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

Sister Jude Marie

It would take a special kind of teacher to make me feel good about school after the unexpected death of my 5th grade homeroom teacher, Mr. Mattivi. (see my blog titled "Peace, Denny") The sixth grade at Holy Rosary Grade School would find me in a classroom staffed by a short, energetic nun who sometimes did and often didn't wear a habit. It was autumn of 1975. The nation was gearing up for the celebration of the Bicentennial the following year. I was still into dinosaurs but my newer fascination was with all things "monster"--especially monster movies. I was an avid fan of the 1933 movie "King Kong" (well, it had dinosaurs in it, of course) and found myself on most Saturdays in front of the television set watching "Science Fiction Theater" or scouting the local newsstand for monster movie magazines. It was there I discovered that "King Kong" was being re-made in 1976 and I was thrilled to follow all the news on this. Not much else was going on in my little world despite the fact that, as a nation, we had just emerged from the scandalous Nixon years and were living with Gerald Ford as our President. I wasn't politically aware enough to realize that a Georgia peanut farmer was making a promising run for President into reality. No, my political involvement wouldn't come until years later. But this new homeroom teacher, Sister Jude Marie, made sure that we were aware of everything happening in our world. And she did it with a style and grace that I was only able to appreciate years later.

Vatican II had made it's mark--even on tiny little Johnsonburg, my Pennsylvania hometown. Our local Pastor at Holy Rosary had stripped away all of the ornamentation of our turn of the century brick church and replaced the grand altar with a single cross depicting the risen Christ. As a child artist, I was appalled. All that ornamentation and beauty stripped away for this? Sister Jude Marie was not only the homeroom teacher, she was also the Religious Education instructor. To say that she was unconventional was an understatement. During Lent of that year our class listened to the entire soundtrack of the movie version of the Broadway smash "Jesus Christ Superstar." It was my first time hearing any of these songs with the exception of one that had made it onto the pop charts and had been given some radio airplay. That song was "I Don't Know How To Love Him" sung by Yvonne Elliman--who later had a top ten hit with "If I Can't Have You" from the "Saturday Night Fever" motion picture soundtrack. Sister Jude Marie made contemporary music an integral part of our religious training. Each week, the Diocesan newspaper, Erie Pennsylvania's "Lake Shore Visitor" had a column which gave a spiritual lesson on a contemporary song. We would discuss the lyrics (printed and handed out to the class) and how they might apply to our own spiritual lives. I can remember the song "Rich Girl" by Hall & Oates as being one of the songs we listened and read the lyrics to. The "Lake Shore Visitor" did not print the word "bitch" but just put a dash where the word would have been. Sister Jude Marie didn't hesitate to say the word and wonder aloud why it wasn't printed. I always looked forward to her interpretations of the song's meanings each week.

I think Sister Jude Marie liked me although she did not play favorites--at all. She could be a gentle disciplinarian when it was called for. Still, there was absolutely no meanness as one so often hears or reads about from others who reflect on nun experiences from their Catholic grade school years. Sister Jude Marie was fair. I was able to detect this as a wary 6th grader. There was no doubt she was fair.

One assignment she had given our religion class was to share a place that was special to us. A place where we could contemplate or pray. I remember well what I shared. I often took walks to a clearing at the top of a hill a little distance from our house. It was a heavily wooded area and the clearing gave an impressive view of the surrounding hills and forest. It was there that the strange kid that I was arranged rocks into a small grotto and placed a plastic statue of the Virgin Mary as well as another of Jesus with the Sacred Heart. I shared this thinking that it would most certainly impress Sister. All I can remember from the A grade I got back was a note that said "WOW Tom" and I was never quite sure if she believed I'd actually done such a thing. But it was true. I actually did.

I missed Sister Jude Marie after my stint at Holy Rosary. I'd completely lost touch with her but always had fond memories of her unconventional classroom. With the advent of Facebook, I decided to take a chance and look her up and--lo and behold--there she was with a profile. I "friended" her and took great pleasure in allowing her to see what I'd made of my life. She and her classroom will always have a special place in my heart.

Thomas Boylan · Sisterjudemarie.WAV

2010 (Part 2)

As my visit progressed, mom and I had a chance to visit quite a bit. I was shocked that she'd been caring for dad at her age--with the grueling schedule. Even with the home health care nurses, the demands of his physical care when they weren't around was truly unbelievable. It was a wake-up call that something had to be done. We made a decision that was extremely difficult. We began to talk about transferring dad to a full-time care facility. I know it crushed mom to do this but it was either this or the continuation of her gradually killing herself. My journal entry:

6/28/10
Mon. 7:12 AM

Dad's care is grueling. It's really a 24-hour a day job. If mom feels trapped, I can see why. Today, I woke at 6:30 because my stomach was bothering me. I have diarrhea. I took something for it but I feel generally pretty bad. I've a cough that won't go away. This has been going on for the past several weeks. 

