Live like you're dying? Acting in uncertainty | Ariel Dempsey | TEDxMSU

When it comes to pursuing our visions, it is easy to feel paralyzed by uncertainty; how can we find the courage to act, even when we can’t see? Ariel Dempsey shares a story she has kept secret from many: her story of receiving a terminal diagnosis and recovering from traumatic brain injury. As a medical student at Michigan State and a PhD student in science and religion at Oxford, she draws on both medicine and spirituality to reflect on living with uncertainty. She embodies her message in a beautiful and inspiring performance danced in aerial silks.

Ariel Dempsey is a fourth year medical student about to graduate from Michigan State College of Human Medicine with her MD and to complete her PhD in science and religion at the University of Oxford. She aspires to become a palliative care physician working at the interface of medicine and theology. Beside her studies, Ariel loves aerial dance and circus arts. She is part of a troupe in Grand Rapids called Bangarang Circus and has traveled the coast of California street-performing to raise money for the charity WorldVision and its Fundraise for Health cause.

This talk was given at a TEDx event using the TED conference format but independently organized by a local community. Learn more at https://www.ted.com/tedx

(Instrumental music: "A Million Dreams")

(Applause)

I've got to catch my breath a second …

I'll tell you what, though,
that is so much fun.

Really.

So the song I just danced to
is called "A Million Dreams,”

and it’s from a movie I love,
called "The Greatest Showman."

Sometimes we can see our dreams clearly,

but sometimes things aren’t so clear.

Can I really believe in this?

How do I know this is a risk worth taking?

What if I’m wrong?

For me, these aren't
just abstract questions.

They’re questions I live with.

Let me share a bit about my background.

My name is Ariel.

I’m a fourth year medical student
at Michigan State,

about to graduate with my MD

and do a PhD at Oxford
in science & religion.

I want to become
a palliative care physician

and walk alongside people
at the end of life.

And I also want to be
an academic theologian

and draw on the resources
from our religious traditions

to reflect on healthcare.

And so as a student
of both medicine and theology,

I’ve had an opportunity to reflect
on two fields of inquiry

that face tremendous amounts
of uncertainty.

In both medicine and religion,

there are times that we act,

even when we can’t see.

I’m going to tell you something tonight

that I’ve kept secret
from many of my closest friends -

even friends that
I've invited here tonight.

Though it's hard to talk about,

I’ll tell you my story.

(Deep breath)

In January of 2015,

I was flying to England.

I had just interviewed
for medical school at Michigan State

and was returning to Oxford
for studies in theology.

Suddenly, a great pain burst in my head,

I started vomiting incessantly,

my heart rate and blood pressure
dropped dangerously low,

and I started drifting
in and out of consciousness.

When the plane landed,
I was rushed to the hospital,

and for weeks, I was too weak
to sit up, to think or even stay awake.

For four months,

I lay in bed in a dark room in England.

The curtains were drawn,

the lights turned off,

and I wore sunglasses to make it darker
because I couldn't bear any light.

Whatever happened on the plane

left me in physical shock,

but my MRI results
shocked me in a different way.

My mother, who'd flown
to England to care for me,

she was at my side

while the doctor explained
the pictures of my brain.

He pointed to a black
and bleeding spot at the core,

and he said,

"Ariel,

you have an active
and unstable cavernoma,

or arteriovenous malformation.

It’s bleeding.

And once they start bleeding,

they frequently rebleed,

and each successive bleed
can lead to progressive disability.

It’s also possible

that your cavernoma
could spontaneously burst,

and if this happens,

you could die instantly.”

He gave me some dismal statistics,

and I asked how long I had left to live.

He said he didn’t know.

That night, in the dark,

my mother and I laid in bed,

and we cried,

and we just - we laughed
at the horribleness of it all.

Loss of cognitive and physical abilities

or instant death.

Like, how much worse does it get?

I remember

laying there in the dark

with the room spinning
and my sunglasses on,

and I literally could not see.

I could not see a future.

The life I’d dreamed was gone.

I woke the next morning in grief,

and as I prayed,

I realized something that changed my life.

I realized that

I am no different than anyone else.

Anyone who lives long enough

goes through loss of cognitive
and physical abilities.

Everybody dies someday,

and nobody knows when that will be.

All of our lives are fragile
and wrought with uncertainty.

I’m scared

but no more uncertain than anyone else.

So I was accepted to med school,

but if I could die in a year,

why even bother going?

My best friend came to visit,

and I asked him what I should do.

He said,

"Ariel,

live like you’re dying.

