Notes from a long life

I’ve been watching a number of videos on YouTube from the “It gets better” program. It is pretty amazing the organizations and colleges and others that have videos, from the expected places, like Cal Berkeley and Pixar (and yes, there is at least one from the University of Oregon) to less expected places like Gustavus Adolphus and BYU.

I thought maybe it was time to talk about my experiences. Yes, I was bullied in junior high and high school. I was called “faggot” and other equally unpleasant things and push into lockers and treated like shit. It was a part of my growing up experience. Oddly enough, one of the worst bullies, no, the worst bully, asked to be my friend on Facebook. I declined.

Coming out for me was a blessing. My parents, while dealing with their own demons, expressed unconditional love. You have to remember that back in the ‘70s, homosexuality was a result of a domineering bitch of a mother and wishy-washy milquetoast of a father. In particular, Mom bought into that belief. But they both loved me, no matter what.

I’m pretty sure I told all of my sisters by letter. This was way before email and text. And without exception they all stood by my side.

I now know how lucky I was. So many of my friends were either ejected from their families or never told them, out of fear of rejection. Of my relationships, Doug’s parents were open and excepting, Wayn’s parents threw him out, and Richard never told his parents.

In Boise, there were harassing neighbors who made obscene phone calls and would come to our front door and scream less than nice things at us.

In Los Angeles it was co-workers who objected. One of my saddest memories of LA is a manager’s party where I was asked not to bring my partner, as co-workers would feel uncomfortable. Sadly to say, I went to the party without Doug: if I could take back time and do it over again.

And yes, even in Hood River there were issues with one neighbor. Screaming “faggots” at Wayn and I as we were in the yard, turning us in for trying to grow pot, and entering our house when we weren’t there, that kind of shit. But karma being what it is, they got their own. (Their daughter, the worst offender, got pregnant and tried to kill herself and the baby by shooting herself in the belly. Child died, she didn’t.)

And there was the honker-flipper-offer who used to harass us. Hood River wasn’t pretty in the ‘90s.

But yes, it gets better. Every day it gets better.

It has been 20 years since I have had any issues.  From my co-workers to the congregation at St. Mary’s to the community as a whole, there has been amazing support for me. I am in awe of the change since my youth.

It really, really, really does get better. And Reilly, I am so proud of you.

First of all

I’m not paying close attention to details lately: today is the last day of summer, not yesterday. I feel like the New York Times having to make a correction on an article from the day before. Crap, I was so close!

But let’s get to the point. I’m sure many of you have read about the pharmaceutical company that has raised the price of Daraprim, a drug that is used to fight Toxoplasmosis (a disease that often accompanies HIV and cancer, neither disease which is in anyway significant to me or has affected me in any personal way) from $13.50 to $750.00 per pill.

Martin Shkreli, the head of the pharmaceutical company defends the price increase by saying that it was unprofitable at the previous rate, and that the increase was “reasonable”.

Mr. Shkreli, I have one word for you: you-asshole-you-bastard-you-money-hungry-thieving-buttplug-and-yes-you-motherfucker.

Let’s face the facts, of the people who take Daraprim, a handful are fabulously wealthy and will pay any price for the drug. Many, hopefully most, either have private insurance (yay, Obamacare) or are on some tax-payer funded program. The rest will find they can’t afford it and will die. Teach them to get a dread disease in the United States instead of some civilized country.

Okay, according to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, 60 million Americans suffer from Toxoplasmosis. (Wow, who would have guessed!) And let’s guess who is will be paying the vast majority of the increase in the price of the drug, be it through increased taxes or insurance rates.  

That would be you and me and Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice, folks.

Let’s say they all take one pill a day. Do the math. The government and yes, the healthcare industry, could set aside just over $800 billion dollars for a five year program to create a new drug that is as good and still not lose money.

And as a sweet sidelight, we could send Mr. Shkreli bankrupt. He is already there, morally.

A perfect Monday

It started innocuously enough. Normal morning routine: brew coffee, read the news, slowly wake up.

All was good until I stepped into the bathroom to get ready for work. I heard that odd hissing noise that you only hear when your pipes have burst after a good winter freeze. I hope that is a noise that none of you have heard. I am sadly familiar with it. But it didn’t freeze last night.

I did the unthinkable; I crawled into the crawl space. There was water where there shouldn’t be water. I did what any middle (okay very late middle) aged man would do and called a plumber. You know, someone who is limber and able and has a fricking clue what he was doing. I then shut off the water supply.

Four hours later, the plumber shows up. He finds the problem quickly. A hose to the water heater has broken. He tests my water pressure. It is like way high. He gets the water district on the horn, and before you know it, there is got a bevy of men digging in the front yard.

A pressure reducing valve later, all is good.

And that is how I spent the last day of summer!

Happy 101st Birthday, Mom

It seems like just yesterday you were here. Miss you.

In my next life,

I’m coming back as a domesticated house cat.

Full body massages, on demand, 24/7.

It doesn’t get better than that!

There is good news and bad news.

I heard back from my neurosurgeon. I have an appointment.

Anne and Alex will be married before I get to see Dr. Sandquist. Apparently he is that good.

Okay, I have this great scene in my head, and this won’t embarrass Anne or Alex in any way. I assume they will lead the procession from the court house to the restaurant. We could be right behind them, with me on a litter (a là Cleopatra), with my four sisters carrying the stretcher. I would be dressed very seductively (full body covered) and be throwing rose petals. We could sing our tribute then.

Wow, this is a good idea!

Oh, did I do a Beth and disclose a secret?

A year and a half (+) later

From the heart:

Sometimes it feels like yesterday, sometimes it is ancient history. 

 Fuck cancer, fuck survivorship. Fuck this, fuck that, fuck the other thing. Fuck it all.

Richard, you held me together. I close my eyes, I think of you. I dream you are by my side. But then I open my eyes.

I am alone.

I’m so lucky to have had you in my life.

But, what is moving on suppose to be like? Is it accepting reality without question? I’ve never dealt with reality well. This is gonna be tough.

It’s just a bad day. Tom will talk me down.

No reason to panic.