Easter Visit

I want to visit with you two for a bit so I'm virtually visiting your resting place. I can look at this photograph and be thankful I had the foresight to have you both pose for it.

Dad, you recently turned 95! I thought a lot about you on your birthday--although I think of you very often when something activates my memory. Even though we lost you when you were 87, I like to think about what you would be like at this age. What new wisdom would you have gained? What do you think about COVID-19 and our current political situation? You always had an opinion. I miss them--whether I agreed with them or not. I thank you for your unwavering unconditional love.

Mom, you are 97 today! Happy Birthday! You are part of my every day. Not a single one goes by where I don't think of you and grieve for you. Yes--even after 2 plus years. I watch the birds come to our birdfeeder and remember what you said about the cardinals. A male and female come faithfully every day and I like to think they are you and dad. Your prayers and your prayer journal comfort me daily. But God, how I miss our talks! There are still so many unanswered questions and family photos to identify. I'm glad we covered as much as we did when you were still with us but I can't hear you anymore--save the vain imaginings of what I think you'd say.

I'm okay. This staying indoors affords me the opportunity to do so much reading and writing. I can imagine you saying "this is your dream come true, you lazy bum." Of course, with a smile on your face. I know you are taking good care of dad and Eva. It must be great to have Aunt Kay, Aunt Bernice and Aunt Bow with you...and now René. Is there weed in heaven? If there is, I'm sure she's still smoking. Give her a hug for me. Give them all a hug for me. We can't hug anyone down here right now although personally, I've never been big on hugging. But you know that.

It's time for me to get back to my journal. I write about the memories of the last four years we had together while still fresh in my mind. It was an honor to be your caregiver.

I love and miss you both so much. I look forward to the day outside of time when we will meet again. I hope it's not too soon. I still have some traveling I'd like to do. Eduardo is treating me exceptionally well. I can see now why he became your "favorite."

Bye...for now. I hope you like the virtual flowers. I love you.

Thomas Boylan · Eastervisit.WAV

Travel Holiday Inns --All The Way

(Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania. June, 1976)

The anticipation had started sometime in January--after Christmas break.

I waited patiently for the remainder of the school year to end and then the glorious days of summer would be upon us. My parents usually had at least one or two trips lined up every year and it didn't matter where the trips would take us. Just having the opportunity to spend any time away from the tiny town I'd grown to hate was enough to make celebratory fireworks go off in my head. This particular year-- 1976--was a true reason for fireworks. The nation's Bicentennial Celebration of Independence was an inescapable once-in-a-lifetime event and it was touted as such. This wasn't just any July 4th celebration. Television specials, school projects, advertisements of every sort and more than the usual red white and blue were everywhere one looked. It was impossible not to get swept up in the excitement. And we were on our way to Washington, D.C!

My sister's fiancé was graduating from the Naval Academy at Annapolis. We were to attend the ceremony but our trip would include excursions to Colonial Williamsburg, the nation's capital and the obligatory stay at my paternal grandparents house in Bordentown, New Jersey. My two brothers were busy with other things that summer. John had been attending college and working and my brother Bill had just started his post high school educational journey. This left my sister Amy and I as the backseat occupants for the road trip. Mary was already in Annapolis enjoying pre-graduation festivities with her intended, Doug. I'm pretty sure Amy would have rather been anywhere else but being the nerd of the family, I was excited!

As it turned out we were to stay at a Holiday Inn in Alexandria,Virginia for a couple nights and take in the sights of D.C. during the day. The humidity and heat were excessive that year--even by D.C. standards. As a kid, it bothered me and this was long before heat was an issue for me. These days I can last maybe five minutes without air conditioning on a typical summer day before a litany of profanity cursing the heat automatically rolls off my tongue. Our first day included the Lincoln Memorial and the Smithsonian Institution's various museums. When I look at pictures taken on this day with our handy Kodak Instamatic camera, I look miserable. I seriously doubt it was due to the heat though because I could always find a reason to pout--especially when I didn't get my way. I'm sure there were several instances of that on this scorcher of a day. I was a true test for my mother. My primary goal was to get as many free brochures as I could get my hands on. I had a growing collection back home and was eager to add to it. Pictures in front of Lincoln's imposing statue at the Lincoln Memorial captured the fashions of 1976 perfectly. Mom's well-coiffed hair fared well in the humidity--copious amounts of hairspray being the essential ingredient. There is one photo of my parents with mom in a lovely blue and white polyester dress and dad with his tight-fitting stylish short-sleeved dress shirt which emphasized his imposing beer gut. Amy looks pretty normal as a high school teenager. I chose an ensemble consisting of a short-sleeved pocket dress shirt accented by slacks--not shorts--and a red white and blue themed fisherman's cap.

