January 2008 Archives

I am furious with myself today, for I am faint of heart.

On my birthday, I called my Mom to thank her for giving birth to me. Mom, less than two weeks out of the hospital after undergoing emergency surgery. Heart failure. Pacemaker. And a recovery period far slower than expected.

I asked her how she was, and she admitted to being a little down in the dumps. When pressed for details, she admitted that, this morning, when she bolted out of bed, it was as if a great fist had punched her in the chest. The next thing she knew, she was four or five feet from her bed, sprawled half in and half out of her bedroom closet.

Uninjured from the fall, she slowly got back up and began her day. No thought of calling for an ambulance, no thought of calling her neighbor or her friends or me. Just went about her day, shaken to the core, and very weak. When I heard the news, I insisted that she call her doctor and make an appointment (to be fair, I spent a lot of time trying to get her to go to the hospital immediately. She was having none of that). So I then called her next door neighbor and ratted her out. Tomorrow morning (actually, five hours from now) she has an appointment with the cardiologist, I would be surprised if she was not admitted into the hospital again. Something is terribly wrong, still. And I am 326 miles away from her, with no money for a plane ticket and a car – and body- that simply can’t make the trip.

Last year, I developed the nasty habit of passing out at a moment’s notice, and during one of these episodes, managed to plow into a large car on the roadway. Luckily it was rush hour traffic, so nobody was hurt (with speeds only approaching thirty or so). But aside from the damage to my front bumper (which might or might not decide to fall completely off if I hit enough potholes or rough terrain) my car was uninjured. I was shaken to the bones, however. Since then, I have been very hesitant to drive any real distance at all. Even to the detriment of doctor’s appointments or picking up my bags from the food pantry. I am afraid.

And right now, am furious with myself for being such a slave to that fear.

My doctor said it was a combination of anemia, low blood pressure, hypoglycemia, and a nebulous “HIV-related” situation. It was as if he was rolling Dungeons and Dragons dice, and assigning diagnoses randomly. I suspect that he simply thought I was experiencing a resurgence of agoraphobia, and had a panic attack.

I know what a panic attack feels like. I have been having one all night, worrying about my Mom. Wishing I was there, though to be fair, I would simply be panicking in Greensboro, North Carolina instead of here, and just about as useless. But I would be there. I have a plane ticket for February 16th, to spend the week with Mom. Unfortunately, it’s non-refundable and non transferable. And with four dollars in the bank, I am quite firmly stuck here.

My heart has been racing, fluttering all night. I have been in bed, trying to breathe slowly. Playing a computer game with my borrowed laptop. Reading a book. Trying to sleep, because I cannot afford to be exhausted if, in the worst of all possible scenarios, I have to drive tomorrow whether I think I can or not. I keep forgetting how to breathe. I feel that I should be crying, or screaming, or running blindly into the rainy night. Outside, wind whips against my building, roaring past like all my wasted seconds. I am terrified. I am horrified. I am petrified.

It is not okay for my Mom to die. I am not ready for it. I am not prepared for it. I am not at all braced for it. I am still so damaged from my father’s passing, that this would undo me – and there’s not a lot left to undo, at this point.

My friends are good people, but they each have their own issues. None of them can take off from work and drive me. None of them have an extra three hundred-odd dollars hanging around (last minute plane tickets are appallingly expensive. My trip in February cost a hundred and thirty dollars, because I booked months in advance). I am at the mercy of the telephone, and my own terrible imagination.

Mom insisted that it did not hurt (expect for that one moment this morning). She said that before the pacemaker, she was simply sleepy, simply drifting off. She even dreamt of my father, who was wearing a long black coat. He danced with her, spun her around with a huge goofy grin on his handsome face, then let her go back to the (dis)comfort of the living. Mom tells me that she is absolutely not afraid of death, that it’s natural, a transition not unlike sunrise, not unlike waking from sleep and discovering that her vivid dreams were simply that, dreams. More and more, she is referencing this world, this life as the dream state, much like certain Aboriginal tribal beliefs. And the next world, the next universe, is becoming more real to her.

