Zibby Mag

By Kayla Desmond

It had been 36 hours since I asked my husband to leave our home. A new marriage, only two months old, had ended abruptly with a discovery of deceit and infidelity. I wondered if I was experiencing grief or fear of what a new beginning may look like for me. Perhaps both.

Life is an ironic teacher. On one hand, we must learn to overcome the greatest of challenges with grace and resilience—learning the difficult lessons to make the next hardships not so hard. On the other hand, we find ourselves feeling hopeless with no desire to accept a harsh lesson. That’s how I felt, anyway, as a new bride learning that her husband’s vows were ladened with lies.

I sat in my living room in complete darkness. The clock was nearing midnight, and I was scrolling mindlessly through my phone, unable to succumb to sleep and take me from my living nightmare. My phone buzzed in my palm. “You awake?” my brother asked.

Minutes later, I heard a car door slam and my brother appeared in my living room window, face aglow from the front porch light. I opened the door, and like a play where you know every stage direction, he shuffled to my kitchen table, pulled out a chair, and leaned his elbows into the top of the table. I’ve seen this act a thousand times; it was time to talk.

At this moment, I remembered our late-night chats as teenagers. While the world slept, we would make midnight snacks—giggling at the panic rising in our chests as we watched the microwave timer tick down to zero. We’d race to the “cancel” button before it could beep and potentially wake our mother up. Our chats were always more emotional during those hours. It was like a veil had been lifted and vulnerability was welcomed.

But this kitchen table conversation was unlike our pizza rolls and teenage-love-interest chats. This was where I learned that finding hope in a situation of despair was the bravest thing anyone could do. My brother was in ROTC at the time, learning to serve alongside soldiers in the most critical of life’s moments. Death was something he was learning to truly come to terms with as he clinked beer bottles with buddies who were preparing for their first deployments, not knowing if they’d return the way they left—if they returned at all. At least there was time to prepare for death in these circumstances.

We sat in darkness at my kitchen table and my brother began to share how his day had started. A normal September day, classes had just started for the semester, but the day had ended with his roommate and close friend dying by suicide. We sat at my kitchen table and cried together, redefining life and purpose as we grappled with the loss of my marriage and my brother’s dear friend. We took turns holding each other when the grief was too burdensome to carry alone. Our worlds had never felt smaller and we’d never felt more lost and alone. We promised each other we’d be brave, we’d find acceptance in these tragedies, and we’d become better people for it.

In the years that followed, we learned to live with the grief of our losses. My brother participates in the yearly walkathon fundraiser to raise awareness for mental health and suicide prevention. As for myself, I learned what a trusting relationship looks like and found a loving and loyal husband who compassionately embraces my past. Then, this past year, tragedy struck again—this time with a force that spun our universe in the opposite rotation. Grief, fear, anxiety, agony—those were words we had used to describe our fateful week all those years ago. But this was cataclysmic.

“Terminal,” the neuro-oncologist told us. The boy who had taught me what it meant to be a “big” sister, the protector, the hand holder of all life’s difficult moments, had brain cancer. A crisis I could not divert. At 27 years old, my brother had to face his own mortality; a construct he had struggled to understand when his close friend died years before. Now, it was staring him straight in the face.

Our worlds had never felt smaller and we’d never felt more lost and alone.

As humans, we often barter with the universe—we promise to be better and do more good deeds if we can just have this one thing work out in our favor. I’ve learned that it’s hope we’re actually searching for. It was not cancer I was wishing away. It’s much more complex than that. It was about finding the good in the most catastrophic of situations and gratitude in the lessons we get to learn. It’s finding appreciation for the people we experience tribulations with. It’s being unafraid of the outcome and finding purpose in the process.

I think back to the nights spent at a kitchen table with my brother, as children and as adults, and the lessons we unknowingly learned together. Be brave—I’m here to catch you if you fall. Those words repeated in my mind while doctors prepped him for emergency brain surgery. Days later he left the hospital with a walker, his motor skills compromised from the surgery. I won’t let you fall—just one foot in front of the other. Unsure if I was assuring him or myself as I walked closely behind him. Nevertheless, hope was the buoy we clung to during the stormiest of moments during his treatment. We bravely traversed the unknown path that was before us. We refused to let fear win.

My family held on to hope for a better diagnosis to come through. We received kindness and generosity from friends and strangers who understood what we were enduring. Our support system doubled from the soldiers who had served alongside my brother, calling me on a daily basis and making sure I was just as supported as their comrade. Steadfast hope finally brought us the answers we’d been praying for. The oncologist called us weeks later and said, “Further testing on the tumor was conducted, and a different diagnosis was deduced.” My heart became flooded with relief, gratitude, and overwhelming pride for my little brother’s valor. He was no longer considered a terminal case.

Hope and unconditional love were enough to believe that miracles can happen. I found myself once again at a kitchen table, this time, at my brother’s house. I popped a bottle of champagne and poured glasses for my parents, my brother, and myself. We drank the chilled bubbles and celebrated this new diagnosis. Still cancer, nonetheless, but a survivable one. Our hope was reinvigorated. Cheers to being brave. It was scary, but it was worth it.

When hardships strike, we feel like all hope is lost; in reality, it’s only been dimmed. When life strips you of all you have, search for that flickering flame of hope deep within. It’s there to light life’s darkness ablaze.

Kayla Desmond was born and raised in New England. She has devoted her career to teaching literacy in schools that serve urban communities. Kayla is developing her first novel, which highlights the convoluted relationship between a mother and daughter when family secrets are unearthed and a dementia diagnosis plagues their current realities. Kayla lives in Dallas, Texas, with her husband and their Australian shepherd, Goose. Readers can follow Kayla on Instagram @kayladesmond27.