The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

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From the Publisher

The Unwinding of the Miracle by Julie Yip-Williams




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NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • Read with Jenna Book Club Pick as Featured on Today • As a young mother facing a terminal diagnosis, Julie Yip-Williams began to write her story, a story like no other. What began as the chronicle of an imminent and early death became something much more—a powerful exhortation to the living.

“An exquisitely moving portrait of the daily stuff of life.”—The New York Times Book Review (Editors’ Choice)


NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY The New York Times Book Review Time Real Simple • Good Housekeeping

That Julie Yip-Williams survived infancy was a miracle. Born blind in Vietnam, she narrowly escaped euthanasia at the hands of her grandmother, only to flee with her family the political upheaval of her country in the late 1970s. Loaded into a rickety boat with three hundred other refugees, Julie made it to Hong Kong and, ultimately, America, where a surgeon at UCLA gave her partial sight. She would go on to become a Harvard-educated lawyer, with a husband, a family, and a life she had once assumed would be impossible. Then, at age thirty-seven, with two little girls at home, Julie was diagnosed with terminal metastatic colon cancer, and a different journey began.

The Unwinding of the Miracle is the story of a vigorous life refracted through the prism of imminent death. When she was first diagnosed, Julie Yip-Williams sought clarity and guidance through the experience and, finding none, began to write her way through it—a chronicle that grew beyond her imagining. Motherhood, marriage, the immigrant experience, ambition, love, wanderlust, tennis, fortune-tellers, grief, reincarnation, jealousy, comfort, pain, the marvel of the body in full rebellion—this book is as sprawling and majestic as the life it records. It is inspiring and instructive, delightful and shattering. It is a book of indelible moments, seared deep—an incomparable guide to living vividly by facing hard truths consciously.

With humor, bracing honesty, and the cleansing power of well-deployed anger, Julie Yip-Williams set the stage for her lasting legacy and one final miracle: the story of her life.

Praise for The Unwinding of the Miracle

“Everything worth understanding and holding on to is in this book. . . . A miracle indeed.” —Kelly Corrigan, New York Times bestselling author

“A beautifully written, moving, and compassionate chronicle that deserves to be read and absorbed widely.” —Siddhartha Mukherjee, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of The Emperor of All Maladies

Amazon.com Review

Julie Yip-Williams’ memoir speaks to one of our greatest fears, that we would be diagnosed with a terminal disease, and to our greatest hope, which is that we could face life straight on, fully, without squinting, and live each day with honesty, ambition, and true feeling. She was born ethnic Chinese in Vietnam. As a young child, she had cataracts that rendered her nearly blind—her grandmother felt she would be a burden to the family and tried to have an herbalist end her life. When the family fled for the U.S., she was able to get corrective eye surgery in California. Still, she was declared legally blind due to poor vision. She earned her way into Williams College, attended Harvard Law School, married, and settled in Brooklyn with her husband and two children. Then at 37, she was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer. For five years, she dealt with the disease, took care of her family, prepared them and herself for the future, and sought understanding by writing about it. There is hope, anger, fear, reflection, immersion in the everyday, and joy reflected in this book. The Unwinding of the Miracle seeks to express the truth about what it is like to face death--and to face life--and it succeeds masterfully. --Chris Schluep, Amazon Book Review

Review

“Eloquent, gutting and at times disarmingly funny . . . Yip-Williams writes with such vibrancy and electricity even as she is dying. . . . This memoir is so many things—a triumphant tale of a blind immigrant, a remarkable philosophical treatise and a call to arms to pay attention to the limited time we have on this earth. But at its core, it’s an exquisitely moving portrait of the daily stuff of life: family secrets and family ties, marriage and its limitlessness and limitations, wild and unbounded parental love and, ultimately, the graceful recognition of what we can’t—and can—control.” —Lori Gottlieb, The New York Times Book Review (Editors’ Choice)

“Everything worth understanding and holding on to is in this book. . . . A miracle indeed.” —Kelly Corrigan, New York Times bestselling author of The Middle Place and Tell Me More

“A beautifully written, moving, and compassionate chronicle that deserves to be read and absorbed widely.” —Siddhartha Mukherjee, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of The Emperor of All Maladies

“Julie Yip-Williams lived a life defined by effort and incredible self-reliance. But in this searing memoir of increasing vulnerability, she dismantles and then reconstructs what it means to be triumphant. Her writing examines not only her disability and illness—and their cultural, medical, and narrative constructs—but love, authenticity, hope, egotism, even rage. I didn’t know Julie, but in these pages, I grew to love her.” —Lucy Kalanithi

“When talking to my patients, I have always struggled to find the perfect balance between hope and honesty. While they are often thought of as opposites, Julie Yip-Williams reminds us they can coexist in a beautiful and meaningful way. In The Unwinding of the Miracle, we are treated to a beautifully written story that is also at times brutally candid about the realities of her cancer diagnosis and treatment. It is increasingly rare to find such an authentic voice, one that will inform and inspire you.” —Sanjay Gupta, M.D.

“[When] Yip-Williams was diagnosed with Stage IV colon cancer at the age of thirty-seven in 2013, she decided to write her story, which resulted in this inspiring and remarkable work that chronicles her immigration to the U.S. and her final five years. . . . [Her] wise and moving account of her battle with cancer is an extraordinary call to live wholeheartedly.” Publishers Weekly (starred review)

About the Author

Julie Yip-Williams died in March 2018 of colon cancer. She was born in Tam-Ky, Vietnam, just as the war was ending, grew up in Monterey Park, California, and graduated from Williams College and Harvard Law School. At her death she was forty-two, and lived in Brooklyn with her husband, Josh, and their daughters, Mia and Isabelle.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

1

Death, Part One

March 1976, Tam Ky, South Vietnam

When I was two months old, my parents, on orders from my paternal grandmother, took me to an herbalist in Da Nang and offered the old man gold bars to give me a concoction that would make me sleep forever. Because I was born blind, to my Chinese grandmother, I was broken. I would be a burden and an embarrassment to the family. Unmarriageable. Besides, my grandmother reasoned, she was showing me mercy—I would be spared a miserable existence.

