Screaming From The Rooftop

Saving Race

2011-07-09T17:46:00.006-04:00

I started running for one reason and one reason only. To save face.

When Ric was at his worst and could not even feed himself, much less prepare even a simple sandwich, I signed him up for God’s Love We Deliver. For those that don’t know, God’s Love, as their mission statement states, prepares and delivers “nutritious, high-quality meals to people who, because of their illness, are unable to provide or prepare meals for themselves.” They do this at no cost to their clients and they have never…I repeat, never turned an eligible person away. In addition to their meals being amazing, they deliver special “feasts” for holidays, a cake for birthdays, “blizzard kits” for storms when they can’t make a delivery and so much more. They literally saved Ric’s -- and by extension my – life during a time when I didn’t know if either of us would survive.

My gratitude for the work of God’s Love cannot be adequately put into words. The ineffable love I have for this organization is such never to be forgotten. And it was because of that love that I signed up for the 2009 annual Race to Deliver, a four mile fundraising race in Central Park for God’s Love.

Shortly after signing up I began raising a significant amount of money. So much so that I was the lead fundraiser for a race that would end up having 4,768 runners cross the finish line. I realized early on in my fundraising that I was going to have to actually run this thing. After all, my thinking went, what if I was still the lead fundraiser by race day, or even 2^nd or 3^rd, and I couldn’t complete the four miles? That would be slightly embarrassing!

So I started to train. Having quit smoking three months prior I was certain that, after a couple of weeks of training, I would breezily cross the finish line to the applause of the adoring masses. I was wrong.

My first day of training netted less than a quarter mile before I nearly fainted and died. The second day, just over a quarter mile. The third, back to less than a quarter mile. I was, um, out of shape. Come race day, I would cross the finish line in 39:49 at a 9:57 minute/mile. I stopped three times, walked a half mile and wasn’t even in the top five of fundraisers. It was nothing like I’d imagined.

But what it was was so much more. That race sparked something in me that would carry me through some of the darkest hours and days of my life. Running saved me from myself. It carried me above and beyond any and every thing I thought possible.

During those first months of training my friend Charles L. bought me a new pair of running shoes because the pair I had were not only five years old but a size too small. He bought them for me because I couldn’t afford to get them myself. My friend Helen C. invited me to her Saturday morning running group where I was able to socialize with other like-minded people. People from my daily life offered advice and tips.

Those first few months I suffered knee injuries, ankle injuries, plantar fasciitis and so much more. I was homebound weeks at a time incapable of even a walk to the mailbox. But that spark! Oh, that spark! It couldn’t be extinguished!

Now close to two years later, I run almost every day.

I live in the hilliest and highest part of Manhattan. Washington Heights is hills and slopes and stairs and everything else and then more hills and more hills and just when you’re about done, more hills.

The first mile of most of my runs is the most brutal. My first mile of running is almost entirely uphill. The truth is by the time I hit half a mile I want to give up. My body, to this day after hundreds of first miles, tells me to turn around, go home and go back to sleep. It wants nothing to do with 5:45am uphill running. But my mind, my mind usually has different plans.

Go for it, it says. This mile is almost done and then you have a downhill reprieve, it whispers. Don’t give up now, it pleads. And nine times out of ten, my mind wins.

There is nothing like the feeling, when the world seems about ready to break you in two and all your problems are crashing in all around you, when you are running and, at a different point every time, those pressures vanish. They seem to literally melt away. There is nothing but the road before you, the miles behind and the hope within you. Each person on God’s great planet should be blessed to experience that feeling just once in their lifetime. I get to experience it nearly every single day.

There are many miles between the day I signed up for the Race to Deliver and today. There has been much heartache and triumph and everything in between . Ric is thriving in Ric’s own way, God’s Love still comes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, and I still don’t know how we’re going to make it.

But I do know this. I know that tomorrow morning I will run. I know my body will tell me to turn around and I know my mind will push me forward. I know that at some point during that run all will be right with the world. I know that, probably between miles three and four, I will reach my hands towards the heavens and whisper a prayer of thanks. And ultimately I know that even if I am never able to run again, running will continue to save me from myself.

