The return of the living blog!
Sort of. I tried to get some #HorrorFeast action going on here, but some travel plans disrupted the writing flow and my collection of real life horror stories and fantasy fiction was unrealized. I even packed the laptop away for the four day trip but, alas, the trend of never grabbing it from my backpack stays alive. Speaking of the #HorrorFeast, it was all a set up for the tale of The Spirit Ball and the messages received from beyond the grave.
These days, I really have to play things by ear. I’m glad I took the computer, even if I didn’t have time or energy to write. Respecting my 49-year old gas tank, mentally and physically, does a lot of good for my quality of life.
Medical musings about HIV was where I discovered my love for writing. I wasn’t an expert, just a 20-year old tired of keeping a secret. Sharing what half his life with a grossly misunderstood medical condition was like. Which shaped not only my life moving forward but saved it as well. I don’t think I ever start HIV meds if I don’t open up about HIV, and in the last twenty-five years I’ve heard numerous stories about people dying because they went off meds. Or didn’t start.
It breaks my heart because I understand those shoes.
Writing is fun again for a lot of reasons, one of which is the new material. The acknowledgement and respect for ADHD and depression. The tag team that fans have rallied behind, leaving ol’ hemophilia and HIV to make a living selling old headshots at fan events. I say that with love and respect for anyone in the entertainment industry that is able to do that.
It also gives me an opening to talk about… pro rasslin! But don’t go, it’s really about family, gratitude and acceptance.
Some years back at Dragon*Con, I was a little starstruck to see The Iron Sheik there. He was sitting behind a table, holding a replica of the pro wrestling title made famous by Ric Flair. People were pretty much ignoring him- they didn’t know he ended Bob Backlund’s reign. Hulk Hogan lets the man get out of his ring gear and defend his title properly and the Iron Sheik enjoys a long title reign.
He was a legend.
He was also selling the photo op for $20, which was a bit of a chunk of my wallet that day.
But I’ve loved wrestling my whole life. My dad and I just took a little day trip, and a lot of our laughs are from memories of watching rasslin together. He talks about his younger brother, who we all lost too early. “Uncle Mook” to me. The first time I saw my favorite rassler, Ric Flair, was at my Nanny and Pop’s place, a hour and a half away from where we lived. About two or three times a year, Dad got to see his parents and siblings, and I remember how cool it was seeing my father in the role of son and brother.
Mom’s family lived in the same town as us, so I got to see that side of her life more often.
Anyway, the memories and laughs are what matters. Whenever Uncle Mook was at Nanny’s, he’d talk about wrestling being on TV. The first Ric Flair match I saw was against Chic Donavan. I didn’t know who either were, at the time I only caught rasslin occasionally and by accident. Well, this Chic dude looked like the He-Man action figures I had back home.
Flair? Not so much.
Uncle Mook said that there was no way that the stronger looking guy would prevail. Nonsense, I thought. The match went back and forth and I was sure I was right each time Chic got a hold of Flair, who I waited to be submitted by the rest hold that is the side headlock. Well, of course Uncle Mook was right. I had newfound respect for him and a love for the unpredictable nature of pro rasslin. Years later, I got to turn the tables on Uncle Mook. Around the time, I was mentoring a young guy. born with HIV- we got along because he saw a picture of me and Ric Flair on the wall.
Now, I’d walked in his shoes as a teenager with HIV. So when a friend said they knew someone that might benefit from meeting me, it caused some anxiety. That’s the last thing I’d have wanted. The stakes seemed higher than, say, writing an article or popping onto a campus with Gwenn for an hour. But, of course I said yes, accepting that I’d do my best and not take it personally if the kid thought I was a dork.
Because I totally am.
Naturally, at first it was awkward when him and his godfather came over to our place to meet me and Gwenn. But I knew that, whether he felt comfortable talking to me or not, even one meet-up would be beneficial. To see that someone with HIV- a total dork!- is worthy of a wonderful partner. That HIV doesn’t disqualify you from love like, say, a chairshot to the head in a rasslin match.
Things changed when he saw the picture that once hung in the hallway- of 12-year old me with Ric Flair. After I confirmed that yes, that kid was me, he bowed down at my feet like Wayne and Garth would. I cracked up, and we just started talking wrestling. That first meet up was a joy, and without rasslin the ice wouldn’t have broken is such a fun way. So, when there was some live pro rasslin in Roanoke, my dad invited Uncle Mook to join me and my new buddy for the occasion.
