Nothing has to stay as it is.
Sometimes, life cannot quite make up its mind. It’s an ongoing concern and I’m in the process of negotiating a peace treaty with hope.
Today is not a good day. You’re not well, and of course, we both know that you haven’t been well for years. But today, there are new things wrong with you. This, a bad habit you somehow seem unable to shift. There’s always the next scare, yet another cut in the fabric of possibilities. Further limits. Unwelcome changes. Last minute alterations. None of them your choice, and again, the cloth gets smaller, smaller still.
I wonder: How small is too small?
I have many questions. We live in suspended fear. The early morning sunshine, however, does not, and enters the scene with pompous glee. Hits me on the nose with a dash of brightness. Hits you, too. An experiment in proximity. Brash, giddy warmth tickles, teases us through the window pane. I guess, it’s just a game for young light. I really shouldn’t resent such playfulness.
I like the idea of hope.
I’m in your room, surrounded by care-home-magnolia walls. Institutional, yet inoffensive, pleasant, and at the same time decidedly non-committal. I admire the skill. I force a smile. You asked me to come. You want me to stay until the doctor has done her weekly round, because you find it difficult to understand what she is saying. I’m here to translate the impossible. To take in and remember tough new facts about you, so that I can put them into softer words you can digest. I did it for mum back then. I’m doing it for you now. I’m your daughter. It’s my job. I interpret reality on demand. Dissect. Direct.
Hope.
I’m a linguist. Words, my forte. I understand exactly how they work and why. I know all about their most intimate, sticky secrets, their little incongruities, their exquisite caprices, but hope isn’t just a word. It’s far more complicated. Physical, like a tumor, and not necessarily benign. Some words have a predator-like quality, and don’t you ever dare to underestimate the cantankerous power of invasion.
Hope sits in my shoulders like a squatting lump. Perhaps just to prove a point, simple as.
I’d like to give it the benefit of the doubt. Hope might be here to teach me a thing or two about the mechanics of bodies. Their stubbornness. Their resilience. There’s more to them than flesh and blood. I had no idea that I was held together by so many invisible muscles and sinews and places inside me that could ache. This is not just uncomfortable. I can hardly move.
I’m full of tension that knows. Something. About everything.
I’m trying my best to give this unsolicited revelation a positive spin. Nodes of growth, that’s what I’d like to think, and perhaps, one day I will be able to acknowledge this very moment as a stepping stone towards greater understanding of something about everything. Right now, though, it’s merely pain. Hard, unapologetic, solid. Non-negotiable.
Still, I like the idea of hope.
There are a few caveats. Let’s be honest here. Hope hurts. It’s so much easier to give up, but the sun rises every day regardless, so it’s only natural that we feel we should do the same. Rise and shine. Rise and shine. Repeat. Smile.
I’m not sure what to say to you as the clock ticks, so I don’t say anything. I’m here to listen. You tell me that you cannot walk very far any more. I remind you that some days, that’s true. On others, however, you walk and walk for an hour or more, all the way to the fields of grain on the outskirts of the village, and you sit on that bench in the sunshine, like you used to with mum. Just last week you phoned me from that spot, wondering how on earth you got there. For a breath, a heartbeat, a hope, everything was well. Then clouds came, doubts came, and your soul turned cold.
Some days, you think of of your walking frame as the ultimate acknowledgement of defeat. On others, you tell me that it’s the greatest invention ever, that it gives you confidence. You love the extra seat cushion – but you’re not keen to be seen with your frame in photographs. This is not how you wish to be remembered.
Here’s what I don’t tell you: Yesterday, I spent a long, long time looking through family albums. Mum took almost all of the photographs. She was the chronicler of our family. She decided which stories got told and how we remembered things. Now, I need to fill in for her and I’m not sure I’m fully qualified. I know I’m old enough: 54.
I knit, crochet, connect day with day for you in a clumsy, graceless daisy chain of events: This hope, that hope, the next hope. This, that, the next. I’m not sure I can keep up this pattern for long enough. My work, not a delicate lace, and I’m making mistake after mistake. I’m doing it, though.
This. Hope, for now.
You’re getting impatient. The doctor’s late. Your room, the last one on her round. She gets here when she gets here, a concept you despise with increasing urgency.
You say that you didn’t eat breakfast today. Nothing seems to sit right in your stomach. You think it’s the cancers and when the doctor comes, she’ll have the results of your blood tests. You’re frightened.
You say that you want to go. Fall asleep, slip away, and perhaps, hope is a precipice.
You say that you want to see your grandson grow up, finish school, celebrate milestones. Perhaps, hope is a promise.
You say that you enjoy the sunshine, and we leave it at that.
I like the idea of hope.
Hope only knows now. This moment. You and me, here.
It’s all about hope.
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