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.