Try to experience
as many things as you can

and as many pleasures as you want.”

But I knew that "living like I was dying"

could not be my way.

I wouldn’t be truly happy

closing my eyes to my diagnosis,

distracting myself
with experience upon experience,

just trying to squeeze
the pleasure out of life.

Besides,

have you ever really tried
to live like you're dying?

It’s exhausting.

I’d rather live like ...

like I was living.

My priest came to anoint me,

and I asked him what I should do.

He said,

"Ariel,

I can’t tell you what to do,

but I can tell you this.

God is Sovereign.

Don’t let this diagnosis
bend you out of shape."

In that moment,

I decided to continue on the path
that I'd felt called to before.

I decided to do what I would do

if I didn’t have the diagnosis.

If my life's a play

and I'm backstage,

the curtain may come up at any moment

and I will be found playing my part well.

I found courage to act.

But my body was slower to act than I was.

I’d been a lifelong athlete -

I ran track at University of Michigan;

I played varsity soccer at Oxford.

But now, I felt betrayed by my body,

like I couldn’t trust it to work.

Although I was weak, I acted
as though I were stronger than I felt.

And so,

I did old lady yoga -

just like this -

and did it every day,

even if just for a few minutes.

I couldn’t do much,

but I could lay on the floor
and do that one stretch,

I could read that one page,

I could find that one glimpse
of beauty and joy.

And sometimes I pressed too far.

But slowly, I was able to stretch farther

and laugh harder

and love deeper.

I clung to a meditation
from the Book of Common Prayer.

It says,

“Today is another day, O Lord,

I know not what it will bring forth.

But make me ready, Lord,

for whatever it may be.

If I am to stand,

help me to stand bravely.

If I am to sit,

help me to sit quietly.

If I am to lie low,

help me to lie patiently.

And if I am to do nothing,

let me do nothing gallantly.

Make these words more than words,

and give me the spirit of Jesus.

Amen.”

By God’s grace,

I started medical school
the following fall.

Med school wasn’t easy.

On the first day,

my best friend from high school
drove me to school

because I couldn’t yet drive,

and I walked into orientation

wearing my sunglasses.

Because of the brain injury,

reading was difficult

and I couldn’t think clearly
or study like I used to.

On days that I felt sick

and just sick of studying,

I’d ask, "Why am I doing this
if I could die tomorrow?"

But you know,

what medical student doesn’t ask
that question at some point?

(Laughter)

Medical school constantly
reminded me of my uncertainty.

From MRI’s to cadaver lab.

In the ICU,

I cared for a girl my age
who had a bleed in her cavernoma.

She was paralyzed
and cognitively five years old.

I kept my diagnosis a secret from most

because I didn’t want to be defined by it.

But at times,

my secret was lonely

and the uncertainty was dark and awful.

Slowly, though, I grew stronger.

Don’t get me wrong -
it wasn't straight and smooth.

It was lots of ups and downs.

But, in time, old lady yoga

turned into actual yoga

and acroyoga

and aerial yoga

and aerial silks.

Aerial dance became for me a symbol
of the beauty redeemed from my darkness.

It became a reminder

of the joy and gratefulness

that lights up my life,

and something like an image
of resurrection.

So medically, where do I stand today?

I don’t know.

I know I have the cavernoma.

I know it’s bled in the past.

I don’t know if it will bleed again.

Maybe I’ll live 80 years,

with a full and healthy life.

Maybe I won’t.

I still hold onto that meditation
from the Book of Common Prayer,

and I live into the uncertainty.

I resonate deeply

with the advice that Sir William Osler,
the Father of Modern Medicine,

that he gave to his medical students.

He said,

"Our task is not to see
what lies dimly at a distance

but to do what lies clearly at hand."

What does doing what lies clearly at hand

and seeing the future dimly

feel like?

I think it feels like dancing
on the silks with a blindfold on,

like twirling through the air,

not exactly sure where you are.

What lies clearly at hand?

I can wrap this way.

I can tie this much.

I can release like this.

I cannot see,

but I can act -

dancing into the uncertainty.

Whether we're talking
about medicine or religion

or relationships or school or jobs

or our dreams

or even the time of our death itself,

we all live into uncertainty.

My diagnosis reminds me
that life isn't certain.

But maybe,

life doesn't need certainty

in order to be lived.

We all see but dimly,

and as the good doctor Osler reminds us,

we can all still do
what lies clearly at hand.

Maybe

we can act,

even

when we can't see.

(Instrumental music: "A Million Dreams")

(Cheers)

(Applause)