What is hope? Philosophers argue that hope is a concept like any other, similar to beauty and justice. And it exists independently of how such words are used in everyday conversation. This gives one an impression of some kind of hypothetical reality behind such concepts.
Others disagree and say that we ourselves create the world in which we live, by our invention and use of language. The word 'hope' has no meaning, other than how we, as agents, use it in everyday life.
Those philosophical thoughts swirled around in my head as I lay in bed. Looking up, I was alarmed to see a large arachnoid traversing the ceiling, moving gingerly at first and then, subsequently gaining in confidence, it started to accelerate, scaring the life out of me.
I so wished the creature would skedaddle. I meant it no harm but, in my blackened mood, I hoped it would voluntarily climb down and scurry into a corner of the room. I felt infuriated by its power to distract. Normally the goings on of a solitary spider would prove a welcome relief but not at this time.
As I lay back in bed, I reflected back at myself sitting in that ante-room. Gingerly, the prophetic words fell from his mouth, each word struck home; their impact was devastating. The news was grim; she would live no more than two weeks. How could they be that precise? I kept asking myself. She was such a vibrant, volatile and fun human being. I thought hard and concluded that my expressions of inner turmoil meant little in the face of hopelessness and eventual demise. I had never felt so clear-headed and reasoned that all hope was gone.
It was mid-August, and the heat was stifling. The windows of my room were flung open onto the balcony, but this made little or no impression on the temperature in my room. I became aware of the formation of beads of sweat trickling down the side of my face and onto my bare skin. I thought about getting up to shower for the third time but thought better of it.
The eerie silence of my room was disturbed by a piercing scream. I quickly got out of bed, rushed to the window in time to notice the tail end of next door’s cat climbing over the wall. That’s a relief I thought, no harm done. Sounds of the night echoed in the still air. Angry voices struck out, a major shouting match ensued; car doors slammed, and a seemingly hapless driver and passenger came to blows. Delivery vans delivered their goods, the resulting incessant noise of the opening and closing doors drove me to distraction.
Those sounds of everyday life felt alien to me at this moment in my life; the urgency of knowing that time was running out was tantamount to anything else. She had to survive; nothing else would do or suffice. I refused to contemplate what had been said or believe what the outcome would be.
It was then I decided to play a mind game, ‘I must forever think positively and reject all negative thoughts. No one can predict the future and there is always a chance, however slim, of her going into remission for six months to a year or even longer’. This gave me hope. I would pray each day for a miracle to occur. ‘Never give up until all hope is gone’, a refrain which rang in my ears, told to me by my Nana when I was a child. Probably an auld wife’s tale but it seemed appropriate for this occasion.
Who was I kidding? A gnawing doubt kept me awake, eating away at my psyche, punishing me for contemplating anything other than the cold light of day.
I used to despise people who spat out platitudes of ‘she will get better, you wait and see, never give up hope’, as if they actually believed this nonsense. Maybe a defence mechanism on their part to cope with the reality of the situation. Knowing full well it was hopeless, but it made them feel somewhat reassured. Yet here was I trying to pull the same trick, being dishonest. This sort of talk doesn’t fool anyone let alone the person for whom all hope is gone.
When I visited the hospice, her condition had worsened. I came away distraught but with the realisation that I no longer hoped she would live on. My reasons for her survival were swept away by the dire prognosis of her condition. At that moment, I wished for her death to come soon. Her suffering was unbearable. She died soon after.
Hope is a conundrum, so, by its nature is ephemeral. Faith, on the other hand, is founded on a very different premise.