That morning, my mother dressed me in old baby clothes soiled with brownish-yellow stains from my sister’s or brother’s shit that she had not been able to wash away, even after countless scrubbings. My grandmother had ordered my mother to put me in these clothes and now stood in the doorway to my parents’ bedroom, watching my mother dress me. “It would be a waste for her to wear anything else,” she said when my mother was finished, as if to confirm the rightness of her instruction.

These were the clothes in which I was to die. In desperate times such as those, there was no point in throwing away a perfectly good baby outfit on an infant that was soon to become a corpse.

Our family drama played out in the red-hot center of the Cold War. South Vietnam had been “liberated” by the North eleven months earlier, and a geopolitical domino came crashing into the lives of the Yips.

By 1972, the war had turned decidedly against the South, and my father was terrified of losing what little possessions he had risking his life for a country for which he, as an ethnic Chinese man, felt little to no nationalistic pride. In his four years of military service, my father never talked to anyone in his family during his brief home leaves about what horrible things he had seen or done. His mother’s attempts to spare him the ugliness of war by using bribery to get him a position as a driver for an army captain had not been as successful as they had all hoped. He found himself driving into enemy territory, uncertain where the snipers and land mines lurked, and sleeping in the jungle at night, afraid of the stealthy Vietcong slitting his throat while he slept on the jungle floor, and then jerking into motion by explosions that ripped open the silence of a tenuous calm. In the end, the constant fear of death—or worse yet, of losing a limb, as had happened to some of his friends—overwhelmed whatever notions he had of honor and his fears of being labeled a coward. One day, he walked away from camp on the pretext of retrieving supplies from his jeep and didn’t look back. For a week, he walked and hitchhiked his way to Saigon, the capital of South Vietnam, where he hid in Cholon, an old district inhabited by at least a million ethnic Chinese. Cholon was a place with such bustling activity and such a large population of those not loyal to the war effort that he could hide while still being able to move freely about the community.

My grandmother, to whom my father managed to get word of his whereabouts, trusted no man’s ability to remain faithful, including her son’s, and suggested to my mother that she join my father in Saigon. And so my mother, with my two-year-old sister, Lyna, in one arm and my infant brother, Mau, in the other, went to Saigon, and there they lived in limbo with my father until the end of the war, waiting until it was safe for him to return to Tam Ky without the fear of being imprisoned or, even worse, forced to continue military service in a rapidly deteriorating situation. It was not the time to have another child.

When Saigon fell on April 30, 1975, my parents rejoiced with the rest of Saigon, not because they believed in the new Communist regime but because the war was finally coming to an end. As Saigon changed hands, they celebrated by joining the feverish mobs ransacking abandoned stores and warehouses, taking tanks of gas and sacks of rice and whatever else their hands could carry away. They celebrated by welcoming the news of my pending arrival into this world, and after Saigon fell, they finally went home to Tam Ky, where I came into the world on an unremarkable January evening eight months later. I weighed a little more than three kilograms (between six and seven pounds), big by Vietnamese standards, but not so big that my mother and I were at the risk of dying during childbirth. Hospitals were filthy, and cesareans were not an option in those days; no one knew how to perform them, except maybe in Saigon. My father named me [莉菁], which is pronounced “Lijing” in Mandarin Chinese and “Lising” in Hainanese Chinese, and translated literally means “Quintessence of Jasmine.” My name was intended to convey a sense of vibrancy, vitality, and beauty. My mother, who had waited so long for a new baby, was thrilled. And so was my grandmother—at first, anyhow. Two months later, wrapped in my brother and sister’s old baby clothes, I was in my father’s arms, on a bus, making the two-hour trip north to Da Nang on Highway 1, sentenced to death.

2

Life

July 14, 2017, Brooklyn, New York

Dear Mia and Isabelle,

I have solved all the logistical problems resulting from my death that I can think of—I am hiring a very reasonably priced cook for you and Daddy; I have left a list of instructions about who your dentist is and when your school tuition needs to be paid and when to renew the violin rental contract and the identity of the piano tuner. In the coming days, I will make videos about all the ins and outs of the apartment, so that everyone knows where the air filters are and what kind of dog food Chipper eats. But I realized that these things are the low-hanging fruit, the easy-to-solve but relatively unimportant problems of the oh so mundane.

I realized that I would have failed you greatly as your mother if I did not try to ease your pain from my loss, if I didn’t at least attempt to address what will likely be the greatest question of your young lives. You will forever be the kids whose mother died of cancer, have people looking at you with some combination of sympathy and pity (which you will no doubt resent, even if everyone means well). That fact of your mother dying will weave into the fabric of your lives like a glaring stain on an otherwise pristine tableau. You will ask as you look around at all the other people who still have their parents, Why did my mother have to get sick and die? It isn’t fair, you will cry. And you will want so painfully for me to be there to hug you when your friend is mean to you, to look on as your ears are being pierced, to sit in the front row clapping loudly at your music recitals, to be that annoying parent insisting on another photo with the college graduate, to help you get dressed on your wedding day, to take your newborn babe from your arms so you can sleep. And every time you yearn for me, it will hurt all over again and you will wonder why.

I don’t know if my words could ever ease your pain. But I would be remiss if I did not try.

My seventh-grade history teacher, Mrs. Olson, a batty eccentric but a phenomenal teacher, used to rebut our teenage protestations of “That’s not fair!” (for example, when she sprang a pop quiz on us or when we played what was called the “Unfair” trivia game) with “Life is not fair. Get used to it!” Somewhere along the way, we grow up thinking that there should be fairness, that people should be treated fairly, that there should be equality of treatment as well as opportunity. That expectation must be derivative of growing up in a rich country where the rule of law is so firmly entrenched. Even at the tender age of five, both of you were screaming about fairness as if it were some fundamental right (as in it wasn’t fair that Belle got to go to see a movie when Mia did not). So perhaps those expectations of fairness and equity are also hardwired into the human psyche and our moral compass. I’m not sure.