I can see why mom gets so depressed. Frankly, however, I don't see how a week in Maryland will solve the ongoing dilemma--it's just too much work. It really is as though mom is working a full-time job at 87 years of age. It's just crazy. 

I'm not sure if dad's case is unusual but it appears he is in great "internal" physical health. He takes all of his medications on schedule (mom sees to that) and he eats well. His ambulatory and memory skills, however, are another story altogether. How this is dealt with every day is just amazing. It takes a great deal of patience. At times, I can see mom getting short with him. This is understandable given the day-in, day-out grueling chore that is his full-time care. He does not respond to her in a thankful way which really irritates her. I've reminded mom that this is still dad's personality we are dealing with here. He's never been a person inclined to such behavior. In this respect, dad behaves no differently than he has all his life.

11:30 PM

Mom and I spent a good deal of time going through family photographs this morning. It was a real pleasure to revisit some of the memories we barely scratched the surface of last visit. One of the great things about doing this is are the wonderful stories I hear about all the family members and friends. Also, seeing dear departed relatives is a bittersweet part of this ritual. The photographs are a way for me to tap my memory bank as well. 

Seeing dad losing more of his memory every day gives me a great deal of anxiety when I think of how this appears to be genetic. Physically, I am so much like dad. I've the same skin, same features. It's all kind of frightening when I think about living to old age. But...who knows? I've no guarantee of living to a certain age. I don't even have a guarantee of outliving my parents! Wouldn't that be a shocker? 

As I read all of these journal entries, I'm transported back to that summer. My personal life was in upheaval. The stress of my life in Texas was exacerbated by my increasing dependence on alcohol to numb the reality. This visit to Pennsylvania strengthened my resolve to put in motion my eventual relocation to Virginia to be closer to my parents. What I didn't know is that we would be losing dad in January of 2013. The last nearly two years of his life would be spent in a nursing facility about seven miles from the home that he loved. Mom diligently drove each day to be with him. She never wavered in her support for the man she loved and she took the vows of her marriage very seriously. I do think that if we hadn't taken the steps to get dad into the facility, mom would have eventually suffered physically. She was already quite worn down from the demands of his care. 

7/1/10

Thurs. 5:05 PM

Today was a challenging day. We were to take my dad to a town called Phillipsburg to get new hearing aids. We got a late start because he went to the bathroom in his pants before we left. The plus on this is that he didn't do it after we left. I was disturbed with a few things watching the events of the morning unfold. First, it is both unrealistic and dangerous to just assume that mom can handle this role anymore. It is an untenable situation. In this morning's case, the nurse (who had performed an excellent job in getting him ready) was already gone. If I hadn't been here, there is no way she could have done it on her own. How she has thus far is a huge mystery to me. Secondly, she is increasingly fragile in the mental sense. I can see not only a short temper, but a pervasive depression interspersed with signs of resignation. I feel it should be a number one priority to get her some professional help as soon as possible to deal with the overwhelming pressure that she is under. Third, I am concerned about mom's physical health. Though she continues to have stellar check-ups, she seems tired and weak at times. I'm having a hard time recognizing if these are physiological manifestations from all that she is doing or perhaps just normal signs of aging. Whatever the case, it's alarming to see her this way. The resentment toward my father is building, while at the same time, her fears that he will need to go to the nursing home are valid and need to be discussed. We can't move ahead until these issues are dealt with. I am also concerned about my physical health. I'm so tired since I've been here that I honestly am worried. I can barely keep my eyes open as I write this. I'm sitting in the sun on the patio. The weather is absolutely gorgeous. It's been in the 70s and there is a cool breeze. 

While mom was in Maryland with my sister during a week of the visit, I got a much clearer idea of what it took to care for my father each day. My sister eventually had the talk with mom in which it was decided that we move forward with his move to Elk Haven. It was a sad and emotional time for all of us. But it afforded me a new respect for my mother. She was simply amazing. I think this is one of the major reasons it was so easy to finally make the decision to move from Texas to eventually take care of her. I honestly think I was preparing for that even before we lost dad. To this day, I'm glad I made that decision. 

Mom walking toward the patio of her beloved home. Elk Avenue, Johnsonburg, Pennsylvania. July, 2010.