*March 2021* by Tess Taft, msw, licsw ©all rights reserved
“Every single time I go to the oncology clinic I wonder: will I gain hoped today or lose hope today?” “My cancer is blissfully boring right now- it’s a nice break between recurrences. My hope always rises when that happens.” “I keep my hopes to a bare minimum- If I don’t feel good enough to get dressed in the morning, I figure I’ll put on earrings “Hope is a roller coaster ride for me. It swings up and down wildly. I think hoping increases my anxiety.” “Do I dare to hope? Is it foolish of me to hope? Will the letdown when it is lost be worth what it gives me when I hold onto it?” “My friends are going on road trips, gardening for hours at a time, and so lightly talking about their future. “Longing and hope are two different things.Longing is based in fear and sadness for me. “My hope and my spirituality are the same, I think.” Let’s talk about hope. I’ve always thought of it as a double-edged sword. It’s essential and it’s dangerous, both. It holds us up, and it can feel as though it has utterly disappeared with one scan result, or even the look on a doctor’s face. And yet hope rests in the deepest, most loving part of who we are, giving us the inspiration, the energy, and the will to take the next steps forward when the next steps feel impossible. How many times have we all considered what someone did and asked ourselves “How did she DO that?” Hope pushes us forward, or it calls us forward, but it can bring us to our knees when it is lost. The other day I asked a man newly diagnosed with Stage IV cancer about his hope. He said “Well, before the doctor told me I had cancer he silently handed me a box of kleenex. Would you have hope if that happened?” I said to him “Yes, absolutely, but I’d manage it very carefully.” How do we manage hope? And WHY do we need to manage it? We do that because hopes can be wildly unrealistic, throwing people into terrifying despair when they are proven to be impossible. Do you recall a time when you felt wild hope? I remember feeling that way when I got a call from the police about a car accident my son was involved in. I desperately hoped that my son was not hurt…then a moment later I wildly hoped that he was alive at all. Hope was essential, holding me up, mentally frozen in place, until I received news I could actually use to stumble forward. But in that gap, all I had was hope. I was feeling so utterly vulnerable. But no hope? That IS despair. So, we need to manage it thoughtfully when we can. HOW do we manage hope? Hope is the opposite of mindfulness. Hope flings itself into the future, while mindfulness grounds us in the current moment. Mindfulness is at the root of the cancer motto I came up with years ago: “In this moment I am OK. If that changes I’ll deal with it because that’s what I do.” When it comes to managing hope, there are a few thoughts or suggestions to keep in mind that might help:
I had a client I’ll call Jeannie, who was very ill. Her cancer was progressing no matter what she did. When I asked her what she was hoping for, her answer was quick and sure: “I’m not hoping for anything. When I die, that’s it. Nothing happens. I’m a scientist, Tess. Don’t ask me about that!” She had decided to take advantage of the Death with Dignity law that has passed in five states, and asked me to be with her and her family when she took the medicine. I told her I’d be honored. I met with her two weeks before she planned her “escape”, as she called it. During that meeting, I told her “I’d like you to do something. When you die, I’d like you to keep a window open for immense, unexpected joy. Just a little window open.” She laughed and said “OK, I’ll do that. You really hope there’s more, don’t you?” I laughed and agreed. Two weeks later I went to her home to be with her and her family at this sacred time. The family was next door at her son’s home, so she and I had some time alone. I found her soft, glowing, and radiating deep peace. She smiled as I gave her a kiss, and said gently, with no word from me, “I didn’t forget. I’m going to keep a window open for immense, unexpected joy.” Her family arrived, and her best friend of 40 years and I went into the living room to give them space. They gave her the medicine, and her friend and I sat in silence looking down quietly, thinking about Jeannie. About 4 minutes later our heads jerked up and we stared at each other in astonishment. “Did you see that?!” she asked. “Yes!” I replied. “What did you see?” she asked. “I saw a stream of light flying through this room and then it broke into a thousand brilliant little stars and disappeared.” “That’s exactly what I saw!” she said, and we stared at each other. So here’s to the immense blessings of hope, and here’s to learning how to care for yourself and your hope-filled loved ones when hopes are dashed. I think of you all with love, every month. |