A view from the rooftop

2011-03-25T09:52:00.003-04:00

I've recently noticed a dramatic uptick in traffic on this site. Though I can speculate as to reasons, I do not know for sure.

However I wanted you all to know that I will be returning to this site to post more of my writings, especially many more installments of Angels I Don't See, which have been written but I have yet to publish here.

I will also be writing more about my life and spiritual growth and less about politics and world affairs. At this point in my life I can't focus on anything that might detract from my peace and serenity.

Mad love to all the recent visitors and the ones that have been around for a while. The Rooftop is open again so check back frequently.

From his soul, he stirred...

2011-01-17T07:35:00.000-05:00

"We shall match your capacity to inflict suffering by our capacity to endure suffering. We shall meet your physical force with soul force. Do to us what you will, and we shall continue to love you. We cannot in all good conscience obey your unjust laws because noncooperation with evil is as much a moral obligation as is cooperation with good. Throw us in jail and we shall still love you. Bomb our homes and threaten our children, and we shall still love you. Send your hooded perpetrators of violence into our community at the midnight hour and beat us and leave us half dead, and we shall still love you. But be ye assured that we will wear you down by our capacity to suffer. One day we shall win freedom but not only for ourselves. We shall so appeal to your heart and conscience that we shall win you in the process and our victory will be a double victory."

On Dreams Fulfilled: My lifetime with Rue McClanahan

2011-01-07T19:43:00.007-05:00

The Maude episode, “Vivian’s First Funeral”, aired the day I was born. There they were, two girls that were indeed golden, seamlessly bouncing lines off each other as if it were in their very bones…which of course, it was.

Vivian, played by the incomparable Rue McClanahan, had never been to a funeral and it was left to Maude, the inimitable (except by great drag queens) Bea Arthur, to allay her fears and get her through. Of course, after it is realized that Vivian’s broach that she leant to Maude was now on the deceased, hilarity ensues.

Years later, living in McLean, Va, a 13 year old boy, unable to untangle the feelings deep within, would every Saturday sit at the foot of his parent’s bed, eating Hawaiian pizza, Doritos and drinking coke, and watch The Golden Girls.

I was drawn to the four “girls” in a way that could not be explained but it did not matter. I loved them. I loved them so much and knew that, in a way, they could untangle the feelings and quiet the noise within me if they only knew me. Sure, I knew it was fictitious, and sure I knew that they were just characters. But they were characters that spoke to me. And at that point in my life there was nothing more comforting than knowing that on the other side of that screen in my parent’s bedroom there were four broads that had my back.

I especially loved Blanche, the saucy, slutty, unapologetic Blanche that never backed away but beneath her vivacious façade was a tender, loving, compassionate soul. I adored her. I wanted to be her. I wanted to know what it was like to have so many vying for my affection. I wanted to know a man as Blanche knew men. She saw me through my secrets in my teen years. I imagined she held them as her own until I was ready, and courageous enough, to reveal them.

Therefore it should come as no surprise that when I heard that Rue McClanahan passed away I cried. Actually, to be honest, I bawled my eyes out. I cried for hours and did not leave my apartment. It was odd, really. I don’t recall ever crying upon learning of a celebrity’s death but Rue was different. When Rue left, she took a little part of me with her.

Which made this past Wednesday all the more magical. There I was, all 34 years old of supposed grown-up, standing in the Manhattan apartment of none other than THE Rue McClanahan! Sure, I had produced hundreds of book signings that included many of the most admired people in the world. I had met enough celebrities to fill ten lifetimes. But standing in Rue’s apartment was different. She was my golden girl and I was standing in her home.

A few weeks ago my friend Michael J. La Rue and I got to talking about things and we realized we had a mutual friend who had a connection to Rue. I then learned that not only was Michael one of Rue’s closest friends and the producer of her Broadway bound show “My First Five Husbands”, but he was also the person to whom Rue’s family had entrusted to settle her estate.