I am powerless to stop this, and powerless to argue. Intellectually I agree. And for Mom to feel no pain is a wonderful thing.

But I am a selfish beast at my core. I am her child. If she lets go of my hand, I shall be utterly and completely lost. I do not think I can endure that. I do not want to try.

Today was my birthday. My friends took me out for sushi, and I put on my bravest possible face - though I was a million miles away, and trying to stave off panic the entire time. My friends brought me birthday donuts, and sang to me. The tune was noise, static in my buzzing head. The donut tasted like dust. I love my friends. I love my Mother.

I am exhausted from fear, and worry. I only hope tomorrow brings better news. Outside, a terrible wind is blowing. Even the solid walls cannot keep out all of the chill. I am huddled in the dark, like any caveman, painting with words instead of oxblood, but nonetheless trying to make sense out of a senseless time.

So the ferrets are sitting in a pile. Zachary and Duncan are on one level of the cage. Benjamin is bored, and has curled up in the bottom of the cage. For the longest time, Zachary and Duncan have been watching me, as though I were a rerun of an otherwise interesting television program.

They are bored, but I am what’s on.

I had some plans for tonight, but they all fell through. All my friends are having terrible financial crises, so I suspect that tomorrow, my actual birthday evening, might be a no- go as well. Which is cool. We all have issues, and besides, next week is Mardi Gras, so always other chances for fun times. I love my friends, but I like to think I am sensitive to them as well. It’s just another day, right?

Well, yeah. But still.

What I’d really like is to have a friend come over with a dozen donuts and a pile of DVDs. And to watch a few movies, give me a fierce shoulder rub, then cuddle with me. Alternatively, to get me out of the house, pay for seven strong drinks, watch me flirt shamelessly with strangers, then drag me home and put me into the shower before throwing me into bed; clean, and with little to no memory of the evening.

Honestly, I think the truth will be somewhere sorta close to the middle. My friend will come up and take me to sushi, then hang out at home with a few donuts, and hang out for the evening while I drink four vodka drinks and watch Boston Legal on Tivo before passing out. Whatever. It’s my birthday.

All my friends are in terrible financial straits. And myself, I have a whopping three dollars and change in my bank account until the first of the month. So I am at the mercy of those whom I depend upon from a day to day basis. Oddly, I am doing better than they are. I have, at least, the luxury of spending time alone in my apartment without the need for gas or food (for the moment) .

I spent time tonight hanging out around the ferret cage. I know, I know, I use the poor kids as a scapegoat. But they loved hanging out with me. They loved watching my every move, and jockeyed for position when it came to petting and kissing.

They loved my company, loved hanging out with me, loved getting out of the cage and chasing one another, and attacking my ankles. I lay on my back, waiting for the inevitable attacks and the inevitable counter-attacks, as my body was a battleground for ferret boundaries and ferret affection. I was a Pat Benatar song. And I liked the idea. I have creatures that did not see a birthday or a moment, but simply saw a wonderful opportunity for play and affection.

They love me, not because it’s my birthday but because every day, every moment is an opportunity for celebration. And they dance around me like gleeful Lilliputians danced over Gulliver. I am happy for them, for that. Because at the end of the day, it’s not about the content or quality of the endorsement. It’s simply about the beauty of being loved, of being trusted, of being real. My guys dancing around me, make me real. The make the day special. They have no bills to pay, no bad jobs to overcome, no repossessed cars to recover. There are no free birthday dinners, and no special circumstances. There is only love, and frivolity and kisses and playtime.

That is what I want for my birthday. Playtime with the creatures in my life who love me, who understand me.

Mom is doing so much better. She asked what I wanted for my birthday. I told her that the fact that she was healthy enough to ask the question gave me my answer. I wanted her part in my life to stay the same. I wanted no more loss, no more grief, no more fear, and no more uncertainty. Not this year, please. I wanted my life to be as close as it could be to last year. I wanted no damage, I wanted and want to be able to depend upon my stable set of constants, just for one more year. That ought to do it.

It’s all I want.

