay Metcalfe. A powerhouse speaker and writer, Metcalfe has long advocated for more honest and vibrant conversations about death and dying. Born with Cystic Fibrosis (CF), Metcalfe grew up with a constant truth hanging over her: death is coming. In her memoir, readers are introduced to the ways this knowledge impacted her life — physically, emotionally, and socially.
From traumatic hospital appointments to the much-too-soon deaths of her CF friends, Metcalfe talks us through the double life she lived, spending her early years split between a ‘normal’ childhood and her CF experiences. Though it might initially seem very bleak, Metcalfe is quick to reassure us that it was anything but:
“For anyone following my story, it might look like I've been smashed against the grindstone of life. Life was a carolling joy, then a smack of despair, yet I was deeply in love with my life as a kid. I had an incredible group of friends, and I loved school and everything that came with it.”
Despite being forced to deal with “adult concepts” from an early age, she has many fond memories and moments of joy to look back on in the years leading up to her lung transplant at the young age of twenty-one.
It’s clear from the outset that two things have supported Metcalfe through her experiences: her incredible, unending social support network and her sense of humour. Through the book, we are constantly introduced to the bright array of individuals who fill Metcalfe’s days – from fellow CF ward mates to boyfriends, school friends, and her amazing family. It’s beautiful to read and testimony to the enduring capacity of social connection.
Though her lung transplant is seemingly the ‘ultimate cure’ Metcalfe has been waiting for, her health battles – physical and emotional – are far from over. The psychological weight of living through someone else’s death is ever-present:
“Every day since my transplant, I have thought about my donor and her family.”
She battles with a significant opioid addiction on and off for years and faces a rare, painful cancer at the age of thirty. Yet through it all, Metcalfe leans in and almost seems to epitomise the mantra, “what doesn’t kill you …”:
“It is ghoulish, but gallows humour is how I get through. If you don't laugh, you die. Lifelong illness bludgeons your sense of identity and safety.”
Using humour to dampen the darkness of our lived experiences is not a unique experience – many of us do it – but when reading, I wondered how much of this humour was being used to keep the reader at arm's length. Some readers will enjoy this approach, but I found it created quite a disconnect from the experiences Metcalfe shared. I often found myself wondering what she wasn’t sharing despite her candidness. I felt I knew in-depth what was happening to her, but rarely how she really felt about it.
It’s always tricky to review a memoir: how can you judge someone’s lived experience? As a reader and reviewer, I find it’s about two key things: how much I really connect with the author and what they’re sharing, and how much my perspectives have been invited to grow through the shared experience. With that said, segments of Metcalfe’s writing sat uncomfortably with me. A key one is her cavalier confessions around her opioid addiction and attempts at going ‘cold turkey’. As someone who has lost people who have attempted to quit opioids alone and who has worked with addiction clinics, this writing left me quite cold. Other readers will move through these passages more easily than me, but I admit I struggled.
Ultimately, Metcalfe’s story is one many readers will take much away from. She’s absolutely right that we need to have more honest conversations about death and dying and view death as an opportunity to honour and celebrate each other. With wit and humour, Metcalfe offers us all a chance to start those conversations now.
“Humans are in a constant state of grief. Every loss we endure is a form of death, and we grieve that loss. But grief is not being without joy; they can co-exist. They do co-exist. I am living proof of this.”
As a debut memoir, this was one final round of editing away from the kind of polish I would have liked, but there are plenty of critical, thought-provoking points to explore.
Elaine Chennatt is a writer, educator and psychology student currently residing in nipaluna. She has a special interest in bibliotherapy (how we use literature to make sense of our lives) and is endlessly curious about the creative philosophies of others. She lives with her husband and two bossy dachshunds on the not-so-sunny side of the river (IYKYK). Find her online at wordswithelaine.com.