“You should come over sometime. I’m there all the time organizing her stuff and preparing most of it for auction”

Are. You. F’in. Kidding. Me!?!?!?!?! COME OVER???? Um, let me think about this

“I’d love to come over!”

And with that, a couple of weeks later, there I was in Rue’s east side apartment, having tea and conversation with Michael.

It was true. As Michael took me through her apartment and told me wonderful stories about Rue and each of her belongings, he also talked about the auctions. Plural.

I was there for a reason, of course, and it was not to drool over Rue McClanahan’s belongings. Michael enlisted my help in getting the word out about the auctions and the film (see below) given my background in publicity and marketing. I was there on business. Nevertheless, I drooled. A lot. But get the word out I will. My girl wanted it that way.

You see, Rue was adamant about a few things. One of those things was that there be no funeral. She believed that the funeral industry preyed upon the vulnerable in their time of need and she wanted none of it. It was her wish that she be cremated and that there be memorial services in her homes for her family. She also wanted all her belongings, from her costumes and wardrobe to her personal effects, save the things her family wanted, to be auctioned off. Just call her No to-do Rue.

So Michael plans on doing just that. “I’m going to have close to ten auctions throughout the country. I want as many of her fans as possible to come and, even if they can’t buy anything, at least see some of the great things she owned. You know she got to keep most of her wardrobe from Golden Girls? Actually she kept every damn thing she ever owned!” That was for sure. I saw the woman’s prom dress. Her prom dress! Which, by the way, is in mint condition!

As we toured her home, I realized how multidimensional this woman really was. In the music room that led to her bedroom were book shelves filled with the most diverse selection of books that you’d be hard pressed find anywhere. In her closets (and believe me, this woman had closets) were shoes from Golden Girls and Maude and Broadway as well as shoes she bought herself. In addition to clothes and shoes and books , Rue owned over a thousand pieces of jewelry, including the gold Tiffany’s bracelet that the producers gave the gals on The Golden Girls at series end that was engraved with the initials GG and inside the clasp was etched the number 7 for seven seasons.

Every last bit of it and more will be coming to a city near you in the near future. And, per Rue’s wishes, every last bit will be sold. And soon enough someone else will own her apartment. Also, be on the lookout for a documentary about Rue, produced by Michael, to be out in the near future. The documentary was originally intended to follow Rue and Michael through the preparations and production of the Broadway bound autobiographical “My First Five Husbands”. Sadly Rue passed before that dream was realized. However Michael is now using the footage as well as so much more for a documentary about Rue.

She’d have it no other way.

And neither would I.

The 13 year old boy was with me last Wednesday. And as we walked through Rue’s home, the 34 year-old on business and the wide-eyed boy on a dream fulfilled, that boy never imagined 21 years ago that he would be in the very home of the woman to whom he had entrusted so much yet never knew.

So thank you Michael. Thanks for letting me travel down that road and back again. Thanks for letting me say goodbye to Rue. Thanks for letting me be a part of this journey moving forward.

Thank you, most of all, for being both our friend.

Ruuning 2010-12-30

2010-12-30T11:34:00.006-05:00

These shots are from my run this morning through the Washington Heights area of Manhattan as well as Fort Tryon Park

(Click images to enlarge)
The George Washington Bridge from my run this morning, 2010-12-30

Hudson River view and the cliffs of Jersey, Fort Tryon Park from my run this morning, 2010-12-30
7:40am

View from Fort Tryon Park from my run this morning, 2010-12-30 7:45am

The Cloisters in Fort Tryon Park from my run this morning, 2010-12-30 7:46am

Growing smaller

2010-09-25T09:51:00.004-04:00

The room seemed larger then. Much larger. Some nine years ago when I walked in, terrified and alone, making one last attempt at saving my life so that I wouldn’t ultimately take it, the room appeared electric, almost as if were I to touch anything the current would kill me.

To be exact, the date was April 2^nd, 2001 and I was just 24 years old. I’d not even lived in New York two months and it seemed as if, to turn a phrase, I was not going to make it there or anywhere. After weeks of drinking and tilting at windmills, I did the only thing left to do…I gave up.

