From the vortex of grief: The cost of hope

“Hope” is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words 

And never stops at all 

         - Emily Dickinson

One of the most intimidating things about this year was managing all of my parents' finances and chores along with my work and personal responsibilities. No matter how well I planned, something came up out of the blue at the last minute. My mom would tell me a day or two before the deadline and I would have to somehow accommodate it in my schedule and get it done. The fact that it was always unfamiliar stuff coupled with broken and badly designed websites and apps made it no easier on me. Dealing with this put a lot of pressure on me, and I despised it for taking away that last bit of control I thought I had over my life. 

Among many such incidents, my mom once called telling me that my dad's chartered accountant license was due for renewal in the next two days and that he wanted it done. As usual, I had other stuff going on, and I was furious at this request, once again made of me at the eleventh hour. I was furious on multiple counts. One, my dad knew these deadlines very well and his memory and faculties were mostly unharmed by the stroke. He could have told me a couple of weeks in advance. Two, he himself could pick up some of these tasks instead of dumping all of them on me. Sure, he was still bedridden, but he could use his non-paralyzed right hand to operate a phone. We'd even offered to set up an accessible tablet or laptop. Three, since he anyway refused to operate any device and showed no interest in work, renewing his license to practice made no sense at all. I was pretty sure he was never going to work again. Four, this cost money, and it wasn't a trivial amount. The past year has been a nightmare financially, and we were in no position to spend on pointless things. I rattled off all these reasons to my Mom and scolded her for not having better judgment and making my life unnecessarily difficult. 

Her answer surprised me. She said I totally agree with you on this one. Renewing his license is pointless and a complete waste of money. I have told him so multiple times, but he is stubborn and refuses to listen. I don't know what to do. I didn't know what to do either. I was not pleased, but I decided to visit them and sort it out after talking to my Dad. Hopefully, he would listen to my logical arguments and see the sense in them.

I went over and asked him why he wanted this. He said I want to get back to my practice. If I don't renew it, I can't do that. Please do this for me. I tried to reason with him. But how will you practice? You have given up physiotherapy, and you barely have any movement. You aren't able to use even a phone let alone a computer. At this point, you returning to work doesn't seem anywhere near possible. He gave me the same refrain. But I want to work. I sat there nonplussed. What he said and where he was at did not match. He was in no state to work, and he knew it. Also, he'd always been a very frugal and practical person. Why was he insisting on this then?

After a while, it dawned on me. When he said he wanted to work, he meant he hoped he would be able to work. If he didn't renew his license, it meant that he was giving up on those hopes completely. Accepting that he would never be able to work ever again. Accepting that he would always be bedridden and dependent. I swallowed the lump in my throat. And then swallowed again. I was asking him to give up on his hopes, and he was begging me to let him hold on to them. I was taken down memory lane, recalling my own journey of hope and despair.

In the initial days of his stroke, I held a lot of hope that he would recover. I had a hard time accepting that this had even happened. Every morning I would wake up, and for a split second I would feel happy and peaceful, and then my memory caught up. Each morning, I would be hit by the same intense waves of pain and grief and shock, and I hated the experience. At night, I would dream that my Dad was walking somewhere with me. That he was at my doorstep, ringing the doorbell. That he was laughing and talking to me. And then I would awaken into this cruel world where none of that could happen, and have my heart break all over again. Those moments of realization were the hardest. It was like reliving the first moment of tragedy a million times over. My therapist told me that these dreams indicated that I hadn't fully accepted reality yet. It would take some time, she said.

She was right. After 6 or 7 months, I stopped having these dreams of happy times with my Dad. I didn't wake up happy only to be shattered a moment later. But you know what? I hated this even more. I woke up with that numb feeling of grayness, knowing already that things were not right. Maybe even feeling that they would never be right again. My world was broken, and it would remain broken. I longed for the olden days when I could feel happy at least in my dreams. At least for that brief moment after I woke up. It seemed worth all that heartbreak. Because during those tragic days, I still had hope. That things would change for the better. Those hopes made reality very painful to live through, but they were something to hold on to. After I fully accepted my reality, I no longer had those hopes to cling on to. I saw things very practically, but it was painful in a different way. Disillusioned. Uncomfortably numb.

I looked back at my father, and then the phone screen. Eight thousand two hundred and sixty rupees. That was the cost of his hope. My father looked completely depressed and bereft of motivation to all of us, but who can say for sure? If this is the one thing he is holding on to, I can't be cruel enough to deprive him of it in the name of reason. All of us need something to look forward to. And so I made that payment, even if it caused the money to dwindle down a bit more. Even if none of us had any hope left that he would work again. The least we could do was to let him believe in that for himself. He thanked me, and that was that.

I would give a lot to be able to hope again. But I am drowning in an ocean of cynicism and despair, and I cannot find my way back to the warm sands of hope. The thought that my Dad might still have a place there is comforting. That possibility is worth every rupee of the eight thousand two hundred and sixty.