Diseases & Physical Ailments
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No Cure for Being Human: (And Other Truths I Need to Hear)
NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • The bestselling author of Everything Happens for a Reason (And Other Lies I've Loved) asks, how do you move forward with a life you didn't choose?
"Kate Bowler is the only one we can trust to tell us the truth."-Glennon Doyle, author of the #1 New York Times bestseller Untamed
It's hard to give up on the feeling that the life you really want is just out of reach. A beach body by summer. A trip to Disneyland around the corner. A promotion on the horizon. Everyone wants to believe that they are headed toward good, better, best. But what happens when the life you hoped for is put on hold indefinitely?
Kate Bowler believed that life was a series of unlimited choices, until she discovered, at age 35, that her body was wracked with cancer. In No Cure for Being Human, she searches for a way forward as she mines the wisdom (and absurdity) of today's "best life now" advice industry, which insists on exhausting positivity and on trying to convince us that we can out-eat, out-learn, and out-perform our humanness. We are, she finds, as fragile as the day we were born.
With dry wit and unflinching honesty, Kate Bowler grapples with her diagnosis, her ambition, and her faith as she tries to come to terms with her limitations in a culture that says anything is possible. She finds that we need one another if we're going to tell the truth: Life is beautiful and terrible, full of hope and despair and everything in between-and there's no cure for being human.
"Kate Bowler is the only one we can trust to tell us the truth."-Glennon Doyle, author of the #1 New York Times bestseller Untamed
It's hard to give up on the feeling that the life you really want is just out of reach. A beach body by summer. A trip to Disneyland around the corner. A promotion on the horizon. Everyone wants to believe that they are headed toward good, better, best. But what happens when the life you hoped for is put on hold indefinitely?
Kate Bowler believed that life was a series of unlimited choices, until she discovered, at age 35, that her body was wracked with cancer. In No Cure for Being Human, she searches for a way forward as she mines the wisdom (and absurdity) of today's "best life now" advice industry, which insists on exhausting positivity and on trying to convince us that we can out-eat, out-learn, and out-perform our humanness. We are, she finds, as fragile as the day we were born.
With dry wit and unflinching honesty, Kate Bowler grapples with her diagnosis, her ambition, and her faith as she tries to come to terms with her limitations in a culture that says anything is possible. She finds that we need one another if we're going to tell the truth: Life is beautiful and terrible, full of hope and despair and everything in between-and there's no cure for being human.
Editorial Reviews
"With grace, wisdom, and humor, Kate Bowler encourages us to cut back on self-help Kool-Aid and teaches us what it means to be human."-Adam Grant, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Think Again
"Kate Bowler has paid through the nose to become a writer of uncommon spiritual wisdom, coupled with an amazing sense of humor and a heart full of love. She fills me with hope."-Anne Lamott, New York Times bestselling author of Dusk, Light, Dawn
"Kate Bowler refuses to jump on the bandwagon of toxic positivity. Instead, she leads us to a truer truth: The work is unfinishable, and so be it."-Kelly Corrigan, New York Times bestselling author, host of the podcast Kelly Corrigan Wonders and PBS's Tell Me More with Kelly Corrigan
"Kate Bowler is the rare author who can explore difficult subjects with both breathtaking honesty and lightheartedness. She brings profound insight and love to the human experience."-Gretchen Rubin, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Happiness Project
"In a culture that asks us to constantly strive and improve, Kate Bowler recognizes that our own pain is neither an aberration nor an opportunity but a fact of life. There is nobody on earth who sees our humanity quite like Kate Bowler."-Nora McInerny, creator and host of the podcast Terrible, Thanks for Asking
"Those in need of a wake-up call will find it in this breathtaking narrative. . . . Bowler's strong faith is present throughout, though the writing, refreshingly, never feels overtly religious. . . . Her convictions underscore the importance of living life on one's own terms."-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