Not gave up in the negative sense but gave up as in surrendered. I realized that I was not like the other fortunate people in this world who could drink with impunity. My giving up essentially saved my life. Had I not, I am more than certain I would be dead.

The interesting thing about returning to that room yesterday was the realization at how much my life had changed. If someone had told that scared 24 year old boy from Texas that within the span of 9 years his life would be where it is today, that boy would have turned and run away. I suppose that’s why we don’t get an advance copy of the script prior to the director screaming action. If we each knew the inevitable pain and adversities of life, we might never move forward.

If I could go back in time and talk to that boy from nine years ago I would tell him that, no matter what, everything was going to be ok and turn out just as it should. I would tell him that no matter how many broken hearts and broken promises, no matter how many shattered dreams and shattered confidences, no matter how many countless relapses and counting days, life would always find a way to work itself out.

I would tell him that happiness is not really the goal but instead is the result of a life well loved. I would tell him to live within the now and cling to that still small voice that reassures us all. Keep showing up, I’d say, because it may not get better but it will get easier and the troubles will seem less daunting and the pain will seem less severe.

The room seems so much smaller now. Much smaller. Yeah, that’s what I’d like to tell that young man from years gone by. I’d like to tell him that as you grow up and move on, the rooms will always grow smaller.

And he...well, he will always grow stronger.

This would be the day...

2010-08-12T10:37:00.002-04:00

We met nine years ago today at a place called Hannah’s Lava Lounge in the Hell’s Kitchen area of Manhattan. At the time I was the Corporate Communications and Marketing Officer for an international trade association and was preparing for a fashion show I was producing for New York Fashion Week (7th on Sixth, Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week, whatever you want to call it).

I went to Hannah’s on that beautiful Sunday because I noticed a sandwich board outside that was advertising BINGO. When I got inside, he was there and my life changed forever.

I have written before, and it’s still the same, that he was greatest love of my life. Through all the good and the bad, through all the hope and the heartache, he still remains the man I can’t live without.

Our relationship has changed. We are no longer husbands in any sense of the term but we remain constant. That was the promise I made to him. That is the promise I will not break.

There were great years.

Those years have passed.

The love I have for Ric transcends definition. It is not conventional but, of course, our relationship has defied convention from the start. It is, however, an unyielding love.

It’s no longer romantic, no longer erotic, no longer passionate. What it is is something that I cannot describe in words. It has caused me the greatest hope and the worst torment and it has, above all, taught me.

I ran rambunctious towards the illusion, foolishly believing its promise, mistaking the mirage for living water. I was running toward desperate anticipation. I anticipated happiness, glory, and whatever else in pursuit of the illusion.

That’s what it was….the illusion.

I learned, though, that love is messy, never perfect and often hurts. I learned that, despite my best laid plans, I am more flawed than I ever knew, more wounded than I ever felt and more cautious than I ever wished to be.

And on this day, an anniversary if you will, I want you to know this:

I don’t have much contact with people anymore. The details of life are beyond me. I simply understand that I reach for what I don’t know. And that’s ok.

Are people better for knowing me? Not likely.

Do I add value to people’s life? Not at all.

Perhaps, though, I can add something.

This is what I propose…

When I go, let me go.

I am prepared to go.

Do not leave me in the loving arms of Jesus. Just leave me.

Don’t believe the words of your side only

You can be an advocate for two things at once even if those two things seem antithetical of the other.

I love you.

God knows I love you!

Fight for the right and dignity of the poor and unknown and also me. Fight for the gay one, and the unsure one, and the one that doesn’t seem to belong. Fight for him. Fight for her. Simply fight,

Write your book. Sing your song. Dance your dance. Include me. I will always be here. I have always been here.

Let go of the things you can’t control. Let go of the things you can. Just let go.

Worry not. Period.

Forgive. Repeat.

Know where you stand and make your arguments coherent. Always coherent.

This is your destiny. This will be your destiny.

Learn.

Unfold.

Love

And most of all

Live!