What I do know for sure is that Mrs. Olson was right. Life is not fair. You would be foolish to expect fairness, at least when it comes to matters of life and death, matters outside the scope of the law, matters that cannot be engineered or manipulated by human effort, matters that are distinctly the domain of God or luck or fate or some other unknowable, incomprehensible force.

Although I did not grow up motherless, I suffered in a different way and understood at an age younger than yours that life is not fair. I looked at all the other kids who could drive and play tennis and who didn’t have to use a magnifying glass to read, and it pained me in a way that maybe you can understand now. People looked at me with pity, too, which I loathed. I was denied opportunities, too; I was always the scorekeeper and never played in the games during PE. My mother didn’t think it worthwhile to have me study Chinese after English school, as my siblings did, because she assumed I wouldn’t be able to see the characters. (Of course, later on, I would study Chinese throughout college and study abroad and my Chinese would surpass my siblings’.) For a child, there is nothing worse than being different, in that negative, pitiful way. I was sad a lot. I cried in my lonely anger. Like you, I had my own loss, the loss of vision, which involved the loss of so much more. I grieved. I asked why. I hated the unfairness of it all.

My sweet babies, I do not have the answer to the question of why, at least not now and not in this life. But I do know that there is incredible value in pain and suffering. If you allow yourself to experience it, to cry, to feel sorrow and grief, to hurt. Walk through the fire and you will emerge on the other end, whole and stronger. I promise. You will ultimately find truth and beauty and wisdom and peace. You will understand that nothing lasts forever, not pain, or joy. You will understand that joy cannot exist without sadness. Relief cannot exist without pain. Compassion cannot exist without cruelty. Courage cannot exist without fear. Hope cannot exist without despair. Wisdom cannot exist without suffering. Gratitude cannot exist without deprivation. Paradoxes abound in this life. Living is an exercise in navigating within them.

I was deprived of sight. And yet, that single unfortunate physical condition changed me for the better. Instead of leaving me wallowing in self-pity, it made me more ambitious. It made me more resourceful. It made me smarter. It taught me to ask for help, to not be ashamed of my physical shortcoming. It forced me to be honest with myself and my limitations, and eventually, to be honest with others. It taught me strength and resilience.

You will be deprived of a mother. As your mother, I wish I could protect you from the pain. But also as your mother, I want you to feel the pain, to live it, embrace it, and then learn from it. Be stronger people because of it, for you will know that you carry my strength within you. Be more compassionate people because of it; empathize with those who suffer in their own ways. Rejoice in life and all its beauty because of it; live with special zest and zeal for me. Be grateful in a way that only someone who lost her mother so early can, in your understanding of the precariousness and preciousness of life. This is my challenge to you, my sweet girls, to take an ugly tragedy and transform it into a source of beauty, love, strength, courage, and wisdom.

Many may disagree, but I have always believed, always, even when I was a precocious little girl crying alone in my bed, that our purpose in this life is to experience everything we possibly can, to understand as much of the human condition as we can squeeze into one lifetime, however long or short that may be. We are here to feel the complex range of emotions that come with being human. And from those experiences, our souls expand and grow and learn and change, and we understand a little more about what it really means to be human. I call it the evolution of the soul. Know that your mother lived an incredible life that was filled with more than her “fair” share of pain and suffering, first with her blindness and then with cancer. And I allowed that pain and suffering to define me, to change me, but for the better.

In the years since my diagnosis, I have known love and compassion that I never knew possible; I have witnessed and experienced for myself the deepest levels of human caring, which humbled me to my core and compelled me to be a better person. I have known a mortal fear that was crushing, and yet I overcame that fear and found courage. The lessons that blindness and then cancer have taught me are too many for me to recount here, but I hope, when you read what follows, you will understand how it is possible to be changed in a positive way by tragedy and you will learn the true value of suffering. The worth of a person’s life lies not in the number of years lived; rather it rests on how well that person has absorbed the lessons of that life, how well that person has come to understand and distill the multiple, messy aspects of the human experience. While I would have chosen to stay with you for much longer, had the choice been mine, if you could learn from my death, if you accepted my challenge to be better people because of my death, then that would bring my spirit inordinate joy and peace.

You will feel alone and lonely, and yet, understand that you are not alone. It is true that we walk this life alone, because we feel what we feel singularly and each of us makes our own choices. But it is possible to reach out and find those like you, and in so doing you will feel not so lonely. This is another one of life’s paradoxes that you will learn to navigate. First and foremost, you have each other to lean on. You are sisters, and that gives you a bond of blood and common experiences that is like no other. Find solace in one another. Always forgive and love one another.

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4.5 out of 54.5 out of 5
805 global ratings

