Part IV: Rendezvous with Grief

Hope is for Suckers.

I thought hope meant she survives. Grief taught me hope could exist beyond outcome. Trust was the nuance that allowed it in.

When Grief introduced me to Hope, I was confused.

Confused is polite.

It pissed me off.

I was back in BC, this time with my husband and son visiting mom for Mother’s Day.

Things had progressed in the few weeks since my last visit. She was still home, managing pain, and going for endless tests. But when I found myself packing for a four-day trip, I braced myself. Somehow a part of me knew I wouldn’t be home in four days.

As a family we hadn’t talked about chemo, but I heard their hope in the subtext. That maybe there was a chance….

I’d heard the specialist’s voice catch when he mentioned chemo. He knew there would be no chemo. I knew there would be no chemo. But I didn’t want to be the one to say it, so I kept it to myself. I didn’t want to steal anyone’s hope, even if I didn’t have it.

The Language of Hope

I’m a practical person, but I also believe in signs. They give me comfort and remind me to broaden my perspective. There’s more to this world than just what I see or think, and I love a little mystery, magic, and whimsy. Just like my mom: a practical woman with a love of all thing’s whimsy.

~

On my many walks in BC the signs were abundant. Most notably, I was met with all representations of rainbows. Sidewalk chalk drawings, clothes on other walkers, keychains, backpacks.

This confused me. I always thought rainbows symbolized a calm after the storm and gave hope. Certainly, they didn’t belong in the middle of a storm?

To further contradict my limited thinking, I kept seeing yellow butterflies. They offered hope, optimism, transformation, and new beginnings.

My parent’s house is yellow, ironically.

But what business did symbols of hope have here? Wasn’t it a little premature for rainbows, transformation, and new beginnings?

Wasn’t hope reserved for when there’s a chance?

Because it looked like we were all out of chances.

Which led to my old belief of: isn’t hope careless at best, dangerous at worst?

Hope is for suckers.

All or nothing / black and white

I’m not proud to say my relationship with hope has often sounded more like, ‘I hope something bad doesn’t happen,’ than genuine belief in something good happening.

Disappointment always seemed to linger longer than joy ever did.

A few days after mom was admitted to hospital, my husband and son said their goodbyes and flew home. It had been four days since our arrival. Just as some part of me already knew, I was staying longer.

It was hard saying goodbye to them. Amid losing one person, I was terrified of losing more. Everything suddenly felt fragile.

I was left hoping for a swift ending. It’s true that I didn’t want her to suffer long. But it’s also true that I didn’t want to suffer long.

I wanted to be there for her last breath, but I also wanted to go home. I wanted to start healing and moving forward. I allowed myself all the uncomfortable thoughts because they are so human.

Somewhere inside all that contradiction, I started reconsidering hope altogether.

Reintroduced to Trust

When I struggle with a concept, it helps me to completely reverse it. Like, what’s the opposite of hope?

Resignation? Apathy? Hopelessness?

I felt hopeless, so I started there. Leaning into hope was too big a leap from where I was.

I learned a lot about hope after that: like, there’s a difference between hope and trust.

Hope felt uncomfortably expansive and unreachable, but trust meant I could handle whatever happened. It was something I could hold onto when the ground felt like quicksand.

And that kind of trust, I do have.

I trust myself to handle what happens.

I know I occupy an inner strength and resiliency because it’s one of the many gifts passed down from my mom, her sisters, my grandma, great grandma, great – great grandma, my dad, my grandpa, etc., and so forth. I know their stories, but not just what happened. I heard how they kept going.

I leaned on that. I trusted my resiliency.

I could trust my knowing and still let others hold hope of chemo and recovery.

I practiced becoming an anchor through presence, no words needed.

I also trusted my mom’s personal timeline. I can’t possibly understand the intricacies of her soul’s journey. That’s not for me to know, take personally, or interfere.

Trust anchored me.

Redefining Hope

It turns out hope isn’t denial.

Initially, feeling hopeful meant one outcome: recovery.

It’s dangerous to rely on only one outcome:

If she lives, I’ll be okay.

If she dies, hope failed.

That kind of hope is fragile.

Maybe like Grief, I needed a broader definition; one that survived uncertainty and wasn’t tied to control.

Trust was the bridge.

Trust allowed me to stay present without requiring certainty. I already had a relationship with Trust. It felt woven into my identity.

As I warmed up to Hope through Trust, here’s what Grief showed me:

Hope doesn’t mean denying or fixing what is.

Hope is believing more is possible, even if I can’t see it yet. The rainbows and butterflies understood that before I did.

Sometimes hope is tiny: one person showing up when I thought I was alone.

My dad sending me back to the hotel to nap because I was exhausted. My aunt flying in from California. People sharing the responsibility and pressure saved me.

The most important thing I learned was that hope is not only an outcome.

It’s about who I was becoming in the liminal space. Grief can create new identities, a new way of relating to the world.

I could shape this by choosing to love even when it’s hard.

To choose to stay present even when I want to abandon everyone, including myself.

Or I could let pain, fear, and hopelessness shape me.

This wasn’t a one-time decision.

It’s an ongoing decision I still waver on.

I’m still shaping who I am in the aftermath, and I’m still shaped by it.

~

As I write this, it has been a year and two days.

We are still in relationship, although our relationship and the way we communicate has obviously changed.

I miss her voice and her smile.

But I still have her presence.

She was the most positive, open-minded, kind-hearted person I ever met.

So maybe what those rainbows and butterflies were showing me is that hope really meant she doesn’t ever leave, regardless of outcome.

It’s finally understanding why I kept seeing hope in the middle of the storm.

And you know what, I like knowing Hope can be more than one outcome.

Maybe hope isn’t for suckers after all.