Now, this was 2008. Uncle Mook hadn’t been into rasslin for a very long time, but he jumped at the chance to share some laughs with his big brother. At the time, Ric Flair was on his last WWE run, leading up to a final battle with Shawn Michaels at WrestleMania. Flair was 59 years old at the time, and he was on the house show card, wrestling MVP I believe. A young upstart that had about as much of a chance as Chic Donavan did some three decades earlier.
My dad and I agreed to keep that little fact from Uncle Mook.
So, a few matches from the main event, MVP’s music hits. Like pretty much all of the rasslers, Uncle Mook had no idea who he was.
The arena went quiet. Then Ric Flair’s epic entrance theme, “Sprach Zarathustra (2001 A Space Odyssey)” hit.
Uncle Mook lit up! He could not believe Flair was still wrestling. In that moment I got to see my dad and his brother as kids. I got a wonderful picture, too, that Dad has proudly displayed in his house. Every time I see it, it takes me back to that night. And how that picture with Ric Flair formed a friendship and also got me through that first half of 7th Grade, one of the hardest times of my life. That was my favorite picture until I met Depeche Mode.
But these days, that picture of my Uncle Mook means more to me. Because of what it means to my Dad, having another day of fun memories with his little brother, who is probably somewhere fun in the spirit realm, recently joined by his beloved Peggy, and celebrating the Dodgers big win this week.
————
Last July when I started sticking myself weekly, I had a rough patch of missing. Which meant multiple sticks. I was posting numbers not seen in a decade when I first started needlin’ myself. The “a la carte” strategy. The bonk-to-stick pipeline. I never thought I’d do prophy, at least not until they made some kind of pill version.
Or patch.
Or Sour Patch Kid,
Special CLOTTING Edition?
Research is happening so quickly on the bleeding disorders front that I wouldn’t dare to venture a guess on how long I’ll be doing these once-a-week sticks.
Anyhoo, I didn’t have to go through a rollercoaster of emotions over those July and August misses. I’d just reset and, eventually, success! I recognized areas where I could do something better, or implement a tip from a friend. As recently as last week, I realized I’m not keeping my fist clenched long enough. You know; that phrase I’ve heard my entire life: “Hon, can you make a clenched fist for me?”
Then the stick.
Then, “OK, you can unclench now.”
I’m a lucky guy, so I must have had a lucky, long-ass streak of one-and-done sticks a la carte with an unclenched fist.
Well, today was my hemophilia treatment day and, guess what, I remembered to clench my fist. And you know what? Today I delivered my favorite stick of all-time. And here’s the #HorrorFeast twist ending. By the way, what made the couple of HorrorFeast blog posts on here fun was that I incorporated a fun little spooky voice that I used.
It added another layer to the experience. Written out the way it would read in a screenplay.
So here’s the twist, with style:
(Female voice, whispering: “He went for the largest vein and, with clenched fist… he missed.”)
You see, just because I remembered to clench my fist doesn’t mean success was guaranteed. I went through all of that in July and August when I was pin-cushioning myself. Noticing the clenched-fist gaffe, however, felt like I finally had the keys to the kingdom again. I even went for “Jaws”, the biggest vein on my forearm that has gone unstuck.
Well, even with a clenched fist and a little bit of a fishing expedition, I had to call off the search. That damn vein, it’s my version of Charlie Brown trying to kick the football. I don’t go for it often, because the element of surprise against a respected rival is key to my eventual success. Hitting Jaws would have been the best stick of my life thus far, but what happened on the second stick?
Way cooler.
After gauzing Jaws, I redirected the ol’ pontoon to safer waters, from the bulging forearm to the top of my hand. Now, I know those veins like the top of my hand. I clenched my fist and, yet again, nothing. I didn’t panic. One of the tricks is not to give up too soon. Everyone has their own strategy but, after seeing a phlebo draw blood on me and kind search around under the skin after missing initially, I knew I had to give that strategy a try.
That was about a year ago, and it’s been an essential tool in my tackle box.
Not good enough to nab Jaws but, someday…
With ease and care, I searched for that plainly visible vein, micro-guppies away from the needle. Veins can be like squirrels, so fidgety. I’ve found if the search doesn’t happen on the sooner side, it’s best to wave the white flag and find a more welcoming spot. On my final pass, I realized a third stick would be needed…
Until.
