There is Always Hope

When I was a kid I used to ask for signs. Stupid things. Things like "God, if the Bulls are going to pull this game out in the 4th quarter... give me a sign." Then, I'd expect a picture to fall off the wall or something. It never happened, but then again the Bulls had Michael Jordan. They probably didn't need the divine intervention. Still, I don't think signs work that way. I get the feeling they are a bit more complex.

When you try to put together the picture of what six weeks of recovery from a cancerous tumor looks like - its difficult to walk that thin line between melodrama and meaningful perspective. But, some things are undeniable. For instance, I have a wallpaper background on my laptop of a graffiti artist - Banksy. I put it up on my computer months ago; a picture of a little girl, hair blowing in the wind, outstretched arms, just out of reach of a heart shaped balloon floating away. In itself it's a nice picture. Nothing amazing, but rather an interesting moment frozen in time of a girl and her balloon, juxtaposed on a dreary street corner in London somewhere. But, that wasn't all to the photo. On the same cement, a few yards down from the girl was a simple phrase etched on the wall in sloppy handwriting: "THERE IS ALWAYS HOPE"

I remember there being a moment, days before the surgery, when things started to feel all too real. In hindsight, the anticipation was far and away the worst part. But, then I saw that photo of the girl, and the balloon, and the phrase of hope. I wish I could say it was like a shining light, some powerful message that carried me through unchartered waters, but that's all too cliche. It wasn't as much that I carried it with me, but rather that it stuck. Days, weeks later, I found myself coming back to it, unable to shake it from my memory. And, it wasn't nearly as much for me as it was for others. While there was a cancer on my side, the people I shared a floor with at the hospital were men and women of all types of conditions. Some better, some worse. Some were probably like me - going home in a few days. But, some were small children, all too young to be in such a place. Some were old, and tired, and had surely ditched hope years ago for a much more tangible sidekick - survival. But, that's not to say the hope wasn't there.

I don't know what it was about that simple phrase, but it still hasn't quite left me, and I hope it doesn't. It's not hard to walk away from a situation such as this and say that you learned to live everyday like your last. Or, to cherish everything because it can be taken away in a heartbeat. And, those things would be right. But, few people can actually live everyday like their last, or defend against getting comfortable with the things they cherish. I'll want to throw my blackberry against a wall sometime soon. I'll be mad that I missed too many shots in a basketball game sometime soon. I'll let things get to me. That's not the point. The point is that there are things deserving of hope all around - things I most likely would have been blind to before. And, I don't consider myself some phrophet because I had a tumor. Everyone finds their way on their own, and it would be ignorant of me to think I am in a position to impose whatever "lessons" I may have learned on anyone else. Sharing is a different story. So, if walking away from the hospital, and working my way through recovery with the image of that girl and her balloon and the phrase of hope is what I take from this experience - I'm fine with that. Mr. Morton would probably fine with that, I'm sure. So would the little 5 year old boy down the hall, and the the nice British woman's father. After all, "hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies." Thanks Andy Dufrense.