HOPE – my definition – a set of permissions: permission to breathe, to sleep, to smile, perhaps even laugh, to be present. Maybe, just maybe, to plan.
All these things taken for granted until…
That wrecking ball, crashing into lives, knocking over loved ones, like skittles. In my case, my brother, a youthful, vibrant 50-year-old (yes, my little brother), diagnosed with Stage 4 metastatic melanoma – tumour sites, probably 3. The successful removal of cancer in his forearm 18 months ago, not so successful after all.
On Friday 13th December 2019 he walked into my house, coming straight from the consultation at the Western General, to deliver the devastating news, dissolving into the most fearful tears. His wife, who had not gone to the appointment at my brother’s request, hearing the news she knew in his words, for the first time: Stage 4. Only one possible treatment – may not be available to him due to pre-existing medical condition – quick acting cancer – weeks. The words cutting into us as we tried to show a bravery we did not feel, could not feel.
And with these piercing words, all the permissions we had taken for granted, gone. Breathing became restricted, shallow; sleep eluded us all. Lying in our pools of darkness and isolation, everyone experiencing these lonely days differently. Me, battling continual imaginings of a life without him – the boy hewn from the same piece of timber as I. Chastising myself – he is still here, save the pain of his loss until it is an actuality – live the “now” that he inhabits – he is! And through Christmas, not sharing the news – not yet – with his children, then mine. Because, of course, he is the best of uncles and to say the words will break my heart and breach the wall holding in my own emotions. The New Year – I have never dreaded “ringing out the old and ringing in the new” as I did when 2020 crept over our family. And, at last, an appointment as soon as the hospital opened for consultations. No positive news, but no slamming the door on him either. More cross department discussions needed.
It took over a month. And then his call to me: ‘I can start treatment.’
And I breathed, filling my lungs for the first time in 5 ½ weeks, not realising how little capacity I had used til then; and I embraced sleep that night, welcoming the sight of my bed, able to look forward to the morning. I didn’t need to avoid people, while still unable to form the words to admit the battle ahead. I managed to be in company, to listen, to be distracted. Not feeling guilty if I laughed or joked. And the best: to plan, to be there for him, his family, my family, look forward to holidays and meals and walks. Not taking the next year, 10 years, 20 years for granted. Sharing experiences and creating memories was our promise to each other. Carpe that beautiful diem – every day!
January 2020 gave us permission to love each other loudly, proudly, joyfully – to walk the path he, we, had to walk. We had a path! That is HOPE. And we continue to walk it all together – riding the challenges Covid isolation threw at him, his family, us. Still walking together, over 4 years and one pandemic later.