The Audacity

If you haven't been keeping up with me, I'll warn you that things around here have turned serious. My life has entered into the Twilight Zone -- and not one of its happier edges where Santa Claus is real. I have cancer; I don't know whether my baby (due in August) will survive the treatment. I apologize, because I'm sick of dropping the depressing news on people who know me. But it's become ridiculous to pretend it's not happening.

So I'm learning about hope, and I'll title this along the lines of Senator Obama's book -- The Audacity of Hope -- because I feel absurdly audacious these days when I answer "How are you?" with a simple "fine." I'm not "fine." The past three weeks have been all about waiting. Waiting for doctors to call back, waiting for test results, waiting for surgery to be scheduled. Each time I wait, my life pauses for hours or days, and I can decide whether to be fatalistic (to avoid disappointment) or hopeful (and risk discouragement).

And "getting my hopes up" is something I've thought about before, in pregnancy. Pregnancy means "expecting." For months on end, we really don't "have" anything but heartburn, swelling, eventually some kicks and tumbles in our bellies -- nothing but the expectancy that this will lead to a day when we look into the eyes of our newborn child. Pregnancy is all about hope. And when it comes to the hard stuff -- whether to give birth naturally, whether to get your heart set on breastfeeding -- we're often afraid to hope for much at all. We tell ourselves, "I'm being flexible, so I won't be disappointed." As if it's the moment of letdown -- and not the actual loss -- that can ultimately hurt us.

So we protect ourselves with low expectations, and this isn't always enough. In my last pregnancy, I failed to prepare for natural birth (of course, not helping my chances) because I was afraid to admit I wanted it. I thought that, if I avoided conviction about birth, I would avoid disappointment. But the pain came anyway, even when I had so carefully avoided "getting my hopes up." How could I grieve something I tried so hard not to want?

Because some things suck. I decided, early in this pregnancy, that no matter how hard it is, I'd go ahead and hope for the best. That used to mean "insisting on VBAC" instead of "Maybe they'll let me have a trial of labor." Now things are crazy, but I'm hoping anyway. "Disappointment" isn't my worst case scenario any more. I have cancer. What do I have to lose by getting my hopes up?

Hope looks different around here, each day. Last week, I said out loud "I've decided that I'm fine," and ended up with my hopes crushed to tears after reading two more independent pathology reports. Yes, I felt stupid and embarrassed for having high expectations. I could have spent that week expecting the worst, and I wouldn't have any "hope" to be "crushed" when the oncologists came into the consultation room. Was I in denial, or just being optimistic? Was I feeling the pain of "crushed hopes?" Or just the pain of this damn situation?

This week, as I wait to hear whether last week's surgery got "clean edges" around a tumor, hope means shopping for baby clothes (just a few) without thinking too intently on when they might be worn. Hope means sending out job applications, without knowing for sure when I'll be available for work. Maybe this is delusional. But I can't clear a year off my calendar in case I end up unable to walk. I can't ignore the child wiggling in my tummy, when a few brief weeks of affection might be the most love I'll ever be able to give.

It's an awful, awful struggle. But I can't live as if I've already lost it. So, at the risk of "getting my hopes up" -- I'll go ahead and raise them high to shine in the sun. And see what happens next -- Maybe I'll even go for that VBAC.