"With hilarity and courage, Bowler tells the story of being diagnosed with stage-four cancer at age thirty-five, which forced her to re-examine the way she (and we) live our lives. This is a brilliant examination of what happens when everything you assumed is suddenly in question."-Lori Gottlieb, bestselling author of Maybe You Should Talk to Someone
"Kate Bowler has paid through the nose to become a writer of uncommon spiritual wisdom, coupled with an amazing sense of humor and a heart full of love. She fills me with hope."-Anne Lamott, New York Times bestselling author of Dusk, Light, Dawn
"Kate Bowler refuses to jump on the bandwagon of toxic positivity. Instead, she leads us to a truer truth: The work is unfinishable, and so be it."-Kelly Corrigan, New York Times bestselling author, host of the podcast Kelly Corrigan Wonders and PBS's Tell Me More with Kelly Corrigan
"Kate Bowler is the rare author who can explore difficult subjects with both breathtaking honesty and lightheartedness. She brings profound insight and love to the human experience."-Gretchen Rubin, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Happiness Project
"In a culture that asks us to constantly strive and improve, Kate Bowler recognizes that our own pain is neither an aberration nor an opportunity but a fact of life. There is nobody on earth who sees our humanity quite like Kate Bowler."-Nora McInerny, creator and host of the podcast Terrible, Thanks for Asking
"Those in need of a wake-up call will find it in this breathtaking narrative. . . . Bowler's strong faith is present throughout, though the writing, refreshingly, never feels overtly religious. . . . Her convictions underscore the importance of living life on one's own terms."-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
"With hilarity and courage, Bowler tells the story of being diagnosed with stage-four cancer at age thirty-five, which forced her to re-examine the way she (and we) live our lives. This is a brilliant examination of what happens when everything you assumed is suddenly in question."-Lori Gottlieb, bestselling author of Maybe You Should Talk to Someone
Readers Top Reviews
Jen Singer | AuthorJ
I brought "No Cure for Being Human" to my PET scan, and it felt like bringing a knowing friend along, the kind who's as good at understanding what *not* to say as she is knowing what to say at the perfect moment. Kate's hard-won wisdom, carefully doled vulnerability, and humor (no "u"; I'm American) have led me to become a long-time fan, and "No Cure" delivers it all and then some. It's a good thing I bought the Kindle version, because I highlighted perfectly crafted sentences on page after page. I would have made a mess out of print. If you're going through a craptastic time involving radioactive tests and way too many needles, read this book. And if you're not, read this book. It's a guidebook for raw feelings and hard decisions, and it's written by one of the best.
Kate Snowise
I was anticipating the arrival of this book, after being mesmerized by Kate’s first memoir - Everything Happens for a Reason, and other lies I’ve loved. This didn’t disappoint. She shares her journey with honesty and insight. She ties it back to so many cultural beliefs, and I imagine most readers will find this book eye opening. She really gives a glance into what it is like to live, when you’re not guaranteed your future, especially in our culture of self-help where everyone seems to have a fix for everything. She speaks truth to what it means to be human and to be beautifully fragile. I highly recommend!
LJ
I spend last night waiting for this book to upload. Then I spent my day reading and reflecting as I continued to keep my coffee cup full. So much to think about, so much to encourage me, it filled my day. I feel like I was given the glimpse into a personal friend’s life. A life where they shared thoughts that are never spoken out loud. What a gift to find these thoughts freed to enter all of our hearts.
Laura Whitfield
In No Cure for Being Human, Kate Bowler gives us an intimate look into her cancer journey—from her diagnosis to the days, months, and years that follow. She challenges many of the go-to responses to our mortality—carpe diem, bucket lists—and asks: When there just isn’t enough time, how does one spend it? Bowler helps us feel our raw humanity, unfiltered. Her truth is painful, poignant, and, full of joy. Her words are a gift if we let ourselves sink into the depths of her experience. Highly recommend.
Mikala Albertson
Kate Bowler is a truth teller. With her hilarious, sarcastic wit, she courageously shares her medium-sad story with the world. Inviting us to live our own messy, beautiful lives without promises. And offering hope where so often there just isn't much to be had. I ADORED this book! And I'm moving forward with a view of the world AS IT IS. Beautiful. And terrible. What a truth I needed to hear!
