Hope, redux.
hope goes begging for fear
the sugared edge of the frosting
tastes,
faintly,
of bile.
I'm half in, mostly out, of an online writers' support group for people with cancer. I'm not sure what I expected. What happens is that the moderator, the impossibly sweet and supportive Caroline, posts prompts we are meant to respond to in prose and throw up on the board for commentary.
Today the theme was hope, and she posted some hope quotes. Like "Hope is the thing with feathers-/That perches in the soul-" by Emily Dickinson.
I think I might have to drop out of the writers' group, because I think dark thoughts and this group, with its penchant for homilies and similes, usually greets my writing entries with silence. I'm too sullen for this group. That bit up there about hope and bile is what I thought of when I read the hope prompt today. You see why they ignore me, dark horse?
I'm reading a book entitled Advice for Future Corpses, and the author thinks hoping for medical miracles is just a way of expressing your fear of dying. I mean, that's not unexpected, given the title of the book, but still. I want to say, a girl can hope, but the words taste sour today.
I'm actually in fairly good spirits. We're going to the cape soon and I think there are going to be sandy days of exhausted, tanned little boys, and evening night caps with Kyle and Avery and Kim. After that, we're headed to Maine with the bigger family, and I expect hamburgers and cousins leaping into the pool, and some handwringing with my mother over the state of country with bagels and cream cheese and the Sunday NY Times. But I'm also full of darkness this week. As you know, I went to the doctor last week and I think there is a pattern emerging. Every time I go into MGH, there is a little part of me that wants a miracle. Hopes for a miracle. And then, of course, of course, there never is. I want to somehow hear, oh, Tracy, there is no evidence of cancer. Or, there is a truly promising clinical trial. Instead, the story doesn't change.
Then I'm furious at myself for somehow falling for this false hope again, this narration of progress, this love of the winner storyline. I'm not the winner this time. And I'm mad and angry and I'm jealous of my healthy friends. Today in support group, someone said we aren't jealous of healthy people. We would never wish what we are going through on healthy people. And I thought, shit, I'm a bad person, because I am totally jealous of healthy people. I would never wish this on healthy people, but that second line doesn't follow for me. Why can't we both be cancer-free?
You know me. I love a piece of strawberry-rhubarb pie. But I didn't smoke, or do a drug of any kind except an occasional, and I mean, occasional Motrin. I would have made an awesome old lady and I have a lot of living left to do. Hope can go to hell.
What the Advice for Future Corpses author really goes on to say (and I think this is a good, necessary book for all of you future corpses out there, especially if you are actually caring for someone else right now, say an elderly grandparent, or an ailing parent, or a very sick spouse or child, who is looking very closely at death) is that dying people don't lose hope, it just changes. So the more advanced hoper stops hoping for medical miracles, because that's for suckers, and starts having reasonable hopes. Hope for a good day. Hope for time to finish a project. To repair a friendship. To go to the Cape one more time, for another example.
Oh, one more thing. That Emily Dickinson line has always scared me. Hope is a thing with feathers? Lurking around in my soul? That never conjured up angels or doves for me, but something dark, and feathered in an unnatural way. Like a dark Dr. Seuss drawing. A silent, monstrous bird.
the sugared edge of the frosting
tastes,
faintly,
of bile.
I'm half in, mostly out, of an online writers' support group for people with cancer. I'm not sure what I expected. What happens is that the moderator, the impossibly sweet and supportive Caroline, posts prompts we are meant to respond to in prose and throw up on the board for commentary.
Today the theme was hope, and she posted some hope quotes. Like "Hope is the thing with feathers-/That perches in the soul-" by Emily Dickinson.
I think I might have to drop out of the writers' group, because I think dark thoughts and this group, with its penchant for homilies and similes, usually greets my writing entries with silence. I'm too sullen for this group. That bit up there about hope and bile is what I thought of when I read the hope prompt today. You see why they ignore me, dark horse?
I'm reading a book entitled Advice for Future Corpses, and the author thinks hoping for medical miracles is just a way of expressing your fear of dying. I mean, that's not unexpected, given the title of the book, but still. I want to say, a girl can hope, but the words taste sour today.
I'm actually in fairly good spirits. We're going to the cape soon and I think there are going to be sandy days of exhausted, tanned little boys, and evening night caps with Kyle and Avery and Kim. After that, we're headed to Maine with the bigger family, and I expect hamburgers and cousins leaping into the pool, and some handwringing with my mother over the state of country with bagels and cream cheese and the Sunday NY Times. But I'm also full of darkness this week. As you know, I went to the doctor last week and I think there is a pattern emerging. Every time I go into MGH, there is a little part of me that wants a miracle. Hopes for a miracle. And then, of course, of course, there never is. I want to somehow hear, oh, Tracy, there is no evidence of cancer. Or, there is a truly promising clinical trial. Instead, the story doesn't change.
Then I'm furious at myself for somehow falling for this false hope again, this narration of progress, this love of the winner storyline. I'm not the winner this time. And I'm mad and angry and I'm jealous of my healthy friends. Today in support group, someone said we aren't jealous of healthy people. We would never wish what we are going through on healthy people. And I thought, shit, I'm a bad person, because I am totally jealous of healthy people. I would never wish this on healthy people, but that second line doesn't follow for me. Why can't we both be cancer-free?
You know me. I love a piece of strawberry-rhubarb pie. But I didn't smoke, or do a drug of any kind except an occasional, and I mean, occasional Motrin. I would have made an awesome old lady and I have a lot of living left to do. Hope can go to hell.
What the Advice for Future Corpses author really goes on to say (and I think this is a good, necessary book for all of you future corpses out there, especially if you are actually caring for someone else right now, say an elderly grandparent, or an ailing parent, or a very sick spouse or child, who is looking very closely at death) is that dying people don't lose hope, it just changes. So the more advanced hoper stops hoping for medical miracles, because that's for suckers, and starts having reasonable hopes. Hope for a good day. Hope for time to finish a project. To repair a friendship. To go to the Cape one more time, for another example.
Oh, one more thing. That Emily Dickinson line has always scared me. Hope is a thing with feathers? Lurking around in my soul? That never conjured up angels or doves for me, but something dark, and feathered in an unnatural way. Like a dark Dr. Seuss drawing. A silent, monstrous bird.
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