Top reviews from the United States

Diane
2.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Disappointed
Reviewed in the United States on February 22, 2019
This book had been compared to “When Breath Becomes Air” which I read and loved. I did not love this book, nor did I like it. Although it is sad that Julie died at a young age leaving two young daughters, I did not connect with her at all. Her descriptions of how best to... See more
This book had been compared to “When Breath Becomes Air” which I read and loved. I did not love this book, nor did I like it. Although it is sad that Julie died at a young age leaving two young daughters, I did not connect with her at all. Her descriptions of how best to live your life were irritating. Having had friends who died of stage IV cancer, I was annoyed at her negative description of people who choose to remain hopeful in the face of a horrible disease. When some people have to schedule their chemo on a Friday so they can return to work on Monday, Julie never returned to her job after her diagnosis. She discussed the great effort it took her, after purchasing the apartment next door, to work with contractors to double the size of their living space. Money to buy the best was not an object. I never got the impression that she realized how fortunate she was to have family to help her and the freedom to choose treatment without worrying about paying for it.
149 people found this helpful
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JuLee Rudolf
5.0 out of 5 starsVine Customer Review of Free Product
How to approach death "with the dignity and grace of an evolved soul."
Reviewed in the United States on December 4, 2018
I am a sucker for bleak books and chose this one because of the blurb by Dr. Siddhartha Mukherjee author, of the Emperor of All Maladies, which I loved. But it turns out that this book is not bleak. Mostly it''s instructive, inspirational, and hopeful. Julie Yip-Williams,... See more
I am a sucker for bleak books and chose this one because of the blurb by Dr. Siddhartha Mukherjee author, of the Emperor of All Maladies, which I loved. But it turns out that this book is not bleak. Mostly it''s instructive, inspirational, and hopeful. Julie Yip-Williams, with beliefs based in Buddhism, shows the world through her words how to approach death with" the dignity and grace of an evolved soul." As someone who has tried and failed at Christianity (for which I have no regrets), I find her philosophy thought-provoking. If there''s a silver lining in this beyond this pretty brilliant book, it''s that she had access to excellent care and was blessed with seemingly exceedingly intelligent and amazingly talented children and an excellent support system. The authors'' recounting of her life (which almost ended in infanticide), including up-by-her bootstraps educational efforts achieved in spite of blindness, her battle with stage IV cancer (including intimate details about her treatment and the disease''s progression), and thoughts about her impending death are intertwined masterfully. Like Paul Kalanithi''s book When Breath Becomes Air, she shows readers what choosing to live a life less ordinary in the face of tragedy looks like. What I love most is that she acknowledges her own flaws in thinking and acting (and that of others) in the face of this unfairness and "how impotent we truly are in the face of unseen forces that would cause the earth to tremble or cells to mutate and send a body into full rebellion against itself," yet sees through to the beauty in life. In the end, she exhorts us to, "Live while you''re living."
155 people found this helpful
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Skyview
4.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
I''m glad to have read this
Reviewed in the United States on February 7, 2019
I ordered and read this book because I''ve had Stage 3 cancer and I needed to know what this author had to say about her Stage 4 journey, in case I end up there. I am glad the author was so honest about her feelings, including her resentments when comparing her fate to those... See more
I ordered and read this book because I''ve had Stage 3 cancer and I needed to know what this author had to say about her Stage 4 journey, in case I end up there. I am glad the author was so honest about her feelings, including her resentments when comparing her fate to those of others. We read obituaries that make cancer victims sound like saints and pillars of courage as they battled to stay alive, but I knew I wasn''t the only one who had doubts, feelings of weakness, and other negative thoughts. I totally related to the author''s desire to shout "I have cancer!! I''m dying!!" as she smiled and exchanged pleasantries with others, and I related to the sensation of being suddenly cut off and removed from other people and the world itself.

The author died young and left two small children behind. This makes her story sadder. I''m glad she went into great detail about the treatments she pursued for her cancer, including the array of drugs. I declined all drugs except those used for surgery, but I am interested in others'' decisions and how they feel about those choices later on. Stage 4, which is metastatic cancer, is a different ball game, and I could relate to the author''s sense that many don''t understand what Stage 4 means for survival chances. I''ve felt many people may be misled by the cheerleading for people who have had Stage 1 breast cancer, for example, while those with metastatic cancer and poor survival chances are kind of disregarded, even in "support" groups. The author seemed to feel that even some with metastatic cancer are not facing the reality of their situation and that they hold out unrealistic hope for beating the cancer even as they are at death''s door. I''m not sure what to say to that. I know people who have survived Stage 4 for many years. What we tell ourselves is important. In the end, though, we are just left to wonder why outcomes differ. Books like this one help us gather some clues, perhaps.

The book is a bit repetitive about the author''s early experiences with being born blind and having family members almost kill her because of it. I feel these passages are repetitive because the book is really a journal, and these were things the author revisited a number of times to gain resolution as she faced her mortality.

I was heartened to read her husband''s contribution to the book. I''m glad to have read what they shared. Thank you.
75 people found this helpful
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BusyMom
5.0 out of 5 starsVine Customer Review of Free Product
One of the Most Honest, Raw Books I have Read in Years.
Reviewed in the United States on December 15, 2018
Absolutely love this book. I could not put this book down and I wished I had read this years before when my sister-in-law was dying of cancer, or when my friend was dying of cancer also. I know it was a way for the author, Julie, to write down her thoughts and feelings... See more
Absolutely love this book. I could not put this book down and I wished I had read this years before when my sister-in-law was dying of cancer, or when my friend was dying of cancer also. I know it was a way for the author, Julie, to write down her thoughts and feelings during the last few days of her life. It was a testimony to her family, her love of life and it was honest, emotionally piercing to the soul and tender. There was anger in the book, which she did not deny herself of, grief and joy.

