World AIDS Day

I don't know why but this year, World AIDS Day was really intense.

UPDATE: I started this post last World AIDS Day.  Turns out, this year was pretty intense as well.  I have been thinking a lot about (as I was last year) all the lost fucking potential from so many amazing gay men who have died, especially early on.  During the plague years I was young enough that I didn't have to experience all of that, but I was aware of it.  As I age, particularly now that I'm solidly mid-thirties and have had a little mortality wake up, I am just so overwhelmed by all that was lost in those deaths.  It's so hard to fathom all the creative and productive potential--all the ways that lives would have been touched.  I was thinking about the Flirtations song "Living in Wartime" and although I hate the war metaphor, it makes more sense to me now.  A whole big swath of young men just wiped out.  It's unbelievable, really.

Anyway, last year I stumbled on this, a searchable database of all obituaries that have appeared in the Bay Area Reporter since it began publishing them in 1979.  It's this unbelievable testimony to some of the lives lost.  I started at the beginning last year and have been making my way through the archive, reading the obituaries, one at a time.  Morbid maybe, but I really think of it as a kind of witness, a way of not forgetting, a way of wrapping my head around all that loss.  I think it would be awesome to have a whole show of The Stoop dedicated to this--have the theme be the living telling a story about someone who had died of AIDS.  A way of preserving, of honoring.  Everyone had a story. Here are some of theirs...

Not Dead from Cancer

That's a terrible name for a post but it will have to do. So, it turns out that the having cancer part wasn't as bad as I had feared in my last post. In fact, if I had to guess, I'd say it was all fairly routine in terms of treatment. Caught early (even after a year of having that sucker on my tongue) it turns out that (so far) the only treatment I needed was to have some surgery. Sure, a third or so of my tongue is gone, and I look a little like I had a stroke for now, but in the grand scheme of things, big whoop, right? I won't go into the details here, but suffice it to say, parts of it sucked a whole lot, and parts of it were just annoying, and parts of it still are. I was well supported throughout and hope I didn't take that too much for granted; I am grateful beyond measure that I don't need radiation.

I have a really super badass scar that runs from behind my right ear, down the side and across the front of my neck, like more than halfway across. It's big and when J and my dad came into the recovery room, they did not have their game faces on. Even through the haze of the anesthesia, I remember my dad's exact words: "Woah, that's big!" Nice.

However, it turns out that having had cancer is another animal altogether. It's like all the stereotypical brush with death, first realization of mortality, shockwave stuff you'd imagine: it's heavy and contrived at the same time. It makes me want to appreciate the little things, read books I mean to read, slow down, hug the dog (we don't have a dog) and just see all the people I love who have made me who I am, as often as possible. That sort of shit. It's really incredibly emotionally taxing a lot of the time and really really very much harder than I had any idea it would be.

So FYI, if you get cancer, it mostly comes after. Somehow I feel like I should have figured this out on my own or something. On the upside, I am appreciating the little things more, so if life is ever by chance, a little more dull, I'm not noticing because that's the most gorgeous leaf pattern in that tree, like, ever--with the light coming through it like that--see that? Gorgeous. That's how it is. And I cry a lot more easily at totally inopportune times (bus, desk at work, grocery) but I don't really mind. I'll start some therapy pretty soon.

But perhaps most incredible of all is that exactly 3 months to the day (which I just realized by reading my previous post) that I was diagnosed with cancer, I started a new job back in DC, honey badger in tow (J's new nickname I think). And I'll take a sec here to just acknowledge the total badassness of HB and I (me in particular, since I was the one with cancer) for getting, treating, and recovering from cancer, hearing about, interviewing for, and getting a new job, struggling with, submitting all the paperwork for, and ultimately finally earning my license to practice psychotherapy in DC, packing all our stuff, getting it into pods, saying farewell to important folks in LA, road tripping across the country, landing in DC, and starting a new job all within that exact three month period: March 16 - June 16. Yeah, it's been kind of an indescribable whirlwind, but I guess way opens. Way Opens.

AND THEN just two weeks back and barely settling into DC, having not yet received a paycheck, we put an offer on a house that was accepted practically instantly, and a week and a half later, honey badger (almost probably) got a job. Damn. Cancer has made me suspicious enough though that in spite of all that amazing stuff and the incredible seeming almost miracles that made this amazing transition back home to family and friends possible, I kind of want all the good karma to stop, because I'm afraid I'll have to pay for it in tongue, or worse. And I don't want that.

Last night I had a dream that I was in a bar with about 4 other people seeing Ani Difranco (I just can't un-caps her name, even after the humility of cancer. Sorry, ani, but names are meant to be capitalized) play and before the show (four people? Dreams are funny), she walked by me and sang the single line: "No, I'm not angry anymore." and it got me wondering: I've been putting all this cancer stuff in the context of grieving, but ani (okay, there, that's twice. I love you, you know it!) got me thinking. A lot. Because anger is not a comfortable emotion for me.

In the meantime, gratitude.

Cancer cells love cheese

Well shit. I didn't intend for this to turn into a cancer blog, which frankly sounds a little tiresome and played out and possibly self-indulgent, but then again, I didn't expect to get a cancer diagnosis either. So, for now, here we are.

I was told yesterday that I have cancer on my tongue. This is not what I was hoping to hear obviously although it certainly helps explain why the sore place on my tongue didn't go away for almost a year. I suppose in some small way I am grateful to know what it is. On the other hand, fuck that. I'm 37 and I would have been happy to wait 30 or so more years before dealing with something like this. That's not how it's going to go. I get this now.

I have been telling everyone I know because I firmly believe that the love and light I receive from my family, friends, and community will be my shelter, in addition to whatever probably horrible and trying medical interventions there will be. It's a little selfish but I want everyone to be praying and holding me in the light. Everyone, all the time.

I was talking to a friend tonight whose cousin just completed his treatment for tongue cancer and it sounded pretty awful for him: surgery to remove the cancer and to transplant some muscle from his shoulder into his tongue; loss of appetite and the ability to taste anything (which evidently returns to some degree); having a feeding tube for months; salivary glands destroyed by radiation; lots of pain. There's not much to look forward to in that list, although it could be pleasant to lose a little weight. However when faced with the specter of all this, going to the gym doesn't sound so bad after all by comparison. But that ship has sailed now hasn't it.

Anyway, since I found out yesterday, I'm still pretty numb and just letting myself be in the present. Part of my present includes muscle relaxers, tylenol 3 and tequila, but that's just fine for now. Numb is nice. The rest is just allowing myself to be on the roller coaster and ride the emotions however they come. It's less crazy than it sounds. It's actually nice to just give myself permission to feel however and not try to justify feelings away, or deny them, or fight them.

Everyone is very supportive, especially Jason who is an incredible, steady, loving partner and friend. I feel very lucky. Well, and a little like I don't deserve to have cancer, so a little unlucky as well. But lucky to have Jason at least.