Hope is a luxury item: a surplus for some, in high demand for others. Hope is the tingling in the pit of your stomach that lets you know things are going to be okay. Right now hope is a luxury I can’t afford. Every once in a while hope fails to follow through on its promise of reassurance. I’d like to label myself as hopeful, but I’ve come to believe that in certain situations it’s best not to rely on it.
When we’re suffering, it’s instinct to hope for things to get better. When my Oma had two strokes seven months ago, I prayed for a miracle. For a while, our prayers resulted in continuous progress in her recovery. When things worsened after three cases of pneumonia, a UTI, and small seizure, my hope faded. After staring at the light at the end of the tunnel, hope jerked it away without cause.
“I know everything happens for a reason, but sometimes I wish I knew what the reason was.”
With her quality of life dangling, it’s hard to imagine Oma wanting to continue living. My family won’t talk about this because of how depressing it is, but it’s all I can think about. I’m grateful I can share my thoughts with my boyfriend. When I asked if he thought I was terrible for wanting this to be the end, he said: “You want her suffering to be over with, not prolonged for several more months.” He collected the contents of my heart and put them into words for me. My hope for her recovery has vanished because I know it will only get worse until she stops fighting to stay here.