The Japan Run with NYRR (otherwise known as the Run of Maple Syrup Jesus)

2010-06-08T16:20:00.009-04:00

(My post race ugly face at the Japan Run 2010-06-08)

I’m not superstitious at all. I don’t put much stock in horoscopes or good luck charms or curses or even prayers. When I pray, I try my best to pray, not for a changed outcome, but instead that I am able to handle and accept whatever the outcome might be. I ask God for a change in perspective instead of a change in events.

Having said (written) that, the Japan Day Run in Central Park on Sunday was the most horrible, terrible, no good, very bad, cursed, hot, dirty, stinky, crowded run that started last Friday afternoon. You see, last Friday afternoon, as I am wont to do, I went to the New York Road Runners (NYRR) offices on the Upper East Side at Fifth Avenue and 89^th Street to pick up my race bib and t-shirt. As I bound up the stairs and said hello to the kind volunteers I tripped.

Not in an “oops, that’s sort of embarrassing. Look at me! I tripped and stumbled” type of trip but a “hello stairs, this is my face and, if you don't mind, my face, instead of my arms, is going break my fall”. As I stood up I laughed it off and spouted something to assure the 534 people in the office who saw my 6 foot 6 inch ass fall face first into the stairs that I was ok. “It’s a good thing I fell today instead of race day, hahahahahaha” I said to no one in particular.

I’m nothing if not witty!

After leaving the offices I chalked my fall up to just some random incident and forgot about it. Well, I mean I forgot about it in the sense that I told everyone that would listen how bad I fell and stubbed my right big toe, one of the few toes left where the toenail is not black from running, but that I was a trooper, a runner’s runner, and I would brave the 4 whole long miles of the race on Sunday and prevail.

Fast forward to Sunday. It started perfect. There was no traffic up the West Side Highway and we arrived at Central Park West and West 100^th Street 45 minutes early. Then the trouble began. I figured that since the race was at the north end of Central Park, parking would be a breeze. I figured wrong. We drove around for half-an-hour and there was no parking whatsoever. It seems that the residents of the Upper West Side don’t like to move their cars early on Sunday morning. Imagine that! As we circled and circled around I realized I had about 10 minutes before the race began.

“We could just go home. God and Jesus might not want us to go. Yeah, let’s just go home. I prayed and I don’t think God and Jesus want us to go to the race.”

Since Ric has been sick he frequently employs God and Jesus to do his heavy lifting. In this respect he is much like Sarah…oh never mind…back to the story.

With just a few minutes before the race was to start I gave up on finding street parking and parked in a garage.

“Ok, I’m going to run to the corrals. I’ll call you when I am finished. Don’t get run over by runners. Stay off the course! Are you listening?”

“Yes, go! I’ll see you later”

The NYRR volunteers were moving us along. “Two minutes to start. Run up that hill and get to your corral”

I ran up the hill, found my group and waited.

Did I mention it was humid? Because it was. My nifty Japan Day t-shirt was already soaked by the time I crossed the starting line. And it started oh-so well.

They say (whoever they are) not to run someone else’s race. What that means is, don’t get caught up in the excitement and run the tempo of those around you if their tempo is not your tempo. A race, for me especially, is a race against myself. My only goal is to beat my last race time…in theory.

As we passed the 1 mile marker I remembered something my friend Charles, also a runner, told me about running the north end of the park. It’s hilly. Like really, really hilly.

As I was running at pace with the 7min/milers and began the ascent up what was the 57^thhill of the day I noted to myself to tell Charles he was right. That is, if I made it to the end. Having already sweat half my body weight I was not certain I would ever see a finish line again. The race was beginning to kick my ass.

Just about that time, there she was. She being a pedestrian of no more than 5 feet tall that decided she might attempt to cross through the race about 2 feet in front of me.

“HOLY SHIIIIIIIIT!” I screamed as she stopped directly in my path with a look that put deer-in-the-headlights on the map.

If I were not the vision of grace and elegance that I am, I would have probably run into the sorry sack of impatience. But luckily for her, I managed to swerve around and just miss her.

At mile two, Jesus was calling…audibly. I could hear him. He was calling me home.

Oh, have I mentioned that I smelled maple syrup?

