Pdf (read online) TEXAS STATUTES HEALTH AND SAFETY CODE (1/3) 2020 EDITION: WEST HARTFORD LEGAL PUBLISHING Paperback – March 10, 2020

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2
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Description
New York Times best sellerA searing, deeply
moving memoir of illness and recovery that traces
one young womanâs journey from diagnosis to
remission to reentry into âœnormalâ? life -
from the author of the Life, Interrupted column
in The New York TimesOne of the Best Books of the
Year The New York Times Book Review, The
Washington Post, Bloomberg, The Rumpus, She
Reads, Library Journal, BooklistâœI was immersed
for the whole ride and would follow Jaouad
anywhere.... Her writing restores the moon,
lights the way as we learn to endure the
unknown.â? (Chanel Miller, The New York Times
Book Review)âœBeautifully crafted...affecting...a
transformative read.... Jaouadâs
insights about the self, connectedness,
uncertainty and time speak to all of us.â? (The
Washington Post)In the summer after graduating
from college, Suleika Jaouad was preparing, as
they say in commencement speeches, to enter
âœthe real worldâ?. She had fallen in love and
moved to Paris to pursue her dream of becoming a
war correspondent. The real world she found,
however, would take her into a very different
kind of conflict zone. It started with an itch -
first on her feet, then up her legs, like a
thousand invisible mosquito bites. Next came the
exhaustion, and the six-hour naps that only
deepened her fatigue. Then a trip to the doctor
and, a few weeks shy of her 23rd birthday, a
diagnosis leukemia, with a 35 percent chance of
survival. Just like that, the life she had
imagined for herself had gone up in flames. By
the time Jaouad flew home to New York, she had
lost her job, her apartment, and her
independence. She would spend much of the next
four years in a hospital bed, fighting for her
life and chronicling the saga in a column for The
New York Times.When Jaouad finally walked out of
the cancer ward - after countless rounds of
chemo, a clinical trial, and a bone marrow
transplant - she was, according to the doctors,
cured. But as she would soon learn, a cure is not
where the work of healing ends itâs where it
begins. She had spent the past 1,500 days in
desperate pursuit of one goal - to survive. And
now that sheâd done so, she realized that she
had no idea how to live.How would she reenter the
world and live again? How could she reclaim what
had been lost? Jaouad embarked - with her new
best friend, Oscar, a scruffy terrier mutt - on a
100-day, 15,000-mile road trip across the
country. She set out to meet some of the
strangers who had written to her during her years
in the hospital a teenage girl in Florida also
recovering from cancer a teacher in California
grieving the death of her son a death-row inmate
in Texas whoâd spent his own years confined to
a room. What she learned on this trip is that the
divide between sick and well is porous, that the
vast majority of us will travel back and forth
between these realms throughout our lives.
Between Two Kingdoms is a profound chronicle of
survivorship and a fierce, tender, and inspiring
exploration of what it means to begin again.
Review âœHere is the key to Between Two
KingdomsâJaouadâs disarming honesty. There is
no self-pity in this telling and few of the
expected pieties . . . Jaouad is writing about a
process, a back-and-forth. In the tension between
health and sickness, past and present, a new
balance must be forged.â?âLos
Angeles TimesâœJaouadâs book stands out not
only because she has lived to parse the saga of
her medical battle with the benefit of hindsight,
but also because it encompasses the less familiar
tale of what itâs like to survive and have to
figure out how to live again.â?âNPRÂ âœI was
immersed for the whole ride and would follow
Jaouad anywhere. Her sensory snapshots remain in
my mind long after reading . . . Not only can
Jaouad tolerate the unbearable feelings, she can
reshape them into poetry . . . Her writing
restores the moon, lights the way as we learn to
endure the unknown.â?âChanel Miller, The New
York Times Book Review âœBeautifully crafted .
. . affecting . . . a transformative read . . .