Just got off the phone with my Mom. She is recovering very well from her recent heart surgery. Neither of us knew just how close to death she really was, until she flatlined on the table while they were putting in a pacemaker.

But now? Her cognitive skills have sharpened tremendously. Her energy level is higher than I have seen in months. And her spirits are good. And for the first time in forever, I think I might get a decent night’s sleep, not having to wonder when or if the phone will ring, and with what dreadful news.

Mom confessed that she had a dream last week, whilst in the hospital. Dad was there, wearing a long black coat. He smiled at her, grabbed her by the hand, spun her around (as he was prone to do in their earlier, dancing days). Then he let her go, and with a wistful grin, submitted her to the world of the awake. Call that a simple dream, call it a premonition, a visitation, whatever. Mom took it to mean that the passage from this world to the next was, seriously no big deal. She insists that she never felt pain. And though she assured me that she would miss our talks and my company tremendously, she had to regrets regarding making that transition… that natural transition, she emphasized. I listened to her, and agreed with her that if death is not, after all, the boogeyman, then her choice was, ultimately up to her, more or less.

Then I hung up the phone, held my head in my hands, and wept.

It’s petty of me. It’s small of me. It’s wrong of me. But I am not ready to be in a world without my parents. Especially Mom, with whom I have shared a special relationship for decades. Mom, who I have called almost every day since my father died in 2000. Mom, who is a cool old lady in her own right, and fun to talk to. Mom, who watches Will and Grace reruns religiously, who keeps up on politics and current events. Mom, who easily walks away from a bridge game with the first place winnings. Mom, who is the last bastian of stability in a world remarkably unstable.

I fear that this will happen. I feared it last week, when she lay in the hospital, attached to monitors which showed her decline into death until… and almost too late for… the attachment of life-preserving mechanism.

I have few people in my life. My friend Adam, my friend Richard, my long distance friends Scott and Valerie and Collin, my new friends Tony and Michael. But in the scheme of things, I am dependant upon the concept of having Mom around. She is the one with whom I plan to go on a cruise this year. She is the one I think of instantly when some weird stuff goes on online. She is the one who actually holds conversations with me about what Benjamin Ferret does to bully Zachary Ferret, and why.

I know I will lose her someday. I know I almost did, last week. And I do not know what to do with that information. I have lost so many friends to AIDS. I have lost a father to cancer. I have lost lovers to indifference or scorn or abuse or neglect. I have lost online forums to scandal and misrepresentation and petty infighting.

What’s left to sacrifice? What’s left to lose? If not this, then what? If not now, when? I tremble sometimes at the uncertainty. And I know it’s small of me to do so. I know I should have the strength and wherewithal to suck it up, get the hell out of the house, and find a new group, a new crowd, more good people. Because they are out there. I know this. I just don’t know where or how to start.

All I know is that my Mom’s voice, stronger now than in months and months, means more to me on the end of my cellphone than all the forums, all the contacts, all the connections (or connexions) in the world. I only know now, that I dare not lose sight of the people who mean a good deal to me. Because I see nothing in the crystal ball that indicates a replacement for them. Damage control seems to be my priority these days, forget about fixing the broken or repairing the unworkable. I’m just struggling to keep the few things, the few people I love alive and well and in my life.

It’s freaking exhausting.

what does this have to do with HIV? I dunno. Seems that at some point in the process, damage control, the stopping of further harm, seems to be the only thing some of us can manage. It would be great to bring things back to pre-diagnosis proportions, to recreate a world where we can truly live and thrive. But barring that, just... just standing in the way of more destruction often takes up all of our time and energy. Keeping our heads above water, making a wave when we can. And other seventies theme songs.

Thing is, the longer I have AIDS, the more I understand Emily Dickinson's poem, which states, in part:

The heart asks pleasure first
and then relief from pain
and then those little anodynes
that deaden suffering.

