In two weeks I’m flying home to visit my parents, my fourth and final trip this year. And, truth be told, I’m more scared than excited to be back.
The past three years, my visits have been more alike than different. Each day would begin with my mom preparing the same breakfast for me to have with dad, boiled egg and cherry tomatoes. Then my dad and I might chat as I watched from the cold, tiled floor his daily stretches on his hospital-style bed. I would spend the rest of the morning working, he would watch a show on his phone, using the soft earbuds I’d bought so his ears wouldn’t hurt from hours of bingeing, then I’d drive us out to lunch at one of our three spots. He’d have trouble walking, but with his cane and my steadying right hand we’d manage. On his good days we’d go for a coffee after and spend up to an hour talking about his life and mine. Then it’s back to the house, he would rest, I would work. Dinner would be me driving us somewhere, not too far, where we’d eat early and be done by 5:30pm. Once home, he’d have his shower, I’d join him afterwards in the upstairs living room and we’d chat for half an hour, then I’d leave him with his show to go watch Korean dramas with mom downstairs. A couple of hours later, dad would call out “Goodnight!” and I’d yell it back. Then it’s morning and we start all over again.
Into this routine might be sprinkled family meals with mom, writing sessions at a neighbourhood café, days out at the mall, and if I’m feeling indulgent, a three-hour full-body massage at the local parlour.
But since my last visit in July, my dad’s Stage IV cancer has advanced to the point I have no idea, this time, what to expect. I can only hope.
Though I choose not to.
Hope for nothing
I have hoped for many things in life and, despite multiple disappointments, have always enjoyed hope as a positive emotion.
I hope to win this all-expenses-paid scholarship so I can study in the UK for the next seven years and stalk all my favourite footballers.
I hope this cute, smart boy likes me back so the two of us can live happily ever after.
I hope they accept me onto this course so I can certify as a teacher and earn a higher wage.
I hope I meet someone interesting at the bar so I forget for an evening that my heart is broken.
I hope my move to Ho Chi Minh City goes well and I don’t end up depressed, unravelled, alone.
Whenever I’ve hoped for something, the hope energises me and for its duration I brim with limitless possibilities. Then if I get what I was hoping for, the pulsating energy climaxes into overlapping fireworks of joy. Even when I don’t get what I want, the disappointment doesn’t wipe out months of crescendoing, pleasurable anticipation.
No matter what happened in the end, the hope was always worth it.
But then, three years ago, we discovered my dad’s terminal cancer and I could no longer bear to hope for the one thing that felt worth hoping for: a father.
I could not hope for his recovery, for a few more years together, for days free from pain, for one more coffee, for this visit to not be the last.
I could not hope to prolong a life death had claimed, and so I chose not to hope at all.
Relish everything
Hope is a desire for a future state. And, since my dad’s diagnosis, I’ve taught myself to only hope for futures I can influence.
I will hope for a raise because I can work my ass off then ask my boss for one. I will hope to make a new friend because I can ask someone whose company I enjoy out for coffee. I will hope for a loving future with my partner because I can give my all to the present we share.
But there is nothing I can do to conjure a future with my father. So I refuse to hope.
I refuse to hope my dad will be strong enough to come out for meals with me in two weeks. I refuse to hope my visit won’t wear him out, make him feverish for weeks. I refuse to hope my fleeting presence won’t cause him pain.
Call it a coping mechanism—it sure is—but the alternative of hoping for a future I have no say over is far too painful.
Rather than hoping for an elusive future, I instead hold tightly to the present.
The present where my dad tells me, “It’s fine if you don’t” when I’m worried about completing my long list of assigned tasks during his hospital stay earlier this year. The present where my dad whispers he has no worldly worries the night before a big, scary spine operation. The present where, body wracked with pain, my dad looks me in the eye and tells me he’s happy. The present where I ask my dad over morning coffee if he’s proud of me and he nods yes.
The present where, every week, I call my parents and for up to an hour recount in detail my life in Ho Chi Minh City, asking my mom for updates from home, while dad sometimes listens in, sometimes slumbers through.
The present where, every day, I send my parents snaps of random meals, cafés I’m working in, animals I’m hoping to befriend. And sometimes my dad, when he’s not too tired, replies with a laugh and my mom, at the end of her long day caring for dad, a smiling emoji.
The present where I’m living my best life with my partner because my parents ask nothing of me but to be happy, wherever I am.
I relish this present. I will not hope for more.
What do you think?
This is the part where I plagiarise my boss (sorry Mark) and reproduce the most beautiful sentence I’ve ever read on hope from his book Everything Is F*cked: A Book About Hope, where he thanks his wife Fernanda:
If I’m ever able to hope for nothing, it will be for the simple reason that I’m already with you.
Reading Mark’s words, years before I hoped to work for him, made me ugly-cry in a way no other Acknowledgements has. “If I’m ever able to hope for nothing” hit hard:
If you’re ever able to hope for nothing, what would be your reason?
For me, the reason would be that I am alive. What about you? Please hit “reply” or leave a comment—I read every response and I’d love to hear from you. If you want, share this post with a friend for whom you hope genuine happiness.
Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,
Val
Photo by Aleksandr Ledogorov on Unsplash
Bonjour Val,
When i read "hope for nothing" i right away fast forwarded to the only phone call i had from my dad. He told me something like: " i am at the hospital waiting to dead, my life was happy very happy, i love you but never try to see me at the hospital". End! Curtain! That were the last words i heard from him. My reaction, i took my car drove randomly on unknow countryside shrink road hoping i smash on the first tree i was inconsolable but i survived to this black horrible day.
My dad abandonned me when i was little i saw him in happy years one hour once a year in a fancy restaurant.
I can relate your own fear so well. My dad was my all world, my lost heroe even if he was not beside me.
We're living to experience. Trauma like this made me better i think because i owe him the person i am now.
Hoping you will just enjoy each moment ahead with your dad without thinking to what about his health. Do not be afraid, just enjoy and smile to everywhere single instant you get to share together will be my advice.