Rachel Brathen - To Love And Let Go: A Memoir Of Love, Loss, And Gratitude

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ALSO BY RACHEL BRATHEN

YOGA GIRL

Gallery Books

An Imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

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Copyright 2019 by Yoga Girl, LLC

Note to Readers: Certain names and identifying details have been changed.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Gallery Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

First Gallery Books hardcover edition September 2019

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Interior design by Jaime Putorti

Jacket design and hand-lettering by Anna Dorfman

Jacket photograph by Ben Kane

Author photograph by Dennis Schoneveld

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

ISBN 978-1-5011-6399-9

ISBN 978-1-5011-6400-2 (ebook)

To my mother, who is here and my grandmother, who is not

And to Lea Luna, who just arrived but was with us all along

It came out of nowhere. One minute I was standing with my boyfriend, Dennis, and our dog, Ringo, waiting for a flight, and the next I was on the floor, brought to my knees by a pain so fierce it felt as if someone had plunged a red-hot knife into my gut. I blacked out and woke up with my head in Denniss lap. Whats happening? he asked, his eyes filled with fear. I could barely speak. My stomach, was all I could say. I tried to sit up but couldnt. The pain was making me dizzy. Someone called for help and, suddenly, paramedics appeared. My heart was okay, they said. Pulse: normal. Blood pressure: good. Should we go to the hospital? Dennis asked. I wanted to say yes. The stabbing pain I felt in my stomach was unlike anything Id ever experienced in my life, and at twenty-five, Id already been through quite a bit. I should say yes , I thought. Something is definitely wrong. I should let him take me to the hospital. No, I said instead. We cant miss our flight. Lets try to get to the gate.

It was a short flight, just thirty minutes from Aruba to Bonaire, where I was leading a yoga retreat that week. The retreat was sold out, with people coming from all over the world to see us. There was no way I was going to disappoint them. I was determined to get on the plane. Dennis helped me to my feet, but as soon as I stood up the invisible knife I felt plunged into my stomach twisted, and my knees buckled again. I knew what he was thinking. This is crazy. We need a doctor. He pleaded with me, but I wouldnt budge. We have to get to Bonaire! I said, looking at him sternly. People are waiting for us.

It took all of my effort to get through passport control. I was too weak to hold on to anything but my boarding pass. I tried to put on a brave face, but on the inside I was terrified. What is happening to me? We made it to the gate and I collapsed into the nearest seat. My body was damp with sweat and my insides throbbed. Thinking I was going to vomit, I had to get to the bathroom. Hunched over, I made my way there but fell as I tried to open the stall door. Too weak to stand, I laid on the cold tile floor, curled up in a fetal position. Am I dying? Reaching into my purse for my phone to call Dennis for help, I heard a voice speak inside of me. Get up. Keep moving. Get up. Get up! I told myself. Get off the floor .

I didnt even fully understand the urgency I felt about getting on the planewas it really about not wanting to disappoint people, or was I trying to ignore whatever was happening to me? Whatever it was, I decided to keep going. I shoved my phone back into my bag, grabbed ahold of the wall, and pushed myself up to standing. When I looked in the mirror, a ghostly white face stared back, beckoning me to come to my senses and surrender. I was undeterred. Move forward , I told myself. One step at a time.

I made my way back to Dennis and Ringo and for the longest time we sat there, waiting to board. My stomach hurt so much it felt as if my insides were on fire. The hands on the clock crawled. Finally it was time. Approaching the flight attendant with my boarding pass, I watched her face twist in horror. You cant fly! she said. You are obviously not well. I was pale, and my forehead was slick with sweat. I had a hard time focusing my gaze, but did my best to compose myself. Im going to Bonaire, I said. The flight attendant looked at me. This plane is going to Bonaire, she said. You, my dear, are not. I gritted my teeth in pain and frustration. I just wanted to get on the damn plane and settle in. I have to get on, I said, pleading. Please, I beg you. Im okayI promise. Its just a stomach bug. Ill be fine. I just have to get on this flight. I dont know why she finally gave in. Will you seek medical attention when you get there? she asked. Yes, I promised. Go on, then, she said, pointing the way. Hurry, before my manager sees you.

I expected to see a plane at the gate, but a shuttle bus idled there. The heat was sweltering and the bus was full. I couldnt bear the thought of even the short ride to our plane. Dennis climbed in first with Ringo and our baggage before lifting me up into the bus. I grabbed a handle and held tight. My long hair clung to my back, and I could feel sweat dripping off my face. Why was it so hot in here? As the engine roared, the urge to throw up overtook me. I dont throw up . Its at the very top of my list of things I cant handle. I hadnt done it since I was a teenager and chugged an entire bottle of vodka by myself. But there, on that bus, I felt it coming. I looked around frantically for a plastic bag, a bin, something. Anything. Could I will myself not to vomit until I was off the damn bus?

The moment the brakes squealed and the bus came to a stop, and before the doors were fully open, I pressed myself out of the shuttle. At the top of the stairs leading into the plane was the woman whod taken my boarding pass. How did she make it there so quickly? She gave me a stern look. If I throw up now , I thought, she isnt going to let me board . In desperation, I walked behind the bus, bent over, and hurled my insides out all over the tarmac. Wiping my arm on my sleeve, I took the steps up to the plane and fell into my seat. The next thing I knew, I was waking up in a cab with Dennis and Ringo, racing to the emergency room in Bonaire. Bonaire is a tiny Caribbean island with fewer than nineteen thousand people. The hospital is so small that the maternity ward is connected to the hospice. You die where youre born. Two doctors treated me, both tall and Dutch looking. Poking and prodding my abdomen, they gave their diagnosis: a probable ruptured appendix. To be certain, they said, an ultrasound would have to be performed, but there was only one ultrasound specialist on the whole island and it would take time for him to get to me. Until then, I would be given morphine to make me more comfortable, the doctors said before disappearing.