After blasting through about half of the first draft of my book I’m stuck. I suppose it could be considered writer’s block, but I can’t even bring myself to open the chapter. Not only that, but I have a physical reaction when I even try.
I’m fixing to get past it, but it’s taking a little bit of liquid courage (which for this lady comes in the form of an extra cup of half caff with a hefty dollop of real whipped cream). Once I post this I’ll get down to business. I just need a minute to name this and get it out of my head.
I’m stuck at the end of Ben’s cancer treatment. I’m stuck because this is where it gets convoluted. End of cancer = celebration = bad is over, good is starting. That’s what we expected; what we deserved.
Ah, yes, we knew Ben still had some problems with his Hirschsprung’s disease to tackle, a few speed bumps ahead, but the worst was behind us, we had a new beginning.
Now it’s 3 years later and painfully obvious that Ben’s challenges will continue. I had come to terms with cancer, with 3+ years of treatment. But when that ended we didn’t get the happily ever after we had waited for, that we had earned. That is the exact point where the hope we had clung to melted away out of our hands, irretrievable.
This is where my anger begins. Sure, I had shaken my fist to the heavens and cried out many times, but always with a mind to get us through to the end of the nightmare, never realizing that the “new normal” we had rested our hopes on was a mirage.
I don’t know anymore if I believe that Ben will thrive in the way we had hoped. Our hopes have been deferred, and heart sickness has set in.
But this is where I learned that a tree if life can still flourish in the midst of heart sicknesses. Joy can be cultivated in heartache, and they can cohabit in awkward juxtaposition.
I’m not sure I will regain my once vibrant hope, but I do know that even when hope is dormant that beauty can be discovered amongst the ashes, if you’re careful to look.