Lost without Lost

by Lissette Decos

It has become painfully clear that my ever growing list of ailments must be in response to something, but what?

For weeks now I've had headaches, backaches, bouts of acne, a heat sensation on my right toe, no sensation at all on my left toe, loss of appetite, irritability, inability to connect with others, and an uncontrollable desire to slap people who say they hated the final episode of the thought provoking and life fulfilling hours that made up the series Lost.


This last symptom almost got me fired, but thankfully, also made me realize what the problem was. My world is a darker, more oil-slicked place without Lost. It's hard to concentrate. My mind flashes through seasons of finales, and how no matter how explosive or shocking, it always returned. Not this time. I'm like one of those depressing zebras you see on TV after lions have devoured her zebra mate. I keep nudging what's left of the lifeless carcass on the ground hoping it will move. It's just asleep. Wake up Lost. Wake up.

Like all things sacred, pure and perfect, it's not as though I want to change anything about Lost, or even wish that it had continued on for endless seasons. Without pain we cannot experience pleasure. For every Jacob, we have to have a Man in Black, everybody knows that. But I do wish that I could continue to enthusiastically create, discuss and argue Lost theories until the end of my days. Our society appears to have gone internet-dark and can disconnect completely when zebras die because no sooner was it off the air than it was not okay to theorize about Lost.

Add dehydration to my list of ailments because I avoid the water cooler because those losers I call co-workers no longer want to hear my theories. How can they sleep without knowing why Ben chose to stay in the sideways world of make-believe? What does he feel he has to do before he's ready? Hook up with cleaned-up Frenchie? And add hearing loss to the list of side effects since I misinterpret every question to be "What 3 things would you want on a deserted island?" And so when people ask, “Do you think Obama's doing a good job?” or “What time is it?” I reply: 1) a shirtless Sawyer, 2) a copy of Watership Down (for Sawyer) and 3) Dharma beer (for when Sawyer gets thirsty).

I knew that it would be difficult. The last time I suffered post-traumatic series disorder was when Family Ties came to an end. I was losing Michael J Fox, witty, smart, and yet still sexy... Mallory, oh man. It was hard, like a punch to the stomach. But I was seventeen then. I had my whole life ahead of me. There was college to look forward to, and I was thin without trying.

Add to the list of side effects, "pathetic attempts at keeping Lost alive by referencing it in everyday life." When tasks appear challenging, I'm the only one reassured by focusing on the insurmountable hurdles the Islanders were able to overcome on a weekly basis, "Well, if they can make the island disappear, we can certainly have this presentation done by Friday." When my boss went to get tested for laser eye surgery, she returned disappointed and said, "Sadly, I'm not a candidate." I responded, "Well, the good news is you're also not a candidate to protect the island."

Now, you can add "jobless" to my list of issues. See, I have no initiative without some sort of Dharma Initiative. At least I have more time to make a squirrel baby.