I got it! Like a rasslin match, at the very last moment I landed the telling blow. So, now, why is this so special? Well, let me talk to ya: music. Like Flair’s entrance, I like to have music on when I getting all of my items out in preparation for my hemophilia medication. By the way, a reason I became a huge childhood fan of Ric was because he bled like a hemophiliac. That made him relatable; we’d both powered through some pretty bloody situations.
Well, my Daylist was, of course 80s.
I hit the vein at the exact same time as the saxophone solo in INXS’s “Never Tear Us Apart”. I carefully took off the tourniquet and did my best to have a really cool story to tell Gwenn. Ric Flair had shown me, in my early years, the consequences of getting cocky. The most frustrating thing for me is hitting a vein, then having the needle come out after I take off the tourniquet and start pushing the line.
I love living those moments. It was such an epic victory and as cinematic as anything I’ve ever seen in rasslin. The saxophone and the tiny little bit of blood that shows, yes, you’re in… not possible if Jaws had frustrated me. I was overdue for an attempt, and considered having the courage to go in for it was a victory in and of itself. Not framing a miss, instantaneously, in a positive light throws off the timing of that second stick.
The absurdity of life.
The absurdity of pro wrestling.
At 49, I’m constantly humbled by the anxiety-to-depression on the ADHD bypass pipeline. Like the other day when I locked Gwenn and I out of the house. Even though we have friends in Ric Flair chopping distance of our home, I got in the car and said that I “hated how my fucking brain works,” with genuine defeat. It wasn’t just the dopey move, it’s the domino effect I couldn’t prevent from happening. As much as I tried. It’s just that the anxieties of the impacts of four decades of HIV on my cognitive function are rooted in reality.
People with HIV age at faster rate. The virus does have negative impacts on the brain. I know I’ve dodged a lot of bullets, but there’s no way I’ve faded this, especially not with the fourteen or so years that were spent living with untreated HIV. Most of which was because effective treatments weren’t around yet… then, when they rolled around I was too afraid of side effects. Initially, at least.
Understandable with some of the early results of my hemophilia treatments- hep B, HIV and hep C.
I’m doing my best. Just as I did as a kid with hemophilia. A teenager with HIV. Acknowledging and respecting the realities of my medical past and being honest about what I’m up for and what I’m not these days is not unlike those assessment at previous pressure points. So, when I locked us out, I was dealing with legit anxiety after that four-day trip for the conference. A sore ankle, a sore hip, a worried heart over a friend dealing with their own serious medical drama.
I wanted to visit before a surgery, but thought better of it. When I lamented my brain, I was lamenting the fact that I didn’t trust the brain to make the trip and not be a basket case. The last thing someone needs to exposed to before going under the knife. Also, I relied on my experiences on the other side of the occasion, all the times I didn’t have the energy to be around people because of fatigue. Or being sick. Or depressed.
The decision to stay home had been made. But the peace with that decision had not.
Locking myself out was the definitive proof that taking a train or quick up-and-back flight would have been stressful. Not only that, my arthritic ankle let me hear it on the Las Vegas trip, too. As great as weekly hemo treatments have been for the ankle, it is still a severely damaged joint. Thankfully, Gwenn suggested I bring my ankle brace and, thankfully, I brought it along; sure enough, it came in handy one day. Then the next?
I didn’t need it.
My partner and my body; I listen to both when they tell me something I need to hear.
It’s been a relief, accepting where I am at and making the best decisions about my health possible while stepping out of my comfort zone a little. Truthfully, I feel like a cat on its 9th life. I could sit in the window seat and lick my paws, bathing in the beauty and warmth of the sun and a comfortable life well lived and beyond my expectations… or, I could sneak out the door for some new educational adventures with Gwenn; share what we’ve learned, where we’ve been.
Where we are.
A hybrid of both cat scenarios would truly be the sweet spot and, cosmically speaking, the most realistic option. Well, second to nothing happening on the educational front. And, well, that’s fine. I’m happy stamping bags for Gwenn and supporting in any way I can. Which are plentiful. I’m most able to do that when I’m most comfortable in my skin, even if it means being comfortable enough to vocalize how uncomfortable it can get in here.
Ultimately, I’ve never been alone. I am so thankful for that, and for Gwenn. I ended the POZ article I wrote about our twenty-year wedding anniversary (in the current issue of POZ!) with the following: “I’d rather do nothing with you than everything with anyone else.”
Positively Yours,
Shawn