Goodbye, Farewell and Amen

Dear 2008,

As we have been bombarded for the past couple weeks with end-of-year lists, summations, reviews, analyses, top tens, bottom tens, highlights, lowlights and prognostications for the upcoming year, I feel like as a blogger, I’m compelled—nay, required—to add my own two cents’ worth to the conversation. However, I’m a little reluctant, because you were, in many respects, one of, if not the worst years on record.

I’m not just talking about the mess the world, the economy, and our state are in. I’m talking strictly about my own personal life. You, to put it mildly, blew. So to come up with some sort of retrospective without either spilling all of my guts or sounding like I’m just playing the “poor me” routine will be tricky. But I also feel the need to say goodbye to you, to put you in my rear view mirror and hit the gas as quickly as possible—and that need outweighs my hesitation.

You threw the usual things at me—money problems, mostly. But I’m used to that. I know that every so often, I’m going to have to shell out cash I don’t have for things over which I have no control—like when I had to pay for—out of my own pocket—new flooring in one of the basement bedrooms because the people who built our house left a 6-inch hole in the foundation that left us with ripped up walls, soaked carpeting and an awful smell. Oh, did I mention that I had to pay for it myself because the builders went bankrupt and therefore didn’t have to honor the 25-year warranty on the foundation? It took until late summer before we could use that room again. So thanks for that start to the year.

And thanks for the health stuff, too. I know things like that happen to everyone, so it was no surprise when my little boy broke his arm, and was in a cast up to his shoulder for 6 weeks—then less than two weeks after he got that cast off, one of my girls broke her foot right before going on vacation to see her grandparents in Arizona for the first time. My wife is also enjoying her dental problems (again), which are not adequately covered by my insurance. And being in a shoulder immobilizer for the last month following my surgery has been a blast, let me tell you. But that’s okay—it’s an old war wound that was well worth it.

I don’t want to forget the transportation problems, either. I was selling my scooter this year, and twice had people in my front door with cash in hand to buy it when mechanical problems I’d never had before suddenly surfaced on their test rides, forcing me to sell for so much less that I couldn’t buy a new scooter. The best part, though, was finding out five days after Christmas (yep! yesterday!) that we’re going to have to come up with $350 to pay for new brake pads—and rotors—on our sole remaining mode of transport, which we’re constantly having to juggle and schedule around.

I also had the one-year anniversary of finishing my book, complete with a year’s worth of rejections from agents, despite the fact there are things out there getting sold (and made into movies) that barely appeal to the stupidest common denominator. But, hey, tits and ass and crashes always sell, so I can’t fault people for that. And my quest to publish was derailed for the year, for reasons which will soon be enumerated.

And I STILL don’t have a nice, hi-def flatscreen television.

But like I said, crap like that I’ve had to deal with before. What you threw at me and my family in the early spring, however, was completely uncalled for.

I mean, I know we weren’t trying to get pregnant with our fourth child (with me at age 35, and my wife at age 41), and I know we were initially shocked and having a hard time warming up to the idea. But to put the fear of a fatal birth defect into a blood test result wasn’t fair, especially when you consider the difficult pregnancy history we’ve had. At least, though, we found out on March 24 that everything was going to be all right and finally be able to tell the kids they were having a little brother was a relief, I’ll admit that. And for two whole days, everything was wonderful. Until the baby stopped moving on the 26th, that is. The doctor told us the next day there was no heartbeat. Everything after that was a blur, but I remember when my wife was induced to deliver a stillborn Christopher John (named for my brothers Chris and his great grandfather) on March 28 of your year, 2008. And I remember the funeral on Tuesday, April 1 of your year. I remember that the weather had been not so bad up until that day, and I remember thinking how stupidly appropriate it was that the wind was suddenly roaring out of the north and that my tears were freezing to my face at the cemetery. I remember kissing his little white casket before it was lowered into the ground. I remember not wanting to let go of the roses we were dropping into the grave. I remember my wife and me hugging our dear friend and Bishop who tried to comfort us. I remember feeling very alone. But you were there, 2008, weren’t you? You were there when I was walking through a nightmare, when I kept waiting for weeks and weeks to wake up, thinking all the time, this can’t possibly be real. This has to be a dream. It wasn’t. It was 2008. It was you.

And, as years before you can attest to, I don’t often handle reality well. I like to turn my brain off and escape from things, as most people do for a little bit here and there. But my escapism brought an unthinkable amount of further strife into my life and marriage in your year. To quote Sir Paul, “I took my brain out and stretched it on a rack / now I’m not so sure I’m ever gonna get it back.” As a result, I can handle reality and stress much more capably now; however, I’m not so sure the residual damage isn’t permanent and irreparable.

So don’t be offended, 2008, if I’m glad to see you go. Sure, there were some genuinely great moments during the year—backyard marshmallow roasts, Wall-E at the drive-in and Horton Hears a Who with my little dude, tubing with my homies at Bass Lake, the presidential election, finding ancient friends on Facebook, and, of course, starting this here blog. I also cherished my kids every second I was awake, each second more than the last. In that, I guess, is the only way I’m sad to see you turn to 2009. That means my children are getting older. That means they’re one day, one month, one year closer to growing up and away. I lie in bed at night with tears in my eyes thinking of them, every detail of their faces, what it feels like to kiss them, to hug them, to hear them laugh. I lie there practically shaking with terror wondering what it’s going to feel like during one of your colleagues down the road when they leave the nest, or when (not if, but when) something bad happens—an accident, a heartbreak, a disappointment, a failure of some sort. And God forbid, if the truly awful happens to one of them—at least I can say it didn’t happen during 2008. I can’t guarantee that ten years from now; I can’t guarantee it even in your immediate successor. So in that way, I wish today could stay December 31, 2008 forever. But it can’t.

And, ultimately, I’m really glad for that. Maybe it can stay January 1, 2009 forever, instead.

Good bye, 2008, and good riddance.

CF