It's The Hope That Kills You

Beloved one,

When they talk of hope, my mind goes to you, beacon that you are. I marvel at the way you hold it in the face of such adversity – with stoic pragmatism, with curiosity and a determined dose of fact checking. This is the way you forge new worlds and seek possibility. This is how you hold your spirit. Your explorative nature is endless. Your creativity, boundless. You have more faith in science than God, so you research and seek empirical certainty.

This would exhaust a lesser being… but your essence seems to hold a divining rod, fine-tuned to locate the hope at the deepest heart of the matter. Hope fuels you, no matter what.

I’m in awe.

I told you I was writing about hope and that the words that kept coming up were bleak: It’s the hope that kills you. You laughed then, a familiar chuckle from a place of: Oh God, sometimes it really fucking does. But you challenged me – write about the good things, find the joy, dig in. Locate the paths away from despair…

Is that how you do it?

Our humour is gallows. We plan an '80s themed funeral where black is bloody ubiquitous – no buggering about with bright colour – we want people to be FUCKING SAD. Shoulder pads, high heels and little pill-hats with neat lace veils, barely concealing thickly lined eyes, so the mascara really runs. Dynasty meets Dallas with a Joan Collins red lip. Men in suits – no skinny jeans allowed. We reserve the right to march anyone off the premises who wears a gilet. I beg to be able to tell stories about car farts and the time we turned up too drunk to get into the concert, but we played posh and held it together, elegantly wasted…

We cackle as we think of the most inappropriate music to play. Me: would a flash mob, doing the final scene from Dirty Dancing down the Crematorium aisle, be too much? No, you say, I’ve Had The Time of My Life, Baby! Our laughter nearly tips into tears, then. I look at you, eyes brimming: Yes. And we aren’t done yet.

I watch as you build holding patterns of possibility – the careful construction of drugs and care and routine - formations which hold for six weeks, or six months, or less, or more, who knows? Who ever fucking knows?

I watch these holding patterns crumble. I see you flounder, flail and fail. It wrenches me, but I dig in, inspired by you. I watch you, the medical staff and carers rebuild from failure – another configuration, reimagined from something differently possible. Something woven from science and experience, determination and experimentation, spite, love and humour made effervescent by hope.

But everyone has a breaking point. Even you, beloved, have your moments of bleakness. Even your spirit weakens and you are Just Too Tired.

OK. It’s OK.

We can do this.

Breathe.

I put parts of myself aside for a while – the scared, sad, wrecked parts of me. The furious, confused, powerless parts. They rage and demand to scream, to be heard.

I say: not now.

Later.

I’ll come back for you later.

I put them aside and ask my brave parts to step forward. I ask for whatever depleted reserves I have of patience and understanding to be accessible. I give you the best bits – the steady, fearless, understanding bits.

I attempt your stoicism.

I do not panic.

I do not create drama.

I stay steady.

I learned from the best.

I tend to my terror elsewhere. I take it to places it can dissipate. Friends, family, chosen family – loved ones who hold my dread and hopelessness. Ones who check in randomly. Ones who don’t head-tilt like I’m broken, but look at me like I’ve got this, you can do this, I can do this.

Their faith gives me hope, gives me courage. I go to them, heartbroken and half mad, and by walking or wine, they shift me.

When it gets really bad, I go to therapy. I swear a lot, mostly about being in fucking therapy. I wish I had more grace.

This is how it is, my darling. I am strong for you, others are strong for me. I don’t bring you my fears, I try to fuel your hope. I hope.

I take my weakness to people and places that fortify me and that gives me strength.

And so we work in a holding pattern…of sorts.

What I know.

What I cling to, beyond anything, is that somehow, loss only partially matters.

There is power in loving.

There is power in being loved, and that power lasts, beyond any loss.

You are alongside me.

Infused in me.

Continually with me.

Our stories.

All of this.

Your mark on me.

It is indelible, constant and comforting.

Through this, I hope.