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter One
Best Life Now
I was in bed in the surgical wing of Duke University Hospital when the doctor popped his head in the door and smiled apologetically before flicking on the fluorescent lights. It was 4:00 a.m., the end of my second night in the hospital, but no one in a hospital sleeps in the conventional sense. There are only intervals of sleep without rest, interrupted by unfamiliar voices.
What's your date of birth? On a scale from one to ten, how would you rate your pain?
To this day, if you wake me up from a nap, I will immediately tell you my birthday.
I opened my eyes and saw a boyish face. The doctor wore a white coat too large for his frame and his eyes were bleary either from a day that had only begun or from a night that had gone on too long.
"Six, sixteen, 1980. June 16."
"Right," the doctor said, then paused. "So . . . you're thirty-five."
I nodded, and my eyes began to water. I brushed the tears away quickly. Not the right moment for that now, thank you.
"If you keep replenishing my fluids, I'll just keep crying," I explained. "Maybe keep me in a stage of light dehydration for the next few days."
The doctor suppressed a laugh and began to riffle through my case history. "The patient has a history of abdominal pain after meals. Significant weight loss. Nausea and vomiting. No ultrasound evidence of gallstones or cholecystitis, but results of hepatobiliary scan led to a surgical consult to remove the patient's gallbladder . . . then you got a CT scan."
"No," I corrected. "I yelled at a surgeon for the first time in my life and said that I was not leaving his office without a scan. Then they ordered a scan."
This had been the biggest showdown of my life, the doleful surgeon with his arms folded and me loudly demanding some kind of treatment. It had been five months, and I had lost thirty pounds. I was doubled over with the pain. "I can't bear this much longer," I had said, again and again as doctors benignly shuffled me along.
The young doctor glanced up at me and then turned back to his notes.
"The scan revealed that the liver has multiple focal lesions; the largest are seen within the caudate and right hepatic lobe in addition to several scattered subcentimeter lesions, some are noted within the periphery of the liver and some are subcapsular. The large left transverse colon mass was what created the functional obstruction for you, hence the pain." He looked up at me quickly. "And then there are local regional lymph nodes that are worrisome for early peritoneal carcinomatosis."
The heart monitor beeped softly.
I cleared my throat nervously. "Um, so, this is my first real conversation since the diagnosis. I mean, I know I had surgery, obviously."
Flustered, I tried to start again. "The day before yesterday, a doctor's assistant called me on the phone at work to tell me that I had Stage Four cancer. But I don't know what these terms mean except that it sounds like I am a spaghetti bowl of cancer. People keep saying ‘lesions,' " I said. "I haven't had a chance to google it. What are lesions exactly?"
"Tumors. We're talking about tumors."
"Ohhhhh," I said, embarrassed by another flood of tears. "Right. And are there more than four stages of cancer?"
"No."
"Okay, so I have the . . . most. The most cancer," I finished lamely.
The doctor stood there for a minute, raking his hands through his hair, whatever plans he had for this conversation deteriorating. He lowered himself onto the chair beside the bed but remained bolt upright as if to remind us both that he could leave at any time. The room was warm and stale. A silence folded over us, giving me a moment to look at him more carefully now, his mussy hair and anxious expression, wrinkled coat and brand-new sneakers. He is too young for this. God, we are both too young for this.
"I'd like to ask you some questions, if you don't mind."
"By all means."
"I'd like to know what my odds are. Of living. I'd like to know if I will live. No one has mentioned that." I kept my voice invitational. I will not shoot this messenger. This is a friendly exchange between interested peers.
He paused. "I only know how to answer that by telling you the median survival rate for people who share your diagnosis."
"Okay."
"Based on the information we have about people with Stage Four colon cancer, the survival rate is fourteen percent," he said and began to scan the room as if looking for a window to climb out of.
"A fourteen percent chance of survival," I repeated in a neutral voice. My head felt suddenly heavy as if I were pushing the words up a steep hill. Fou...
