Hope Like A Heartbeat

A noun. A thing, elusive and ephemeral. To grasp, to cling, to clutch. But slippery. Sliding away when we’re not paying attention. Open hands, it’s gone. Again.

A verb. A choice. An act of myopic faith, blurry in the distance but promising. What might be, what could be? Active belief in possibilities as yet unseen.

Hope in a family with Huntington’s Disease is a risky business. We’ve hoped and held on to hope for so long already. Hope slipped away the day I knew my mom was dying. Hope returned, a tiny flicker of belief that perhaps my life would not end the same as hers.

Hope, like a heartbeat, pulses in the background, at times strong, at times so faint it barely exists.

I may not carry the Huntingtin gene, but there are people I love who do.

Hope began to beat again, this week, when a drug company in the UK released the results of trial using new methods to treat HD.

The results are promising.

Weary, we lean down and pick up Hope again. Choosing to believe, choosing to carry this thing we’ve held and dropped so many times before. Tucking it back into our pocket.

Perhaps, this time, we won’t have to let it go.

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