I cannot tell more about it because if I do, I will spoil it for the next reader and I cannot do that. This book is not one of those happy books where the reader dies gracefully and peacefully. No. She raged against the fates but at the same time, she was so appreciative of the world we live in. She did cry and she will make you cry, but she will also make you admire her at the end for being so divinely human. Her bravery was not in how she died, but in how she embraced her life and how she shared it with the rest of us. She opened her heart to the world and for this reader, she has left an unforgettable imprint on my life.
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Charpar
2.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Did not like this book
Reviewed in the United States on March 3, 2019
God bless Julie and her young family. I do respect her honesty in the telling of her awful journey with cancer. I do feel sadness for her life cut short. I did, however, not appreciate her negativity towards others who choose hope....who choose to suffer just to live a... See more
God bless Julie and her young family. I do respect her honesty in the telling of her awful journey with cancer. I do feel sadness for her life cut short. I did, however, not appreciate her negativity towards others who choose hope....who choose to suffer just to live a little bit longer. Also, I was saddened by her refusal to accept that hope lies not within ourselves, but in the God of the universe. In Jesus Christ. That hope doesn’t mean a cure, but eternal life with Jesus. She looked everywhere but where truth lies.
Her story is a sad and interesting one. The book was however, repetitive and negative. It is Her book, her life, her choice. It just did not resonate with me at all. And comparing it to When breath becomes air? Not even close.
55 people found this helpful
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JAMIE L HARMON
2.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Nope
Reviewed in the United States on February 28, 2019
I’ve read a lot of books written about cancer from every imaginable perspective. I was the primary care provider to my close friend, who died of metastatic breast cancer in 2014. I suppose my purpose in all the reading is to acquire understanding, to place our experience... See more
I’ve read a lot of books written about cancer from every imaginable perspective. I was the primary care provider to my close friend, who died of metastatic breast cancer in 2014. I suppose my purpose in all the reading is to acquire understanding, to place our experience in perspective. This book was lost on me. There was a level of self-involvement in Julie’s vignettes which I found truly off-putting. Her writing was similarly self-conscious; she believed in her place as our instructor, but failed to discover if her perception of reality is shared. For me, far older and also an attorney, I was affronted by her assumptions, and ultimately disinterested in many of her rambling tales. It’s a tough gig to concisely and fairly critique the writing of a dying person, but Julie as humble, hard-luck disabled person victimized yet again by the ravages of cancer was nearly boring. I skimmed it after page 50, and probably most enjoyed the epilogue by her husband. Read When Breath Becomes Air instead. That’s a gorgeous book.
47 people found this helpful
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Katrina M.
2.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Fell short of my expectations
Reviewed in the United States on March 3, 2019
It feels almost dishonorable to judge a book that was likely written more for the author and her family than for the general reader. I can fully imagine that putting her experience and history into words met a deep need for Julie as she processed what was happening in her... See more
It feels almost dishonorable to judge a book that was likely written more for the author and her family than for the general reader. I can fully imagine that putting her experience and history into words met a deep need for Julie as she processed what was happening in her life, in her body, and to her family. If I were her child or her husband, this book would be a gift I would cherish forever. However, as one who has no connection to Julie or her family, I found myself hoping to be touched more than I was.
As another reviewer commented, Julie jumps around a lot in time, making her writing difficult to follow. At times, I also sensed an air of condescension toward others with cancer who might not come to the same conclusions regarding treatment options as she did and an arrogance in her accounting of her accomplishments in light of her difficult experiences as a child. For me, this cast a shadow on what could have been a much more meaningful and insightful read.
Julie was, no doubt, a vibrant, intelligent, determined woman who loved life and her family. In offering this review of her memoir I, in no way, intend to question that.
38 people found this helpful
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Peter M. Mathews
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Best book on how to treasure life, how to live well, and how to die well that I have ever read
Reviewed in the United States on February 17, 2019
I can not recommend this book highly enough. I am a retired doctor and have been a Catholic Deacon for 6 years. I’m now 65 years old and in the past year I have seen 1 good friend die from prostate cancer, another friend living with pancreatic cancer, a brother in law... See more
I can not recommend this book highly enough. I am a retired doctor and have been a Catholic Deacon for 6 years. I’m now 65 years old and in the past year I have seen 1 good friend die from prostate cancer, another friend living with pancreatic cancer, a brother in law recently passing away from a Leukemia and my sister-in- law dealing with the same disease. I picked up this book and could not put it down. This Ethnic Chinese born in Vietnam Buddhist mother of 2 came down with Stage 4 colon cancer at age 37 when she had 1 and 3 year old children. Throughout her 5 years of dealing with the disease she created a blog so that her young children when they grew older would come to know their mother. She died after 5 years in March 2018 and her book was published 2 weeks ago. She also shares her life journey being born almost blind in South Vietnam at the end of the war, overcoming intended infanticide on the part of her grandmother, and much more. The lessons in this book are PROFOUND: on how best to LIVE, how to deal with living with cancer, and How to die with GRACE and PEACE. Get this book and read it. You’ll be glad you did.
28 people found this helpful
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Top reviews from other countries

P. Murray
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
A Rare and Honest Journey Living With Cancer
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on September 3, 2019
I was drawn to this book because I too am living with cancer. I have stage 3 melanoma. Julie fought to kill off her cancer by trusting in orthodox treatments and stoically endured the effects of this. She gave little value to the concept of hope, believing it encouraged...See more
I was drawn to this book because I too am living with cancer. I have stage 3 melanoma. Julie fought to kill off her cancer by trusting in orthodox treatments and stoically endured the effects of this. She gave little value to the concept of hope, believing it encouraged denial. But she wasn''t letting her cancer win without a fight. I take away the message that Julie believed that her daughter facing up to and acceptance of death frees you to live your life in appreciation of those you love and the beauty around us. You are free to be loved and to love and love of each other is what really matters. I am taking the alternative route to healing which understandably I hope will make me well. Yet I am accepting of the fact that I have an aggressive cancer and by refusing orthodox treatment the medical professionals believe I am signing my death warrant. I am not in denial. I understand perfectly well my odds of survival are low but I do have hope (defined as feeling of expectation and desire for a particular thing to happen) but my hope is definitely not denial. It is the desire to kill off this cancer with nutrition and plant based healing. That is my educated choice made from much research done, not from denial that I am dying. I have a lot of respect for Julie. In my mind she was a warrior and she took a brave path to try to kill off the cancer raging through her body. She also teaches about the power of love and the strength gained from the loving support of others. Her book is powerful and deeply moving
4 people found this helpful
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Trulyhonest
3.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
A challenging life story but needed heavy editing!
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on August 2, 2021
What a life this lady lived and died. Sadly a short one with many challenges. The book needed to edited and shortened and to be honest the ''diary'' like writing became repetitive and difficult to read. Some of the opinions were a little extreme and off center. Again some of...See more
What a life this lady lived and died. Sadly a short one with many challenges. The book needed to edited and shortened and to be honest the ''diary'' like writing became repetitive and difficult to read. Some of the opinions were a little extreme and off center. Again some of this should be edited out. This book is a legacy I would imagine her daughters will struggle with down the line.
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JSB
3.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Good story but sometimes too long and wordy
Reviewed in Canada on July 30, 2019
I enjoyed the basic storyline, but I found that there was sometimes too many words to describe things, or that there was too much self-reflection about things that are not interesting to the reader. Since the author is no longer alive, it is hard to criticize...but it was a...See more
I enjoyed the basic storyline, but I found that there was sometimes too many words to describe things, or that there was too much self-reflection about things that are not interesting to the reader. Since the author is no longer alive, it is hard to criticize...but it was a good read nonetheless.
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Oleg Stratiev
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
Beauty of life
Reviewed in Canada on February 25, 2019
Such a nice book. Read it to understand what a terminal illness does to a person; read it to see how each person diagnosed with a terminal disease deals with it; read it to remind of yourself to live while living; read it
2 people found this helpful
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vish
5.0 out of 5 starsVerified Purchase
No words!
Reviewed in Canada on April 17, 2019
Great book to read, discovered this gem accidentally while browsing through nytimes. “ Until we accept the harsh realities of the life, we never fully living in it, living in fantasy is constant denial of living itself”, which is easier said than done. Bravo Julie, for...See more
Great book to read, discovered this gem accidentally while browsing through nytimes. “ Until we accept the harsh realities of the life, we never fully living in it, living in fantasy is constant denial of living itself”, which is easier said than done. Bravo Julie, for living a miraculous life.
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The Unwinding of the Miracle by Julie Yip-Williams