Best Life Now
I was in bed in the surgical wing of Duke University Hospital when the doctor popped his head in the door and smiled apologetically before flicking on the fluorescent lights. It was 4:00 a.m., the end of my second night in the hospital, but no one in a hospital sleeps in the conventional sense. There are only intervals of sleep without rest, interrupted by unfamiliar voices.
What's your date of birth? On a scale from one to ten, how would you rate your pain?
To this day, if you wake me up from a nap, I will immediately tell you my birthday.
I opened my eyes and saw a boyish face. The doctor wore a white coat too large for his frame and his eyes were bleary either from a day that had only begun or from a night that had gone on too long.
"Six, sixteen, 1980. June 16."
"Right," the doctor said, then paused. "So . . . you're thirty-five."
I nodded, and my eyes began to water. I brushed the tears away quickly. Not the right moment for that now, thank you.
"If you keep replenishing my fluids, I'll just keep crying," I explained. "Maybe keep me in a stage of light dehydration for the next few days."
The doctor suppressed a laugh and began to riffle through my case history. "The patient has a history of abdominal pain after meals. Significant weight loss. Nausea and vomiting. No ultrasound evidence of gallstones or cholecystitis, but results of hepatobiliary scan led to a surgical consult to remove the patient's gallbladder . . . then you got a CT scan."
"No," I corrected. "I yelled at a surgeon for the first time in my life and said that I was not leaving his office without a scan. Then they ordered a scan."
This had been the biggest showdown of my life, the doleful surgeon with his arms folded and me loudly demanding some kind of treatment. It had been five months, and I had lost thirty pounds. I was doubled over with the pain. "I can't bear this much longer," I had said, again and again as doctors benignly shuffled me along.
The young doctor glanced up at me and then turned back to his notes.
"The scan revealed that the liver has multiple focal lesions; the largest are seen within the caudate and right hepatic lobe in addition to several scattered subcentimeter lesions, some are noted within the periphery of the liver and some are subcapsular. The large left transverse colon mass was what created the functional obstruction for you, hence the pain." He looked up at me quickly. "And then there are local regional lymph nodes that are worrisome for early peritoneal carcinomatosis."
The heart monitor beeped softly.
I cleared my throat nervously. "Um, so, this is my first real conversation since the diagnosis. I mean, I know I had surgery, obviously."
Flustered, I tried to start again. "The day before yesterday, a doctor's assistant called me on the phone at work to tell me that I had Stage Four cancer. But I don't know what these terms mean except that it sounds like I am a spaghetti bowl of cancer. People keep saying ‘lesions,' " I said. "I haven't had a chance to google it. What are lesions exactly?"
"Tumors. We're talking about tumors."
"Ohhhhh," I said, embarrassed by another flood of tears. "Right. And are there more than four stages of cancer?"
"No."
"Okay, so I have the . . . most. The most cancer," I finished lamely.
The doctor stood there for a minute, raking his hands through his hair, whatever plans he had for this conversation deteriorating. He lowered himself onto the chair beside the bed but remained bolt upright as if to remind us both that he could leave at any time. The room was warm and stale. A silence folded over us, giving me a moment to look at him more carefully now, his mussy hair and anxious expression, wrinkled coat and brand-new sneakers. He is too young for this. God, we are both too young for this.
"I'd like to ask you some questions, if you don't mind."
"By all means."
"I'd like to know what my odds are. Of living. I'd like to know if I will live. No one has mentioned that." I kept my voice invitational. I will not shoot this messenger. This is a friendly exchange between interested peers.
He paused. "I only know how to answer that by telling you the median survival rate for people who share your diagnosis."
"Okay."
"Based on the information we have about people with Stage Four colon cancer, the survival rate is fourteen percent," he said and began to scan the room as if looking for a window to climb out of.
"A fourteen percent chance of survival," I repeated in a neutral voice. My head felt suddenly heavy as if I were pushing the words up a steep hill. Fou...
