2. Hope doesn’t prepare us for negative outcomes
If you don’t save for retirement because you hope to win the lottery, duh, that’s irrational. We call that out. We know it’s unhealthy to put our heads in the sand and hope for the best without preparing for reality, yet we encourage this kind of thinking in sick people.
When we’re diagnosed, everyone tells us to have hope, when what we really need is to be encouraged to be brave, to nurture strength. We need doctors and loved ones to acknowledge that what we’re up against is going to be hard. Really hard.
When we accept that the world is unfair, that suffering is part of the human experience, we can focus on what’s realistically modifiable. Hoping that my body will heal can prevent me from cultivating the courage to cope with what happens if it doesn’t.
3. Hope can make you do stupid things
Being drunk on hope can cloud our judgement. The more we have hope because we’re desperate, the more likely we are to undergo risky treatments, spend money we don’t have, even travel to sketchy places for un-approved procedures. I’m not judging. I’ve done all these things. The other end of this spectrum is to hope that things will work out without intervention. This can lead to neglecting the importance of diet and exercise, maybe taking up smoking, or ghosting the dentist, or even refusing medical treatments that could help.
4. Hope can be a barrier to acceptance
Whether it’s faith in God or faith in pharma, we’re taught from diagnosis that the only acceptable way to proceed is to believe we will get better. We’re told to be warriors, to fight against fate, as if by refusing to accept our diagnosis we will somehow be able to reverse it.
It’s hard to have this kind of hope without actively hating your life. It takes more courage to accept an unjust future than to deny one. It takes more courage to love your body, broken though it may feel, than to rage against it.
Clinging to outcomes over which I have no control keeps me longing for the way things were. It keeps me feeling bitter about the present. It keeps me fearful of the future.
5. Hope and Fear are kissing cousins
Hope and fear are just informed guesses about what comes next. But there are no guarantees in the unknowable future.
I spend zero seconds of my day hoping I don’t get hit by the proverbial bus. I don’t have to hope the murder-bus doesn’t get me, because I just expect it won’t. However, I spend all my waking hours (and some of my sleeping ones) hoping MS doesn’t destroy me because it’s the thing I’m most afraid of.
Hope is not the absence of fear. It is the manifestation of it.
What am I supposed to do now? They say you have nothing if you don’t have hope.
Letting go of hope doesn’t mean feeling hopeless. The key is to hope wisely. Par exemple: I hope I go to Paris every year for the rest of my life. That’s good hope. I hope you have a nice day. Another fine example. I hope I never turn into my mother is the kind of self-deluding hope that would be better served by making space in my closet for giant hats and used wrapping paper, while looking forward to the day I get buzzed off of half a glass of zinfandel.
Letting go of hope and accepting the way things are doesn’t mean being complacent with your health either. Like Derrick Jensen (Endgame) writes, “When hope dies, action begins”. For me, letting go of hope means being even more committed to diet and physio, because for now, they’re all I’ve got.
Letting go of hope means living in the present and finding gratitude for the way things are despite the difficulties. My hopes aren’t high; in fact, the thing I seem to always be hoping for the hardest is to just stay the same, to not get any worse. In some ways, the thing I’m hoping for is the thing I already have.
And if a cure does come along it won’t matter if I hoped for it or not.