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NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER • Read with Jenna Book Club Pick as Featured on Today • As a young mother facing a terminal diagnosis, Julie Yip-Williams began to write her story, a story like no other. What began as the chronicle of an imminent and early death became something much more—a powerful exhortation to the living.

“An exquisitely moving portrait of the daily stuff of life.”—The New York Times Book Review (Editors’ Choice)


NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY The New York Times Book Review Time Real Simple • Good Housekeeping

That Julie Yip-Williams survived infancy was a miracle. Born blind in Vietnam, she narrowly escaped euthanasia at the hands of her grandmother, only to flee with her family the political upheaval of her country in the late 1970s. Loaded into a rickety boat with three hundred other refugees, Julie made it to Hong Kong and, ultimately, America, where a surgeon at UCLA gave her partial sight. She would go on to become a Harvard-educated lawyer, with a husband, a family, and a life she had once assumed would be impossible. Then, at age thirty-seven, with two little girls at home, Julie was diagnosed with terminal metastatic colon cancer, and a different journey began.

The Unwinding of the Miracle is the story of a vigorous life refracted through the prism of imminent death. When she was first diagnosed, Julie Yip-Williams sought clarity and guidance through the experience and, finding none, began to write her way through it—a chronicle that grew beyond her imagining. Motherhood, marriage, the immigrant experience, ambition, love, wanderlust, tennis, fortune-tellers, grief, reincarnation, jealousy, comfort, pain, the marvel of the body in full rebellion—this book is as sprawling and majestic as the life it records. It is inspiring and instructive, delightful and shattering. It is a book of indelible moments, seared deep—an incomparable guide to living vividly by facing hard truths consciously.

With humor, bracing honesty, and the cleansing power of well-deployed anger, Julie Yip-Williams set the stage for her lasting legacy and one final miracle: the story of her life.

Praise for The Unwinding of the Miracle

“Everything worth understanding and holding on to is in this book. . . . A miracle indeed.” —Kelly Corrigan, New York Times bestselling author

“A beautifully written, moving, and compassionate chronicle that deserves to be read and absorbed widely.” —Siddhartha Mukherjee, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of The Emperor of All Maladies

Amazon.com Review

Julie Yip-Williams’ memoir speaks to one of our greatest fears, that we would be diagnosed with a terminal disease, and to our greatest hope, which is that we could face life straight on, fully, without squinting, and live each day with honesty, ambition, and true feeling. She was born ethnic Chinese in Vietnam. As a young child, she had cataracts that rendered her nearly blind—her grandmother felt she would be a burden to the family and tried to have an herbalist end her life. When the family fled for the U.S., she was able to get corrective eye surgery in California. Still, she was declared legally blind due to poor vision. She earned her way into Williams College, attended Harvard Law School, married, and settled in Brooklyn with her husband and two children. Then at 37, she was diagnosed with stage IV colon cancer. For five years, she dealt with the disease, took care of her family, prepared them and herself for the future, and sought understanding by writing about it. There is hope, anger, fear, reflection, immersion in the everyday, and joy reflected in this book. The Unwinding of the Miracle seeks to express the truth about what it is like to face death--and to face life--and it succeeds masterfully. --Chris Schluep, Amazon Book Review

Review

“Eloquent, gutting and at times disarmingly funny . . . Yip-Williams writes with such vibrancy and electricity even as she is dying. . . . This memoir is so many things—a triumphant tale of a blind immigrant, a remarkable philosophical treatise and a call to arms to pay attention to the limited time we have on this earth. But at its core, it’s an exquisitely moving portrait of the daily stuff of life: family secrets and family ties, marriage and its limitlessness and limitations, wild and unbounded parental love and, ultimately, the graceful recognition of what we can’t—and can—control.” —Lori Gottlieb, The New York Times Book Review (Editors’ Choice)

“Everything worth understanding and holding on to is in this book. . . . A miracle indeed.” —Kelly Corrigan, New York Times bestselling author of The Middle Place and Tell Me More

“A beautifully written, moving, and compassionate chronicle that deserves to be read and absorbed widely.” —Siddhartha Mukherjee, Pulitzer Prize–winning author of The Emperor of All Maladies

“Julie Yip-Williams lived a life defined by effort and incredible self-reliance. But in this searing memoir of increasing vulnerability, she dismantles and then reconstructs what it means to be triumphant. Her writing examines not only her disability and illness—and their cultural, medical, and narrative constructs—but love, authenticity, hope, egotism, even rage. I didn’t know Julie, but in these pages, I grew to love her.” —Lucy Kalanithi

“When talking to my patients, I have always struggled to find the perfect balance between hope and honesty. While they are often thought of as opposites, Julie Yip-Williams reminds us they can coexist in a beautiful and meaningful way. In The Unwinding of the Miracle, we are treated to a beautifully written story that is also at times brutally candid about the realities of her cancer diagnosis and treatment. It is increasingly rare to find such an authentic voice, one that will inform and inspire you.” —Sanjay Gupta, M.D.

