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.
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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.