Jaouadâs insights about the self,
connectedness, uncertainty and time speak to all
of us, not only readers whoâve faced a
life-changingâand potentially
life-endingâdiagnosis. . . . The timing of this
memoir is just right.â?âThe Washington
PostâœWhen the life we had is snatched away,
how do we find the conviction to live another?Â
Between Two Kingdoms will resonate with anyone
who is living a different life than they planned
to live. This is a propulsive, soulful story of
mourning and gratitudeâand an intimate portrait
of one womanâs sojourn in the wilderness
between life and death.â?âTara Westover,
author of EducatedâœA beautiful, elegant, and
heartbreaking book that provides a glimpse into
the kingdom of illness . . . Suleika Jaouad
avoids sentimentality but manages to convey the
depth of the emotional turmoil that illness can
bring into our lives.â?âSiddhartha Mukherjee,
author of The Emperor of All MaladiesâœIn a
book bubbling with ambition and impeccable skill,
it is what Suleika Jaouad does with courage and
secondary characters that is simply once in
a generation. Between Two Kingdoms mended parts
I thought were forever disintegrated.â?âKiese L
aymon, author of HeavyThis is a deeply moving
and passionate work of art, quite unlike
anything Iâve ever read. I will remember these
stories for years to come, because Suleika Jaouad
has
5
imprinted them on my heart.â?âElizabeth
Gilbert, author of Eat Pray LoveâœJaouad does
a beautiful job of writing from this place of
âdual citizenship,â where she finds pain but
also joy, kinship, and possibility.â?âLibrary
Journal (starred review) âœMemorable, lyrical,
and ultimately hopeful a book that speaks
intently to anyone who suffers from illness and
loss.â?âKirkus Reviews âœBoldly candid and
truly memorable.â?âBooklist (starred review)Â
âœThis is a stunning memoir, well-crafted and
hard to put down.â?âPublishers WeeklyÂ
(starred review) About the Author Suleika Jaouad
wrote the Emmy Awardâwinning New York Times
column Life, Interrupted. Her essays and feature
stories have appeared in The New York Times
Magazine and Vogue and on NPR. She is also the
creator of the Isolation Journals, a global
project cultivating creativity and community
during challenging times. Between Two Kingdoms is
her first book. Excerpt. Â Reprinted
by permission. All rights reserved. 1The ItchIt
began with an itch. Not a metaphorical itch to
travel the world or some quarter-Âlife crisis,
but a literal, physical itch. A maddening,
claw-Âat-Âyour-Âskin, keep-Âyou- Âup-Âat-Ân
ight itch that surfaced during my senior year of
college, first on the tops of my feet and
then moving up my calves and thighs. I tried to
resist scratching, but the itch was relentless,
spreading across the surface of my skin like a
thousand invisible mosquito bites. Without
realizing what I was doing, my hand began
meandering down my legs, my nails raking my jeans
in search of relief, before burrowing under the
hem to sink directly into flesh. I itched during
my part-Âtime job at the campus film lab. I
itched under the big wooden desk of my library
carrel. I itched while dancing with friends on
the beer-Âslicked floors of basement taprooms. I
itched while I slept. A scree of oozing nicks,
thick scabs, and fresh scars soon marred my legs
as if they had been beaten with rose thistles.
Bloody harbingers of a mounting struggle taking
place inside of me.âœIt might be a parasite you
picked up while studying abroad,â? a Chinese
herbalist told me before sending me off with
foul-Âsmelling supplements and bitter teas. A
nurse at the college health center thought it
might be eczema and recommended a cream. A
general practitioner surmised that it was stress
related and gave me samples of an antianxiety
medication. But no one seemed to know for sure,
so I tried not to make a big deal out of it. I
hoped it would clear up on its own.Every morning,
I would crack the door of my dorm room, scan the
hall, and sprint in my towel to the communal
bathroom before anyone could see my limbs. I
washed my skin with a wet cloth, watching
the crimson streaks swirl down the shower drain.
I slathered myself in drugstore potions made of
witch hazel tonic and I plugged my nose as I
drank the bitter tea concoctions. Once the
weather turned too warm to wear jeans every day,
I invested in a collection of opaque black
tights. I purchased dark-Âcolored sheets to mask
the rusty stains. And when I had sex, I had sex
with the lights off.Along with the itch came
the naps. The naps that lasted two, then four,
then six hours. No amount of sleep seemed to
appease my body. I began dozing through orchestra
rehearsals and job interviews, deadlines and
dinner, only to wake up feeling even more
depleted. âœIâve never felt so tired in my
life,â? I confessed to my friends one day, as we
were walking to class. âœMe too, me too,â? they
commiserated. Everyone was tired. Weâd
witnessed more sunrises in the last semester than
we had in our entire lives, a combination of
logging long hours at the library to finish our
senior theses followed by boozy parties
that raged until dawn. I lived at the heart of
the Princeton campus, on the top floor of a
Gothic-Âstyle dorm, crested with turrets and
grimacing gargoyles. At the end of yet another
late night, my friends would congregate in my
room for one last nightcap. My room had big
cathedral windows and we liked to sit on the
sills with our legs dangling over the edge,
watching as drunken revelers stumbled home and
the first amber rays streaked the stone-Âpaved
courtyard. Graduation was on the horizon, and we
were determined to savor these final weeks
together before we all scattered, even if that
meant pushing our bodies to their limits.And yet,
I worried my fatigue was different.Alone in my
bed, after everyone had gone, I sensed a feasting
taking place under my skin, something wending its
way through my arteries, gnawing at my sanity. As
my energy evaporated and the itch intensified, I
told myself it was because the parasiteâs
appetite was growing. But deep down, I doubted
there ever was a parasite. I began to wonder if
the real problem was me.In the months that
followed, I felt at sea, close to sinking,
grasping at anything that might buoy me. For a
while I managed. I graduated, then joined my
classmates in the mass exodus to New York City. I
found an ad on Craigslist for a spare bedroom in
a large, floor-Âthrough loft located above an
art supply store on Canal Street. It was the
summer of 2010 and a heat wave had sucked the
oxygen out of the city. As I emerged from the
subway, the stench of festering garbage smacked
me in the face. Commuters and hordes of tourists
shopping for knockoff designer bags jostled each
other on the sidewalks. The apartment was a
third-Âfloor walk-Âup and by the time I lugged
my suitcase to the front door, sweat had turned
my white tank top see-Âthrough. I introduced
myself to my new roommates there were nine of
them. They were all in their twenties and
aspiring something-Âor- Âothers three actors,
two models, a chef, a jewelry designer, a
graduate student, and a financial analyst.