Where am I now? I sometimes think I am at the relief from pain part, most days. Some days, I am to the point where I just don't want to feel it. The quest for pleasure sometimes, oft time, seems remote. And I miss that. Miss that hedonism. Miss that thirst for adventure. I have the videotape of my skydiving adventure four years ago. I want that man back, that cool, strong, fearless guy who jumped from a plane, who jumped into the dating scene, who jumped into online forums with bravado and strength.

I hate being the janitor of my own life, just sweeping up. There must be more, and there must be a way to find that.

It’s been a while.

I apologize.

The iBook gave up the magnificent ghost in October, and my greatest shame is that my desktop, while still a powerhouse for digital stuff (in it’s own sweet, oddly pathetic, slow way) is no use at all in TeH Intranets. So I took this as a sign. Like my caveman ancestors, I tend to look for meaning in the chaos. Finding precious little, I just make junk up. So anyhow, I took some time out of blogging and, well, being in the world. I had not had the most positive of all possible experiences in online communities (present company excepted, precious reader). I had not found safe haven, and I had not really, and truly, gone outside my own psychological (and physical) box. Not for a long time, not really.

And truth be told, I think I am a better person for having been away. Solitude is a weird thing. It’s like humility, I think. When you say you have it, you most likely don’t.

So for the last few months, I have been saving up to get the iBook fixed (cheaper by a factor of five than getting a new laptop) and spending my time in other pursuits. Well to be fair, the same pursuits, only without participation. I still checked email from time to time, and was/am able to send out short bursts of communication. But I withdrew, if such a thing is even possible for an agoraphobic. I concentrated on my two friends, my three ferrets, my writing, my own haphazard life. Good times.

Well, times.

About the three ferrets thing. Shortly before Christmas, my friend Richard and I went to the pet store to look at ferrets. Benjamin, in the throes of adrenal cancer, has shrugged off his melatonin implant after less than a year, and has lost most of his hair. Hormones have turned him into a bit of a bully, and though he is in no physical pain, I was – and am – aware that his time is shorter than I would like. Not wanting to see another ferret suffer through the loss of his bond-mate, I thought it prudent to get a third fellow to, well, smooth the transition a bit. Not for me, necessarily, but for Duncan Ferret, who had decided to love Benjamin with his whole heart.

So we are at the pet store, and there is, among the tiny babies, this HUGE almost white ferret. Turns out he was returned by his first owner because he was messy and smelly, When I placed my hand into the cage, he leapt upon it, and began licking my nose furiously. I then reminded my friend that I, too, have been returned for having been messy and smelly. I understood the situation. And with a steep discount, Zachary Ferret became my friend. I decided to keep the name he was given by his previous owner, and by the pet store personnel. Only I added a middle name. Now he is Zachary Taylor-Thomas Ferret. And all he wants to do with me, with Benjamin Ferret, with Anyone, is to belong and be loved. He is desperate for kisses, and loves nothing more than to play with my pant legs. He tolerates the bullying and sadism of a hormonal Benjamin Ferret with style and class, if not with dignity. Though he is twice the size of Benjamin, he still lays on his back and only cackles and shrieks, never fights back, when Benjamin picks on him.

This was my friend Richard’s Christmas present to me. And I am glad he chose it. I get Zachary. I really do. He is big and sweet and a little clumsy. But he is genuine and tolerant and a true friend. He and I have spent a lot of time together.

Which is a good thing, as I dragged my friend Richard to North Carolina for both Thanksgiving and Christmas. We took mom out to a Tapas restaurant, and planned an elaborate party for the extended family. The Tapas part was terrific. Thanks, however, to my older brother, the party did not turn out so well. To be fair, we were totally stood up. And anyone with a gay brother knows that when we plan and execute a party, there are at least a hundred candles, seven entrees, and a punchbowl with a marischino cherry ice wreath involved. My brother, drunk, had forgotten, and had pretended that he was not informed of the specific time of the party. Taking the offense, he opted for the rageful denial and opportunity to withdraw from the family unit forever (not for the first time). So much of Christmas was spent trying to lift Mom’s spirits, and eating a whole bunch of finger food. And, of course, trying not to be absolutely mortified by the actions of my brother. Hard stuff, but I got a few kickass sweaters.