“[When] Yip-Williams was diagnosed with Stage IV colon cancer at the age of thirty-seven in 2013, she decided to write her story, which resulted in this inspiring and remarkable work that chronicles her immigration to the U.S. and her final five years. . . . [Her] wise and moving account of her battle with cancer is an extraordinary call to live wholeheartedly.” Publishers Weekly (starred review)

About the Author

Julie Yip-Williams died in March 2018 of colon cancer. She was born in Tam-Ky, Vietnam, just as the war was ending, grew up in Monterey Park, California, and graduated from Williams College and Harvard Law School. At her death she was forty-two, and lived in Brooklyn with her husband, Josh, and their daughters, Mia and Isabelle.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

1

Death, Part One

March 1976, Tam Ky, South Vietnam

When I was two months old, my parents, on orders from my paternal grandmother, took me to an herbalist in Da Nang and offered the old man gold bars to give me a concoction that would make me sleep forever. Because I was born blind, to my Chinese grandmother, I was broken. I would be a burden and an embarrassment to the family. Unmarriageable. Besides, my grandmother reasoned, she was showing me mercy—I would be spared a miserable existence.

That morning, my mother dressed me in old baby clothes soiled with brownish-yellow stains from my sister’s or brother’s shit that she had not been able to wash away, even after countless scrubbings. My grandmother had ordered my mother to put me in these clothes and now stood in the doorway to my parents’ bedroom, watching my mother dress me. “It would be a waste for her to wear anything else,” she said when my mother was finished, as if to confirm the rightness of her instruction.

These were the clothes in which I was to die. In desperate times such as those, there was no point in throwing away a perfectly good baby outfit on an infant that was soon to become a corpse.

Our family drama played out in the red-hot center of the Cold War. South Vietnam had been “liberated” by the North eleven months earlier, and a geopolitical domino came crashing into the lives of the Yips.

By 1972, the war had turned decidedly against the South, and my father was terrified of losing what little possessions he had risking his life for a country for which he, as an ethnic Chinese man, felt little to no nationalistic pride. In his four years of military service, my father never talked to anyone in his family during his brief home leaves about what horrible things he had seen or done. His mother’s attempts to spare him the ugliness of war by using bribery to get him a position as a driver for an army captain had not been as successful as they had all hoped. He found himself driving into enemy territory, uncertain where the snipers and land mines lurked, and sleeping in the jungle at night, afraid of the stealthy Vietcong slitting his throat while he slept on the jungle floor, and then jerking into motion by explosions that ripped open the silence of a tenuous calm. In the end, the constant fear of death—or worse yet, of losing a limb, as had happened to some of his friends—overwhelmed whatever notions he had of honor and his fears of being labeled a coward. One day, he walked away from camp on the pretext of retrieving supplies from his jeep and didn’t look back. For a week, he walked and hitchhiked his way to Saigon, the capital of South Vietnam, where he hid in Cholon, an old district inhabited by at least a million ethnic Chinese. Cholon was a place with such bustling activity and such a large population of those not loyal to the war effort that he could hide while still being able to move freely about the community.

My grandmother, to whom my father managed to get word of his whereabouts, trusted no man’s ability to remain faithful, including her son’s, and suggested to my mother that she join my father in Saigon. And so my mother, with my two-year-old sister, Lyna, in one arm and my infant brother, Mau, in the other, went to Saigon, and there they lived in limbo with my father until the end of the war, waiting until it was safe for him to return to Tam Ky without the fear of being imprisoned or, even worse, forced to continue military service in a rapidly deteriorating situation. It was not the time to have another child.

When Saigon fell on April 30, 1975, my parents rejoiced with the rest of Saigon, not because they believed in the new Communist regime but because the war was finally coming to an end. As Saigon changed hands, they celebrated by joining the feverish mobs ransacking abandoned stores and warehouses, taking tanks of gas and sacks of rice and whatever else their hands could carry away. They celebrated by welcoming the news of my pending arrival into this world, and after Saigon fell, they finally went home to Tam Ky, where I came into the world on an unremarkable January evening eight months later. I weighed a little more than three kilograms (between six and seven pounds), big by Vietnamese standards, but not so big that my mother and I were at the risk of dying during childbirth. Hospitals were filthy, and cesareans were not an option in those days; no one knew how to perform them, except maybe in Saigon. My father named me [莉菁], which is pronounced “Lijing” in Mandarin Chinese and “Lising” in Hainanese Chinese, and translated literally means “Quintessence of Jasmine.” My name was intended to convey a sense of vibrancy, vitality, and beauty. My mother, who had waited so long for a new baby, was thrilled. And so was my grandmother—at first, anyhow. Two months later, wrapped in my brother and sister’s old baby clothes, I was in my father’s arms, on a bus, making the two-hour trip north to Da Nang on Highway 1, sentenced to death.

2

Life

July 14, 2017, Brooklyn, New York

Dear Mia and Isabelle,

I have solved all the logistical problems resulting from my death that I can think of—I am hiring a very reasonably priced cook for you and Daddy; I have left a list of instructions about who your dentist is and when your school tuition needs to be paid and when to renew the violin rental contract and the identity of the piano tuner. In the coming days, I will make videos about all the ins and outs of the apartment, so that everyone knows where the air filters are and what kind of dog food Chipper eats. But I realized that these things are the low-hanging fruit, the easy-to-solve but relatively unimportant problems of the oh so mundane.

