Aftermath.
af·ter·math
/ˈaftərˌmaTH/
noun
the consequences or aftereffects of a significant unpleasant event.
Here I am in the aftermath of Alex's PET scan on Monday. Think of all the ways you feel when an answer you deeply hoped would be positive comes back as a hard no. Yeah. All I could do was stand in the doorway to Alex's room and stare at him with disbelief when he said the news was bad. How many times have I stood in that doorway now and looked at him in disbelief. How on earth could it be bad, again?! Every single time I am holding on to hope. Every time. Stupid hope.
Of course I don't really think hope is stupid. (It has a lot of great qualities. It apparently springs eternal. The recommendation stands that you shouldn't give it up, yet it can be dashed). But the real kicker for me in this moment is that hope is so very tenacious. It is very hard to kill. Mostly I'm a fan of hope. Except when I'm not. Like now. I mean, I don't want to lose it or anything, but...
On Monday I was contemplating how it was possible that in my deepest heart I really thought the news would be good. Every single scan I have approached with this tension, working so hard to hold both possible outcomes in my hands equally so as not to be disappointed if the results are bad. And EVERY SINGLE time I'm shocked and completely dismayed. What on earth?