After the holidays, I had made Mom promise that she would go with me on a cruise this coming year. Had to happen. She was 80, and I was going to turn 42. Neither of us had a passport, and Mom could not even find her birth certificate. So I ordered one for her online. Three days later, she fell ill – though to be fair, her energy had been declining for some time. Being the kid who talked to her every day, I should have seen it. I guess there’s something to the notion of being just too close.

I finally did the thing that no mother wants her son to do. From Atlanta, I called her next door neighbor in North Carolina, as well as her best friend and one of her sisters. I begged them to take her to a doctor as soon as they could. Once I had mobilized the troops, as it were, I knew she would be in good hands. And she was. As soon as her regular doctor took her blood pressure and discovered her blood oxygen level, she bolted from the examination room and called an ambulance. Within an hour, she was in the hospital. Within a day, she had a pacemaker implanted. She was literally minutes from dying, having congestive heart failure.

Fortunately, my brother was sober enough to come around and help out. I was, sadly, a little useless from Atlanta. My car is not sturdy enough to make the trip to North Carolina (in addition to being a great addition to Thanksgiving and Christmas, my friend Richard was also my driver for the seven hundred mile round trip). I could not afford a plane ticket. And to be brutally honest, even had my car been up for the trip, I have not been able to drive long distances for years. The very thought made my throat close up, made me nauseated. Made me more afraid than I can articulate. Added to the notion of my last living parent, well, not being that, I was truly trapped.

Mom and I talk on the phone almost every day. Not because she is my mother and it’s a duty. Because she is cool, and smart, and follows politics and pop culture and is simply fun to talk to. I look forward to calling her, and hearing about her day. Sure, most of it is bridge playing and television watching, but she does both very well. In many ways, we have a friendship that transcends mother and child. She’s just a cool lady, and I am fortunate to have sprung from such good stock. Not being there, physically, was very painful. So I manned the phone and called everyone she knew, and made certain she would never be alone. And fortunately, she has not been.

That was last week. She got out of the hospital last Friday, and has been recovering at home since. We have talked every day, and though she is weak and frustrated at being unable to do more physical stuff (which I take as a good sign) she is getting slowly better. Her pacemaker is chugging along, forcing an atrophied heart to beat normally for the first time in forever (insert obvious metaphors here).

Would that we were all able to gain a hardware fix for our wounded hearts, right?

Well, Mom’s birth certificate arrived in the mail today. And we talked about getting passports again, seriously, for the first time in a month. She knows, as I do, that there is still much in life we want to experience. And even if we never, ever go anywhere… there is something to be said for opening a drawer and seeing a passport there, knowing that nothing stands in our way but our selves.

So that, more or less, is where I have been. And more or less, what I have been doing. I got my iBook repaired, but it needs more work. The guy who put it back together after installing a new logic board did so, apparently, in the dark. Drunk. And using a monkey. And not even a particularly bright monkey. Half of the keyboard doesn’t work well, and the whole thing seems far flimsier than when I sent it in.

Also, a note for tech support people around the world. Never remark, upon returning a laptop (or any hardware product) that A) you never referenced a manual about its disassembly, and B) that you had a “couple of screws left over.” Not for seven hundred and sixty dollars. Just saying.

Tonight, though, I celebrated by plugging in my keyboard and doing some music work, for the first time in forever. And using an external USB keyboard, am even writing this.

Yes, the center does not hold. Yes, things break. Laptops, logic boards, hearts, spirits. But there is something noble in the notion of not throwing the units away. Not giving up on them, or on us.

There is something proud in the repair of the things we hold dear. There is value in sentiment. I look across the room at a feeble, nearly hairless ferret, sleeping squarely on top of two far larger beasts in an undeniable position of authority. The victory does, in the end, go to the strong. But strength is not always where you think, or what you see. Sometimes, strength is how hard you try, how much you love, how far you travel with fear, without fur, without a full heart, without courage.

I have a lot to learn. But the first step is acknowledging that I want to learn it. I do. I really, really do.