Hope is a funny thing.
It doesn't float, like in that movie with Sandra Bullock. It's more like a roller-coaster. At least when you're talking about Cancer. In such a short time, my family and I have seen many hopes climb and crash.
It started off with,
"During the procedure, we did see a tumor on the pancreas." Crash.
"However, and I don't get to say this very often, it looks to be small and likely operable." Climb.
"Your CT Scans show spots on your liver." Crash.
"They might just be bile." Climb.
"Both biopsies came back positive for cancer." Crash.
The bumpy ride has continued as we've had appointments with oncologists, submitted our records to alternative doctors around the U.S., and been met with depressing treatment prospectives and flat out refusals. When hope is taking you on such an unpredictable ride, you grow really wary and very weary. Around every corner, you hope there's an answer. At the same time, you're terrified it's not the one you want to hear.
Hope is the fuel that propels us upward, even in the face of disappointments and disasters, but it also makes the fall that much harder on the way down. And that's where I'm at with hope. I can't live with it and I can't live without it, so we're learning to co-exist in a new way.
You might say it's a love-hate relationship.