I need hope
I need hope.
I clamber for hope. Fight for hope. Search for hope.
Sometimes it wells up with ease. Like when the sun warms my face. Or when my cat’s whiskers brush against my cheek. Or when I indulge in strawberries dipped in chocolate peanut butter fondue.
Life’s simple moments can stir a sweet peace that awakens hope. But I had to learn to cherish them first.
When my first husband slipped from earth after a valiant fight against a brain stem tumor, I never dreamed mitochondrial disease would hamper my mobility within a decade. Double vision, fatigue, weak legs and joint instability require extra effort every day, every step, and sometimes, every breath.
A few weeks ago, I needed a prescription refill. Assured it would be called in and ready Monday morning, I showed up at the pharmacy, expectant. Not only was the drug not ready, the doctor hadn’t even placed the order.
I spoke with pharmacy techs off and on all day, to no avail. But right before closing, a pharmacist promised to solve the problem by lunchtime the next day. While good news, it meant I would have to survive without the drug for another night.
By the time I arrived to pick up it up the next day, brain zaps from drug withdrawal left me dizzy and unsteady. When told I would have to wait another thirty minutes for the drug to be filled, I found a corner in the store and crumpled to the floor.
Overwhelmed, I cared little about what others thought until a kind woman approached.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“Yes,” I lied, “I’m just waiting for a much-needed refill and trying to pray for a pastor stuck in a prison in Turkey who’s waiting much longer than me.”
“Do you need a sandwich or something?”
“No,” I lied again, “I’ll be okay once I swallow the pill.”
She looked at me unsure and said, “Well, you look really pretty.”
Then she walked away.
I barely mustered a thank you before the tears fell. I didn’t feel pretty. I felt off kilter. Shaken. And weary.
Thus, her kind words in the pharmacy still resonate.
I don’t know why many of us suffer complicated, hard lives. But I do know that when humans speak life to other humans, the darkness fades and hope rises. Maybe just for a minute. Or a day. Or long enough to carry us to the next God-wink that reminds us we’re never alone.
About the Author: Susan Schreer Davis lives with her husband, their cat named, Eggs, and the challenging effects of mitochondrial disease. Learn more about Susan, her latest book and many songs at: www.susanschreerdavis.com
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