(Mom and Dad at the Lincoln Memorial. June, 1976)

Holiday Inn motels were my parents' preferred lodging for road trips. Like Howard Johnson's for others, the Holiday Inn chain provided affordable accommodations which were usually consistent in regards to cleanliness and service. Every time we stopped for an overnight or two, I'd quickly set to work gathering all the small free toiletries. In those days, it wasn't unusual to find a complimentary shoe polish cloth or two. I would grab all of these items before anyone had a chance to use them and stash them into my small suitcase. I was always fascinated by the strip of paper adorning the lid of each toilet bowl reading "this toilet has been sanitized for YOUR protection." For me, it was always the little things. For my father, it was apparently also the little things...such as whether or not the motel housekeeping staff had cleaned our room and made up the beds. In this case, after a long and hot day of what had to have been miles of walking the nation's capital, we arrived to see unmade beds and no "sanitized for your protection" strip. My father was generally a pretty jovial character and especially so if he'd consumed a few beers and had an audience for a story. On the other hand, when he got "riled up" as mom liked to say, his face turned beet red and I swear there were times I saw smoke coming out of his ears. With mom's feeble protests ignored (they always went something like "now Bill, don't make a big deal out of it") the old man was on the phone asking to speak with the manager. "I don't care if they're gone for the day! I want someone in here to do the job they're supposed to do!" There were always a few expletives peppered into the rant but he was always clear to avoid the "f" word. Jesus Christ was totally acceptable. I think mom must have told herself this was his version of prayer. When he was finally satisfied with a good dose of apology from the manager, the lighter red (normal) color had returned to his face. 

"Grab your purse. Amy and Tommy, put your shoes on."

"Where are we going?," mom asked almost hesitating to hear the answer.

"We're not going anywhere. We're staying right here at the Holiday Inn. We're going to the restaurant."

It was a short walk outside to the Holiday Inn's version of a Howard Johnson's Motor Lodge style restaurant. The hostess quickly seated us and was exceptionally friendly. Handing us the menus, she said that Mr. so and so (of course I don't remember the name of the manager) will be taking care of our check. Dad had an ear-to-ear grin as he looked directly at me and said, "Order anything you want." Satisfied with my dad's smugness, I ordered fried popcorn shrimp. We all ate until our bellies were full. We were well energized for whatever adventure the next day held. 

(the one time advertising slogan: Travel Holiday Inns all the way)

Just A Small Hit

I've made it through Lent (with just a few days to go) abstaining from Facebook. Well, mostly. I mean, I still communicated with my students with another Facebook page of the "professional" variety--but my truly pleasurable addiction is to my personal Facebook page and I was certainly missing it by the time Holy Week got here. It is an addiction and it's a generally pleasurable one so it was indeed a sacrifice to give it up for Lent. I also amped up my use of Instagram in the process but, as much as I love to share my photos, it doesn't provide the same satisfaction of putting my thoughts out there in Facebookland. My lesson for future Lenten sacrifice: true sacrifice would be all social media. That would be a tough one.

One of the things I realized about abstaining from Facebook was that I was spending so much time watching other peoples lives that I didn't spend as much time on my own. My personal journey has been on hold for the past ten years. Well, not entirely but certainly for the huge chunks of time consumed by Facebook voyeurism...and of course posting both short and lengthy diatribes, positive thoughts and quotes and far more than anyone should really know about my own life claimed additional chunks of time. Was it really ten years ago? Facebook reminds me constantly with the tempting (and often irresistible) "memories" that it was indeed. The sorcery they use appeals to those of us with a nostalgic streak as well. Ten years. I wouldn't remember many of the things I was doing on this day in 2009 if it wasn't for Facebook. Fortunately, Facebook didn't stop me from my regular practice of journaling...but my journaling did become less frequent after it came on the scene.

