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was as though she was the self-proclaimed spokesperson for hope, because hope had worked for her.
    Lou Gehrig’s disease isn’t cancer, but she wanted my dad to be around as long as possible. She wanted him to battle as hard as she had and to “never give up.” So she stopped acting like a crazy person, and she and my dad started to formulate a plan for how we were going to manage this thing if and when it started to get bad.
    *   *   *
    I flew into snowy Salt Lake City with Abby for Christmas. Coming home for Christmas was always one of the best events of the year. It was a cozy time full of my favorite activity: acting like a spoiled white asshole. Friends were in town. Snow was on the ground. There was always a lot of drinking. Our living room had high ceilings, so we’d always get a tree in the fifteen-to-twenty-foot range, beneath which my mom would pack a seemingly endless supply of presents. We’d sit around watching Christmas movies with a light buzz, feeling that warm feeling you get around the holidays, that feeling like nothing bad is ever going to happen.
    On Christmas Eve, we’d all crowd around the towering Christmas tree in goofy pajamas. My dad would toss on a Santa hat and read “’Twas the Night Before Christmas,” even though we were all getting way too old for that shit. Tradition was tradition. Then we’d select someone to open the first present of Christmas. It was usually one of the little girls, since they were younger and Christmas meant more to them, but sometimes it would be whoever was having a hard year and needed a present the most. It had never been my dad.
    But that Christmas, there was a certain intensity in the air. This trip wasn’t all about watching Elf , getting too many presents, and letting alcohol slowly numb our brains. There were some serious issues to talk through.
    On Christmas Eve, my mom called us all around the Christmas tree for our first post-diagnosis family meeting. We all still wore our silly pajamas, the Santa hat on my dad’s head, our happy golden retriever dogs smiling at our feet. The ornaments danced and sparkled on the tree as if nothing were wrong. Outside, snow fell lightly, adding to the ambiance. I snuggled up on one of the living room sofas with Abby. We both had eggnog in our mugs, with an extra shot of whiskey, because why the fuck not?
    â€œI know it’s Christmas, but I don’t know when we’ll all be together again,” my mom said as we all diverted our attention from the presents to her. Her inane pajamas had reindeer all over them. “We’ve got a shitstorm heading our way and we’ve got to figure out what to do.”
    â€œMaybe Dad should just go in a nursing home,” suggested Greg, who was working on a hot cocoa and wearing Batman pajamas.
    â€œHave you ever been to a nursing home? They’re full of a bunch of old fuckers shitting their pants and watching The Price Is Right all day,” I said, scratching an eggnog stain off my Grinch bottoms.
    â€œWell, Dad will get that way eventually,” he said.
    â€œI won’t get that way for a long, long time,” my dad said while looking down at his Superman PJs.
    â€œMaybe we should sell the house and just travel until you’re dead,” suggested Tiffany. She wore red pajamas covered in hearts.
    â€œMaybe Dad should just take a dance class, and everything will be fine,” giggled Chelsea from her Hello Kitty getup.
    â€œGod, you’re dumb, Chelsea,” said Jessica. Jessica wore her usual baggy jeans and a pullover sweater, apparently too cool to partake in tradition.
    â€œWhen can we open the first present of Christmas?” asked Chelsea.
    Poor Abby sat there stunned, wondering why she hadn’t just gone home to spend the holidays with her family instead of coming to Utah to be with us morons.
    â€œEVERYONE SHUT THE FUCK UP!” my mom yelled, slamming down her