Hope. The Most Addicting of All.

Hey, it's me.

It's been a while—61 days, in fact.

That's how I seem to keep track of time lately – by days.

It's been 661 days since the last time I talked to mom before stupid cancer.

436 days since we said goodbye.

453 days since I have received a text message from her.

67 days since I have last had my hair done (helpppppppp)

And 32 days since I've left my house.

But the one thing I can't put a number of days to is the last time I felt hope in its rawest, purest form.

Hope is addicting because it makes you see challenges in a positive way. It gives hard times meaning. Hope keeps people going.

But what do you have in the absence of hope?

Despair.

A few days before mom died, I wrote a blog about how if you believe in hope, then anything is possible, which is complete bullshit. "Anything" is not possible. Curing terminal cancer isn't possible. Looking back on it now, I don't think I really felt hopeful so much as desperate and pleading. Essentially, I was left wishing for something that deep down we all knew was impossible. And in the end, I was left heartbroken and full of regret over wasted time not spent learning from and appreciating her being alive. I felt disappointed, abandoned, and bitter. I blamed hope for stealing my final days with her. And I hate myself for that.

You see, hope is an optimistic state of mind – it's believing in and expecting something with confidence. But since the day mom was diagnosed with cancer, I couldn't tell you the last time I felt confident about anything. I was addicted to the idea of hope – but I was never truly hopeful. I have yet to feel optimistic. Never once during her treatment did I feel it. Not when she was released after her 19-day stay at the hospital. Not even when we learned that she had qualified for immunotherapy treatment.

I never felt hopeful.

I felt scared and helpless and desperate.

I wasn't optimistic that something great would happen.

I was terrified that it wouldn't.

Turns out, I was right.

And now, amid a global pandemic, isolation, and full-fledged anxiety, I wish I could find the courage to hold on to hope. Some days I wake up, so sad and desperate for a life that once was, that it’s hard to believe this will ever end. It's hard to believe that I will get to go home and hug dad and not fear that I am carrying a virus that could kill him. That I could go to the grocery store without panicking or that the thought of flying won't always be so scary.

It's hard to have hope that things will return to a "new" normal (whatever the hell that is), and I'll have the chance to reconnect with the things I miss so much. And I'm not just talking about the little things; girls night out, juicy steaks at fancy restaurants, TJ Maxx, the luxury of someone else making your coffee, or vacations - like the one I was supposed to be taking to Austin this weekend to celebrate Dad's birthday/retirement. 

But I'm also talking about the BIG things that were once so little. The things I took for granted that seemed so unimportant. Like actually getting to see my dad (or just another human for that matter), hugging friends, shaking hands, cubicle life at the office filled with voices and laughter, and getting to spend holidays with loved ones.

I wish I had hope to believe those things – but instead, I feel scared and desperate all over again.

Maybe it's because I've tried the hope route before, and life laughed in my face and took my mom from me. Maybe it's because I am still experiencing such raw heartache 436 days later that grieving has become my new normal. Or maybe it's just because some days everything just feels so damn hard that hope is just too hard to hold on to.

While thumbing through Instagram the other day, I came across a quote that said, "at the end of the day, all you need is hope and strength. Hope that it will get better and strength to hold on until it does."

So, here's to strength and finding the courage to believe that, while pain is real, so is hope.