Big question: Will I now spend less time on Facebook? Who knows? I would like to think this sabbatical has impressed something meaningful and that I'll be more cautious about the time I spend checking in and checking out others' checking in. We'll see.

Abdomination

I haven’t looked at my abdomen since March of 2016.


It’s not that I don’t take care of it. I mean, I shower daily and wash without looking. It sounds strange and I’m sure it is strange but I just can’t bring myself to look at the disfiguring scars and resultant hernias I’ve developed from three major surgeries. I am working on it. Wait…that’s bullshit. I’m not working on it at all. I’m planning to never look at my abdomen again. At least for now.


I’ve written about my surgeries and near-death experience (even though I never saw any white light or, for that matter, any proof of a life hereafter) on these pages before so I won’t bore you with any of the details.  If you really want to read those, you can certainly use the opportunity to seriously check out my blog…it can be interesting at times. In 2016 I had major surgery after what was supposed to be a routine laparoscopic procedure to correct a case of diverticulitis. Major infection occurred and a subsequent series of surgeries followed by a 70-something day stretch of time in the hospital. That’s the short version. I nearly died. So…I’m extremely grateful to be typing these words out on my computer in the month of April. Year: 2019.


Back to the abdomen. I have to say that by the time I reached 51 years of age it wasn’t what I would have called a pretty abdomen. It was just “standard,” for lack of a better word. The skin was smooth—very little hair. A furry patch of graying hair covered my upper chest and then a smooth ribbon of hairless skin—very white—followed by a seemingly normal “insie” belly-button. Below that, a single line of hair worked its way down to…let’s just say a very neatly groomed and trimmed area that had seen plenty of action well into my descent from the peak of a gay man’s life: somewhere around 25 years of age…usually. There was a period of time in my late 30s to early 40s where I actually took an interest in working out. At the time, I’d experienced some success with improving my overall physique without much professional training. I’d reluctantly (I really want to emphasize that word so I’ll say it again: reluctantly) go to the gym three to four days a week and when I wasn’t at the gym, I’d work out with a modest set of weights at home. I had developed—for the first time in my life, mind you—arm muscles and actual defined pectoral muscles! It was truly a shock but it got me some much-needed attention. At least I thought I needed it. One thing that didn’t happen however was any development of the gay man’s dream. A six pack was never in my future. But let’s just say I was happy. After all, I could still look down and actually see my penis every time I peed. It pleased me at the time to be able to look down at fairly well-developed pecs each time this happened. My mid-40s saw that zeal to work out fade away. But I was generally happier with my appearance than I’d been all through my awkward 20s and early 30s. I’d worked hard to overcome a never diagnosed illness that I’m now certain was body dysmorphic disorder. In March of 2016, I still had a full head of hair, a little paunch but definitely not the big gut so many of my fellow travelers were burdened with and a still strong and now alcohol-free libido. I wasn’t complaining. That is…until the worsening pain in my gut became unbearable.

By that time, I was married and was the primary caregiver to my still very vital and relatively healthy 92 year old mother. For me, I guess the important thing was that I’d finally felt at peace with my body. I think that’s the most troubling aspect of this “setback.” I find myself struggling to use an alternative word—something less weighty than setback but I think it’s appropriate here. This truly is a type of setback for me and I’m not over it. While the substantial portion of my colon that was removed to rid me of the diverticulitis pain worked, my resultant hernia pain has contributed a daily reminder that the weak pain management medication (thank you, opioid crisis) does little to alleviate. I’d just like to feel as close to normal as I can again but the fact that I cover myself before looking in the mirror reflects a clear message to me over and over again. This isn’t normal.