6
Eight hundred dollars a month bought each of us
our own windowless cave partitioned by
paper-Âthin drywall that a slumlord had erected
to get the most bang for his buck.I had scored a
summer internship at the Center for
Constitutional Rights, and when I showed up on my
first day, I felt awed to be in the same room as
some of the most fearless civil liberties lawyers
in the country. The work felt important, but the
internship was unpaid and living in New York City
was like walking around with a giant hole in
my wallet. I quickly blew through the two
thousand dollars Iâd saved up over the school
year. Even with the babysitting and restaurant
jobs I worked in the evenings, I was barely
scraping by.Imagining my futureâÂexpansive yet
emptyâÂfilled me with terror. In moments when
I allowed myself to daydream, it thrilled me,
too. The possibilities of who I might become and
where I might land felt infinite, a spool
of ribbon unfurling far beyond what my mindâs
eye could see. I envisioned a career as a
foreign correspondent in North Africa, where my
dad is from and where Iâd lived for a stint as
a kid. I also toyed with the idea of law school,
which seemed like a more prudent route. Frankly,
I needed money. I had only been able to attend an
Ivy League college because Iâd received a full
scholarship. But out here, in the real world, I
didnât have the same kind of safety
netsâtrust funds, family connections, six-Âfigu
re jobs on Wall StreetâÂas many of my
classmates.It was easier to fret about the
uncertainty ahead than to confront another, even
more unsettling shift. During my last semester,
to combat the fatigue, I had chugged caffeinated
energy drinks. When those stopped working, a boy
Iâd briefly dated gave me some of his Adderall
to survive finals. But soon that wasnât enough
either. Cocaine was a party staple in my circle
of friends, and there were always guys hanging
around who offered a line here and there for
free. Nobody batted an eye when I started
partaking. My roommates in the Canal Street loft
had turned out to be hard-Âpartying types, too.
I began to take uppers the way some people add an
extra shot of espresso to their coffeeâÂa
means to an end, a way to stave off my
deepening exhaustion. In my journal, I wrote
Stay afloat.By the last days of summer, I
struggled to recognize myself. The muffled sound
of my alarm clock dragged like a dull knife
through dreamless sleep. Each morning, Iâd
stumble out of bed and stand in front of the
floor-Âlength mirror, taking inventory of
the damage. Scratches and streaks of drying blood
covered my legs in new places. My hair hung to my
waist in dull, chaotic waves that I was too tired
to brush. Shadowy crescents deepened into dark
moons under big bloodshot eyes. Too burned-Âout
to face sunlight, I started showing up later and
later to my internship then, one day, I stopped
showing up altogether.I disliked the person I was
becomingâÂa person who tumbled headfirst into
each day, in constant motion but without any
sense of direction a person who reconstructed
blackouts, night after night, like some private
investigator a person who constantly reneged on
commitments a person who was too embarrassed to
pick up her parentsâ phone calls. This isnât
me, I thought, staring at my reflection with
disgust. I needed to clean up my act. I needed to
find a real job, one that paid. I needed some
distance from my college crew and my Canal Street
roommates. I needed to get the hell out of New
York City, and soon.On an August morning, a few
days after I quit the internship, I rose early
and took my laptop out to the fire escape and
started searching for jobs. It had been a
rainless summer, and the sun blazed, baking my
skin to a tan, leaving little white dots like
braille all over my legs where the scratching had
scarred. A position for a paralegal at an
American law firm in Paris caught my eye, and on
a whim I decided to apply. I spent all day
working on my cover letter. I made sure to
mention that French was my first language and
that I spoke some Arabic, too, hoping for a
competitive edge. Being a paralegal wasnât my
ideal jobâÂI didnât even really know what it
entailedâÂbut it seemed like the kind of thing
a sensible person might do. Mostly, I thought
that a change of scenery could save me from my
increasingly reckless behavior. Moving to Paris
wasnât a bucket list item it was my escape
plan.
7
TEXAS STATUTES HEALTH AND SAFETY CODE (1/3)
2020 EDITION WEST HARTFORD LEGAL
PUBLISHING Paperback â March 10, 2020