Revealing the letter L in the word “loss”

Revealing the letter L in the word “loss”
                        

I can see the tenseness in your shoulders. You’re holding it high and hard inside that spot just below your neck. Little by little remember to breathe as well, filling your lungs with the cool, crisp air that is November. We have been through a season this year, all lumped together inside a pandemic and a continuous string of days. It kind of looks like marchaprilmayjunejulyaugustseptemberoctobernovember passed us in a way we may never straighten out properly.

The last several years have felt like a carnival ride called the Round-Up. You get on and strap yourself into a stand-up position where you can’t move, and as the ride begins, the g force holds you into your tiny metal slot as the bottom drops out. You whirl around rapidly, dizzy and sometimes nauseous. For a percentage of the other people strapped in, there is devilish laughter, faces distorted with speed. Remember the boat ride in the original Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory? Gene Wilder’s face becomes dark and chaotic as the Oompa Loompas row faster and faster and faster. Just as suddenly the ride stops and the world levels out.

The word ‘revealing’ has popped up again and again the past several months. I’ve found it revealing the amount of resistance that’s arisen to wearing a small piece of cloth over our face. I like the colorful array of masks I’ve collected and have one to match nearly every outfit. In uncertain times we adjust to the unconventional, and it’s such a small thing we can do for others as well as me, myself, and I. I feel naked without my mask when I leave home. It means I’ve taken scientific evidence and used it, just like we heed a doctor’s advice to have regular mammograms or colonoscopies. Preventative care should be the norm, but instead, as our COVID-19 numbers rise higher and higher, we’re listening to ourselves instead of professionals. I’m fairly certain if our house were on fire, we wouldn’t tell the fire department we could extinguish it ourselves. We’d rely on their expertise.

Another revelation is the rejection of facts and the notion that we must “do our research” or “fight” to debunk them. I often think of how we taught our children to accept loss on the soccer pitch. We’d see tears in their eyes, and though they were heartbroken, we’d remind them that it was okay to lose. What I don’t remember doing is telling them to complain to the OHSAA and form a group to investigate the referees for allowing the other team’s goals to count. I don’t think we ever said, “That kid’s shot from the 18 into the upper left 90 was wicked good, but it shouldn’t count because it put them ahead.” I often find that what we teach our children, or even what we learned ourselves as kids, puts into perspective what we’re trying to get around today. I’ve taken many a loss, accepted that heartache straight into my soul, kept on writing, and lived to see another day — no matter how hard it was to accept.

We’ve all been a little tense, ready to pounce and bite, with words and abstract emotions. Maybe, just maybe, we can all lay them down a little. While uniting may seem far off, deciding that facts matter can be a start. You cannot claim a fact as a falsehood just because you don’t like it. I don’t like the fact that the Browns haven’t yet won a Super Bowl, but I can’t say that they have because it would be a lie. Some day soon I may be able to say they did get to the championship and did their best. And if they lose, I’ll swallow the loss like I have for my entire life. For us in NE Ohio, well, we know how to take the L and move on.


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