****

On a cold January day in 2015, I recognized the fact that I was single and relatively happy in my new environment. Although selfies had by that time become a regular part of my social media experience, I rarely took photos of my shirtless body. I could gladly leave that indulgence to the proud gym bunnies out there. Regardless, on this particular day, I was freshly showered and somewhat surprisingly—and perhaps a bit modestly—admiring my body, perceived flaws and all. I have no idea why I suddenly found myself on my bed snapping a few selfies. I certainly didn’t plan on sharing them with anyone. As it turned out, these would indeed be the last pictures of my abdomen, pre-disfiguration. Maybe I had a clue. It would be a year before surgery and I had no idea what was on the horizon. I’m just glad I froze that moment—digitally speaking.

Listen to this:

Thomas Boylan · Abdomination.WAV

Gone With The Wind

Atlanta is foggy this morning. The scene from my balcony reminds me of a scene from “Gone With the Wind” toward the end of the film, when Scarlett runs from the deathbed of her long suffering cousin Melanie looking for Rhett. The streets are foggy courtesy of dry ice and the Hollywood movie magic. In a sense, it is surreal but actual. Life mimics art. Or is it the other way around?

I’ve been on a journey since the beginning of the new year. I’ve been looking for the artist who exists within me. Somewhere along the way, he got lost and he stopped making art. When that happened, he looked for other ways to express himself. Nothing seemed to work. There seemed to be a deep chasm between that lost artist and the person I’d become. How could I possibly begin to retrieve something—anything—of him?

Just as the fog of this grey day will eventually lift, I’m sure that the fog of the past several years will also lift. I’m not sure what it will reveal but I have a sense of hope and adventure lurking somewhere beneath that mist. Accompanying it is a corresponding sense of dread and anxiety. Perhaps the lifting of the veil will reveal darkness. It is a risk I must take.

Will I write? Draw? Paint? Start crocheting? I haven’t a clue. All I know is that he’s ready. I’m ready. Let the adventure begin…

Give Me Time

2018 is getting ready to say goodbye. I'm so ready to say goodbye to it as well. I don't want to say it was a bad year. There were many good things that happened in 2018 and I don't want to minimize or dismiss those events, milestones and occasions. I do wish to clarify, however, the feeling of release I am about to feel when the clock strikes midnight.

Time is a creation. Nature has its own markings and indications of change.  All those calendars, schedules and stamps are not part of nature. I'm not naïve and don't expect everything to magically disappear when the clock rolls over. But, because I am a creature of the moment, I give the numbers their due. The numbers that defined the year of 2018 will be indelibly lodged in my brain. These numbers will mark losses...and I'm not sure if there is a recovery date for those. I suspect there will not be. But seeing "2019" rather than "2018" will hold some power. Granted, the power is minimal but at this moment I'm willing to take anything I can get.

January was the month I lost my mom. I hate to say I lost her as I sense that part of her will always remain as long as I have the sense of memory. But I lost the most precious gifts that our short physical stay here affords us: human touch and verbal interaction. April brought another dramatic loss--my precious dog Eva. I had her love and companionship for close to fourteen years. A move to another city within the span of one year would be another change--newly acquired friends and familiarity with our environment was a different type of loss but a loss nonetheless.

In September, I found out that my dear first cousin--who has been at many times in my life like a sister--had stage four esophageal cancer. On a trip to Texas to visit her another of my furry companions (living with my former roommate) died. All this in the midst of my continued adjustment to physical limitations and pain related to major surgery I had to undergo in 2016. Although this surgery saved my life, it left me with another loss. The loss of one's formerly fragile but acceptable body image is staggeringly shocking. At least for me it was...and is.

There have been many times in my life where holding on was a clear and frightening requirement. But I did hold on. I did it again a few times this year. Time is a creation. It's true. But it is a reality in this life. It is responsible for the losses and gains and a distinct marker of our mortality and humanity. Perhaps 2019 will be the year when time can be kinder. Time has also been described through the years as a gift. I would like to look at it as a gift this new year. The gift will be to appreciate my present each and every day. God willing, it will be a good year.

Just The Way I Am

I've decided against surgery.

