“Breakfast”

When you sit across from hope, sometimes you don’t realize it.

I knew it was going to be one of those days. The kitchen was silent, and we were both already seated.

I didn’t ask either of them to join me. No. After almost seven years of living with cancer, I’ve learned that they show up with the diagnosis. They stay as long as needed. I’ve learned how they act.

Fear speaks first. Fear speaks the loudest. Fear reads the lab portal before the doctor even calls. Then Fear takes every flagged value and declares it a final judgment. Fear does math at 3 a.m. and doesn’t show you his work. Fear remembers nearly every horrible ending I’ve seen in 30 years of practicing medicine. Then Fear lists those possible endings in order.

Fear isn’t dumb. That’s what makes this so hard. Almost everything Fear says can happen.

Hope speaks softly. Hope doesn’t dispute the numbers. Instead, Hope waits for Fear to run out of steam. When that happens, Hope brings up something I did recently, like the walk I took, or someone who is supposed to call today, or the simple fact that I’m sitting in the kitchen, sipping coffee again.

Hope stays longer. That’s really all Hope has on its side. Fear gets tired quickly and leaves sooner or later. Hope is still at the table when the kitchen lights go out.

I remember one morning that belonged completely to Fear. I had an MRI scheduled for that afternoon, and by 7 a.m., Fear had already figured out the results. I canceled plans for lunch. I yelled at someone who didn’t deserve it. I sat in my parked car for twenty minutes, trying to remember how I got there. To anyone watching, I probably appeared calm. Inside, I was preparing to attend a funeral.

That was the price tag. Not the MRI, the entire day leading up to it. Surrendered.

And then there was a morning when Hope won. My blood count hadn’t changed since the week before. Everything remained the same, which in my world is somewhat good news. So I cooked breakfast for someone else. I replied to emails I had avoided for weeks. I wrote for an hour.

Hope didn’t alter the disease that day. Hope made the day bearable. And apparently, that’s enough. Apparently, that’s most of what any of us want.

For a very long time, I thought our objective was eviction, to get Fear out of the house, fill the vacant spot with Hope, and lock the door shut tight. I tried positive thinking, distraction, avoiding the portal, and every other method I could find. Each one lasted about a week. Then Fear returned, angry about being kicked out.

It wasn’t until much later that I understood the true goal wasn’t to eliminate Fear. Fear is what concern for your life feels like when your life is under question. If a person felt absolutely no fear in this situation, they wouldn’t be courageous. They’d be non-existent.

My mission had never been to remove Fear from the table. My mission was to maintain the table. Maintain the coffee. Maintain my seat at the table. Continue the conversation long enough for Hope to say something.

So I quit kicking Fear out. I began placing a third party at the table.

Ordinary things now occupy that space. Daily routines occupy it, too, along with the same coffee made by the same window during good times and bad. People occupy it, too, people who chose to remain and people who showed up unexpectedly. Work occupies it. Writing occupies it, including this paragraph, because writing is the best method I’ve found to keep either Fear or Hope from consuming the entire room.

Some mornings, I wake up to find Fear speaking first. Some mornings, Hope lets me travel farther than the available data says I should. I’ve stopped counting the number of times they both speak at my table. They share my table. That’s the agreement. That’s my only agreement.

Sometimes the coffee is cold in the morning. Sometimes I brew a fresh cup. Sometimes I take my seat again.

Not despite them. Not in denial of them.

Next to them.