I realized that I would have failed you greatly as your mother if I did not try to ease your pain from my loss, if I didn’t at least attempt to address what will likely be the greatest question of your young lives. You will forever be the kids whose mother died of cancer, have people looking at you with some combination of sympathy and pity (which you will no doubt resent, even if everyone means well). That fact of your mother dying will weave into the fabric of your lives like a glaring stain on an otherwise pristine tableau. You will ask as you look around at all the other people who still have their parents, Why did my mother have to get sick and die? It isn’t fair, you will cry. And you will want so painfully for me to be there to hug you when your friend is mean to you, to look on as your ears are being pierced, to sit in the front row clapping loudly at your music recitals, to be that annoying parent insisting on another photo with the college graduate, to help you get dressed on your wedding day, to take your newborn babe from your arms so you can sleep. And every time you yearn for me, it will hurt all over again and you will wonder why.

I don’t know if my words could ever ease your pain. But I would be remiss if I did not try.

My seventh-grade history teacher, Mrs. Olson, a batty eccentric but a phenomenal teacher, used to rebut our teenage protestations of “That’s not fair!” (for example, when she sprang a pop quiz on us or when we played what was called the “Unfair” trivia game) with “Life is not fair. Get used to it!” Somewhere along the way, we grow up thinking that there should be fairness, that people should be treated fairly, that there should be equality of treatment as well as opportunity. That expectation must be derivative of growing up in a rich country where the rule of law is so firmly entrenched. Even at the tender age of five, both of you were screaming about fairness as if it were some fundamental right (as in it wasn’t fair that Belle got to go to see a movie when Mia did not). So perhaps those expectations of fairness and equity are also hardwired into the human psyche and our moral compass. I’m not sure.

What I do know for sure is that Mrs. Olson was right. Life is not fair. You would be foolish to expect fairness, at least when it comes to matters of life and death, matters outside the scope of the law, matters that cannot be engineered or manipulated by human effort, matters that are distinctly the domain of God or luck or fate or some other unknowable, incomprehensible force.

Although I did not grow up motherless, I suffered in a different way and understood at an age younger than yours that life is not fair. I looked at all the other kids who could drive and play tennis and who didn’t have to use a magnifying glass to read, and it pained me in a way that maybe you can understand now. People looked at me with pity, too, which I loathed. I was denied opportunities, too; I was always the scorekeeper and never played in the games during PE. My mother didn’t think it worthwhile to have me study Chinese after English school, as my siblings did, because she assumed I wouldn’t be able to see the characters. (Of course, later on, I would study Chinese throughout college and study abroad and my Chinese would surpass my siblings’.) For a child, there is nothing worse than being different, in that negative, pitiful way. I was sad a lot. I cried in my lonely anger. Like you, I had my own loss, the loss of vision, which involved the loss of so much more. I grieved. I asked why. I hated the unfairness of it all.

My sweet babies, I do not have the answer to the question of why, at least not now and not in this life. But I do know that there is incredible value in pain and suffering. If you allow yourself to experience it, to cry, to feel sorrow and grief, to hurt. Walk through the fire and you will emerge on the other end, whole and stronger. I promise. You will ultimately find truth and beauty and wisdom and peace. You will understand that nothing lasts forever, not pain, or joy. You will understand that joy cannot exist without sadness. Relief cannot exist without pain. Compassion cannot exist without cruelty. Courage cannot exist without fear. Hope cannot exist without despair. Wisdom cannot exist without suffering. Gratitude cannot exist without deprivation. Paradoxes abound in this life. Living is an exercise in navigating within them.

I was deprived of sight. And yet, that single unfortunate physical condition changed me for the better. Instead of leaving me wallowing in self-pity, it made me more ambitious. It made me more resourceful. It made me smarter. It taught me to ask for help, to not be ashamed of my physical shortcoming. It forced me to be honest with myself and my limitations, and eventually, to be honest with others. It taught me strength and resilience.

You will be deprived of a mother. As your mother, I wish I could protect you from the pain. But also as your mother, I want you to feel the pain, to live it, embrace it, and then learn from it. Be stronger people because of it, for you will know that you carry my strength within you. Be more compassionate people because of it; empathize with those who suffer in their own ways. Rejoice in life and all its beauty because of it; live with special zest and zeal for me. Be grateful in a way that only someone who lost her mother so early can, in your understanding of the precariousness and preciousness of life. This is my challenge to you, my sweet girls, to take an ugly tragedy and transform it into a source of beauty, love, strength, courage, and wisdom.

Many may disagree, but I have always believed, always, even when I was a precocious little girl crying alone in my bed, that our purpose in this life is to experience everything we possibly can, to understand as much of the human condition as we can squeeze into one lifetime, however long or short that may be. We are here to feel the complex range of emotions that come with being human. And from those experiences, our souls expand and grow and learn and change, and we understand a little more about what it really means to be human. I call it the evolution of the soul. Know that your mother lived an incredible life that was filled with more than her “fair” share of pain and suffering, first with her blindness and then with cancer. And I allowed that pain and suffering to define me, to change me, but for the better.

In the years since my diagnosis, I have known love and compassion that I never knew possible; I have witnessed and experienced for myself the deepest levels of human caring, which humbled me to my core and compelled me to be a better person. I have known a mortal fear that was crushing, and yet I overcame that fear and found courage. The lessons that blindness and then cancer have taught me are too many for me to recount here, but I hope, when you read what follows, you will understand how it is possible to be changed in a positive way by tragedy and you will learn the true value of suffering. The worth of a person’s life lies not in the number of years lived; rather it rests on how well that person has absorbed the lessons of that life, how well that person has come to understand and distill the multiple, messy aspects of the human experience. While I would have chosen to stay with you for much longer, had the choice been mine, if you could learn from my death, if you accepted my challenge to be better people because of my death, then that would bring my spirit inordinate joy and peace.

You will feel alone and lonely, and yet, understand that you are not alone. It is true that we walk this life alone, because we feel what we feel singularly and each of us makes our own choices. But it is possible to reach out and find those like you, and in so doing you will feel not so lonely. This is another one of life’s paradoxes that you will learn to navigate. First and foremost, you have each other to lean on. You are sisters, and that gives you a bond of blood and common experiences that is like no other. Find solace in one another. Always forgive and love one another.

Product information

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online

The Unwinding of the Miracle: online sale A Memoir of Life, Death, and popular Everything That Comes After online