Stop Loss

Its scary how quickly and soundly 2008 crashed in. The holidays are always a particularly daunting chunk of time. The Big Battle this year was supposed to be Opa's absence. For the first time, in his own house -- a house he built -- we handed out presents and sliced turkey without his heavy voice setting the tempo.

He was our metronome.

Mom walked around with a giant hole in her middle where he used to be. The acid from that hole splattered on everyone during those days. For the first time since he died, and on Christmas morning, I put my foot down and said "enough". Not in those words, in much uglier ones, while watching Mom crumble onto the guest bed, a heaving mess of misery. Sadness spread like hot water through my chest. But it worked.

Some days I hate the spinning of the earth. Despise the persistence of our stupid clocks.

On Christmas, at midnight, my sister said she had news that was no big deal. The three of us -- her, Mom, me -- sat and listened as her words tumbled into a still, dark living room. Aunt Jone was coughing blood, just a little, but the x-rays say a 2x2 tumor sits on her lung. Likely benign. We would have tests and results and information soon. My brain worried, just like it is supposed to, but my heart knew it was impossible for my Aunt to be sick. This year was already full of stunning losses, surely we wouldn't be handed another. And anyway, my Aunt doesn't get sick. At 67, she's healthier than I am.

A week later, she was a Stage 4, Adenicarcinoma patient with tumors on her spine, sternum, adrenals, and kidneys. The oncologist said preposterous things like "inoperable" and "maybe a year".

No, really. I'm not kidding.

Over the phone, I could hear my father staggering. For a week I had to wait to see his face -- but from California to Florida I could hear it. Our phone calls drowned in wordlessness. In inadequacy. It tore my heart and bent my brain. My cell phone started sleeping next to me in my bed like a tiny pet. I hoped for Dad's calls so I could stop imagining his sadness and know it hadn't killed him. Because really, who knows where this year will stop? Clearly, it has no boundaries or sense of fairness.

There's a movie that just came out about the war called Stop Loss. Apparently, 'Stop Loss' is a term for soldiers being sent back to the front lines after they're due to be discharged. They are supposed to get normal back, but instead finds themselves right in the thick of battle, carrying some ridiculous weapon that's been hurriedly slapped into their palms. Some feeble, tiny weapon in comparison to the giant tanks blasting cannons at their ass. The movie title resonated for that reason, but also because, with a comma added, it has become my motto. "Stop, loss". It is my command to the universe.

Dad flew in for a week. When he arrived from the airport he was so exhausted and pale -- I was afraid if I touched him, he'd fall away under my fingertips like a pillar of ash. Everywhere we went, I walked in front of him like a human barrier on the streets of Pasadena. Like a linebacker, heading off any contact that might send him scattering into the wind. I couldn't even bear for people to speak too loudly in his direction.

Our road trip to My Aunt's was immeasurably sweet and rewarding and painful. It was full of moments I wanted to hold in my hand and squeeze hard for a long time -- and awful ones just like that millisecond before a needle pierces your skin. I tried so hard to remember every granule of the experience Dad and I had in Santa Barbara relaxing, talking and reading. Of the words he shared about his childhood and the things he'd never told me before; things my sister would likely never hear. I felt selfish having it all to myself, but so lucky that I didn't care. The impossibility of sitting in each second long enough to hold onto for the day he's gone overwhelmed me. It was inexpressible and it is still.

There was good news too. (there is always some, somewhere in the mess) The good news is that the younger ones in my family have linked our arms in an effort to stop loss. The cousins and siblings of my generation - we have our elbows crooked together and our resolve is firm. Sometimes we bump into each other, but we hold a hard line and no man gets left behind. We attend funerals together, call with regularity, and love in very big ways. We plan reunions and take photos and express with abandon. We are not like the feuding generations before us, and we never will be. And in that, at least, there is victory in this season of loss.

The Rooster

Things here are good. Still waging an ongoing battle against legions of cockroach armies. Little fuckers. They generally only come out at night, when they look scarier and I'm too exhausted to mount a counter attack. Yesterday morning I had the exterminator here, who now thinks I'm certifiably insane. It's a damn good thing he doesn't work for the city. When he got to my front door I actually started to tear up, I was so happy to see him. (When you haven't slept, it's easy to get emotional.)

I made the poor exterminator guy spray everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I followed him around the apartment saying, "hmm, I think you missed a spot here," and, "oh, did you get right here? It's kinda hidden, but if you squint just right and tilt your head to the left, you can see there's a teeny hole right...HERE." He seemed to think I was a bit too intense. I asked if he'd come back tomorrow, just to be thorough. He said no.

The real kicker came when one of the little bastards crawled out of the corner and onto the stove. Talk about balls -- the exterminator was standing right there! These exoskeletoned little suckers just don't give a damn. I dove across the kitchen, kleenex in hand, shoved the extermintor guy aside, and squashed the living hell out of it. It kept twitching, and by then I was really into killing the little beast, so I began verbally abusing it. "Oh, you want some more?! That wasn't enough for you?! Yeah, you tell your friends what it's like in the daylight, you motherfucker!"

The exterminator clutched tighter to his poison gun & I saw fear in his eyes. I've officially become that lady.

I've also discovered I'm not in a "quiet neighborhood," like the ad described. I'm two houses away from "LA Cycle," which, contrary to my original belief, is not a quaint little bicycle store. It's actually a loud-ass motorcycle shop. Fun times. Loving those Harley's right now. They use my street for test drives and tricks...you know, like going 90 MPH and popping wheelies. No mufflers whatsoever. At least they're only noisy during daytime hours, which is more than I can say for the fucking rooster.

Oh yes, I said rooster. A rooster in the big city. It's like a Disney Adventure. And he lives right next door to me, as luck would have it. But this not just any rooster; this is a confused fucking bird. It starts cock-a-doodle-dooing at 5:30am, and continues doing so until 9:00am. No joke. Nonstop, full volume, with thin, cheap window panes as my only defense.

Who the hell has a rooster in LA?! And why do they want me to kill it?

Have I mentioned there's a guy upstairs who likes to shoot hoops? In his apartment?

No? I'll save that for later. I've got a rooster to kill.

Who's The Turkey Now

I had planned to make dinner tonight for my grandmother: cornish game hens with my famous cheese rice. By 4:00 everything was purchased, laid on the kitchen counter, and ready to go. Only one problem. At some point between the purchasing of poultry and the cooking of it, I managed to lose my mind.

You see, the cornish hens were so little. And cute. I don’t know why, but running them under water reminded me of bathing babies in the sink.

That idea pretty much did me in. The thought of cooking these little hens seemed akin to sticking a fetus in the oven, and I was bowled over by waves of nausea just thinking about it. I’ve cooked turkey a thousand times (just ask the firemen who’ve extinguished my flaming kitchen), but for some reason all I wanted to do with these little birds was wrap them in a warm blanket and give them names (Hansel & Gretel, perhaps?).

I know. I swear I’m not on any meds.

I tried to be rational - clearly, I was having a simple biological clock malfunction. I’m 28 and don’t have babies of my own. I’m transferring my emotions. Totally normal. I’ve developed a mothering instinct for anything small, including...dead birds. I hope to God we don’t have any mice in the house. Things could get ugly real fast.

Happily, I knew where to turn. My grandmother never had trouble paddling my cute little toosh when I was young, and just as I suspected, she had no problem popping the hens into her Oven of Death.

Knowing my place, I stepped aside and dedicated myself to some very plain, non-adorable, brown rice.