In March of 2016, after undergoing a radical surgical procedure to save my life, I was lucky to be alive and grateful for the doctor who saved my life. Of course, the medical procedure that brought me to the hospital was a fairly routine laparoscopic surgery which would have normally required about a week or less in the hospital and a longer period of convalescence in the home. It wasn't to be. Although the initial surgery appeared to be successful, a second undetectable perforation in a completely different section of my colon was slowly leaking intestinal fluids into my system--causing my organs to shut down one by one. It wasn't to be my time although death was chasing me. Thankfully, an alert nurse whose post was usually not in the surgical recovery unit was paying close attention to my vitals. The nurse, who typically worked in the ICU, was probably more responsible than anyone for my being here today. Yes, I was that close to death. Time was vitally critical. The resulting surgery required what I later found out is called an "abdominal washout" and it required my entire chest cavity to be opened and that led to a 90-day additional hospital stay, loss of 45 pounds and a much longer recovery period at home. It also gave me an impressive new appearance--and not impressive in a good way.

As a young man in my 20s, I suffered from what I came to find out later was called Body Dysmorphic Disorder. I had what appeared to be a mild case. I was still able to socialize but was extremely inhibited when it came to revealing my body to others. I was extremely skinny, had translucent pale skin and skin conditions ranging from acne to chronic hereditary eczema. While these issues wouldn't ordinarily cause a person to become debilitated, in my case they could determine missing a day or days of work or school. Since I'd not been diagnosed with this condition--hereafter referred to as BDD--I found ways to self medicate. These mainly consisted of massive quantities of alcohol and illicit drugs. I found particularly when I drank, it could serve to relieve me of much of the anxiety associated with BDD. Also, it enabled me to have intimate relationships...lots of intimate relationships.  I would always suffer from various degrees of BDD when sober again. It was truly a viscous cycle. I was fortunate to find a therapist in 2004 who helped me tremendously with getting a grip on the source of my body anxiety and, although I would still suffer from alcoholism for the next several years, I finally had a breakthrough with BDD. I started to look at my body in a different way.

Back to 2016. I'd been alcohol free for four years and was doing okay with acceptance of myself but had a few setbacks from time to time. Therapy continued even after I moved from Texas to Virginia and I had truly wonderful help in that area. I'd been particularly blessed. That is, until I developed--as a result of a severe flareup of pre-existing diverticulitis--a perforated colon. It sent me to the emergency room and that is where I found out what my limited options were. Laparoscopic surgery sounded too good to be true. There would be approximately three or more small incisions, the offending portion of my colon would be removed, the surgeon would re-section the healthy parts and voila! Good as new! Only...that's not how it went down. The resulting invasive surgery left what were for me hideous scars. I couldn't bring myself to look at them...even months after returning home from the long hospital stay. I would clean the wound area without looking at it.

The gay male subculture, of which I am a part, can be a warm and embracing tribe. It can also be a harsh, competitive and cruel one as well. This is particularly true if a guy of a certain age finds himself single. That's where I was in 2015 when I met my husband. I'd been single for several months after a mutually ended long-distance relationship (we are talking bi-national, Mexico) that had gone on for nearly four years. In February of that year, I was lucky enough to find the one man in the here and now who not only captured my heart--but also gladly allowed me to imprison his as well. It really was love at first sight for me. I was also gratified to have my sober self hear the sweet words, "I find you very attractive." I'd long passed the stage where physical was all there is but it was still a substantial part of the overall package. To hear those sincere words sealed the deal for me. We were married later that same year. You hear the term "storybook" thrown around a lot but it's no exaggeration where we were concerned. It was a storybook romance, a storybook wedding and a storybook domestic life. We took great pleasure in both caring for my aging mother, who was by that time living with me. It was a perfect scene until that day when I had the first attack. Then, after the surgery it was fear that this severely altered appearance would cause the BDD to rear it's ugly head and I would be right back where I started from.

I've decided against surgery.

That's where the story ends. I found that these horrific (yes, I'm still calling them that) scars could be altered--along with the resultant abdominal hernias--with corrective surgery. I have been tossing the idea around in my head for months. The death of my mother, our dog and two moves to two new cities have delayed the final decision but I found myself making that decision in a doctor's office here in Atlanta. She explained in great detail the risks involved in this type of surgery. She wasn't trying to scare me--just being honest and I appreciated it. Back home with my husband Eduardo, I told him of my decision. He'd been completely supportive of whatever I would decide. His response? "I love you just the way you are."

I've decided against surgery.

Thomas Boylan · Justthewayiam.WAV