Hope is a luxury item: easy to come by for some, impossible to attain for others. Hope is the tingling in the pit of your stomach that assures you that things are going to work out in your favor. It lets you know that even though the tunnel is dark, there’s a light at the end. Lately, hope has become a luxury I can’t afford because of the strain and heartache it delivers. Despite the reassurance it provides, hope, every so often, fails to follow through on its promises. Even though I’d like to label myself as a hopeful person, I’ve come to believe that in the appropriate circumstance it’s better to not rely on hope at all. Just succumb to reality.
When something difficult, tragic or downright horrible happens in our lives, it’s instinct to pray, hope and wish for things to improve. The incident I’m referring to is a double-stroke that happened to my Oma about seven months ago. Since the double-stroke we all prayed for a miracle, and for a while it seemed like our prayers were being answered in the form of consistent progress in her recovery. Then things took a turn for the worst following three cases of pneumonia, a UTI and small seizure. Hope had given us a peek at the light at the end of our dark tunnel only to jerk it away when we least expected. It was these backslides that prompted me to question the shred of hope that remained.
With quality of life dangling, it was hard to imagine my Oma wanting to continue to live. No one else will even speak about this awful fact, but it’s all I can think about. I’m beyond grateful to be dating someone who understands and agrees with my thoughts on her situation. Tonight when I asked him if he thought I was terrible for wanting this to be the end for her, he replied: “You want her suffering to be over with, not prolonged for several more months.” He managed to collect everything from my heart and put it into words for me. The hope for recovery has vanished because I know this is how it will be until she ultimately stops fighting.