“You clearly are not cut out for this race” he said in that holier than thou Jesus way that gets on my last nerve. “Just crawl on over there to that lovely patch of grass and give up.”

When I later told this to my mother she jokingly told me it was the Lord’s subtle rebuke for choosing to run the race instead of go to church (At least I think she was joking).

Instead of listening to the good Lord I soldiered on and started to walk. I never regained my breath but I did start to run again. When I finally made it to the finish line I fumbled for my phone to call Ric. My phone was soaking wet and I had trouble getting the touch screen to respond to my trembling touch. Finally I dialed.

As I expectorated the last of my lungs, Ric answered.

“Babe, I fell. I’m really cut up and bleeding. I am sitting down on a hill and there are a bunch of people around me”

Calm, Jon-Marc. Stay calm.

“Ok, I need more information than that. Where are you? What do you see? Are you by the course? Are you by the bagel and water station?” I asked in full panic mode.

“I don’t know. I am just around people. On a hill. Bleeding”

“Ok, stay on the phone with me. Just describe to me what you see”

“There is a lady…”

My phone died. My $400.00 piece of phone caca that cannot hold a charge died and I had no idea where Ric was. I only knew that he said he was bleedingon a hill somewhere in Central Park and that I was physically exhausted. This was all too familiar.

After aimlessly wandering around in circles looking for Ric, I heard his voice.

“Babe, over here” he yelled.

And then, like a parent finding their lost child in a department store, my relief turned to relief with a tinge of anger. And by tinge I mean full on white hot

“What the hell happened?”

“I was walking to the race and got caught up in all these people and someone knocked me over and I fell. Then all these people ran over to help and gave me bandages and alcohol swabs and one lady poured water all over my cuts”

That’s the thing I love about the running community (and by community I mean the runners as well as those that come to cheer on the runners). There is a spirit, an unspoken code. Every person at that race, I truly believe, wanted every other person at that race to do their very best. And when someone was hurt – a perfect stranger to everyone there but me – people gathered around him and made sure he was ok. They didn’t know he suffers from dementia and how unbelievably scared he was but I’m certain even if they did it would not have mattered. Their only concern, based on what Ric told me, was making sure Ric was ok.

“Can you go get the car and pick me up?” Ric said, still sitting on the grass.

“No, the park is closed to cars. You are going to have to walk”

With that, he stood up, leaned on me, and we began to walk west towards the garage. What should have taken 5 minutes to walk took 45 but, after stopping many times so Ric could rest, we finally made it.

Hey, I know I don’t usually ask for outcomes to be changed I prayed as I drove us home, but it would really help if you could heal him quickly. Also, I want to tell you how amazed and grateful I am for the human race at times like these. Those people that gathered around Ric and took care of him were incredible Thanks for them. Also, and this is just fair warning, if it is ever that humid again during a race I will immediately cease believing in you. Amen

Oh yeah, the other thing is, I still smell maple syrup. Pancakes anyone?

Angels I Don't See (Spotting Love) returns soon

2010-05-30T17:42:00.002-04:00

The latest chapters of Angels I Don't See have been written and I am excited to announce that they will be posted here soon.

25th AIDS Walk New York 2010

2010-05-16T18:00:00.007-04:00

Team Friends In Deed on the walk (Team Friends In Deed was the 3rd overall top fundraising team in all of AIDS Walk New York for 2010

The Friends in Deed Banner. There's Osvaldo and um, Mark, Mark, he's Mark (FID Board Member Anthony Rapp)

Manhattan Samba entertaining the walkers

Team Friends In Deed Walking the Walk

Who's that in the hat? Why it's none other than Jon-Marc McDonald!

Whose hand is that? Why it's none other than Jon-Marc McDonald's hand!

Team Friends In Deed from the back

Opening ceremonies at AIDS Walk New York 2010

Team Friends In Deed waiting to get a move on
(aren't my captions just the cleverest things you ever did see)

That's my cowboy, Ric, having some coffee prior to the walk. He walked an incredible 5 miles at the AIDS Walk New York. Last year at this time he could not walk at all. A miracle, he is!

The Friends In Deed table prior to the big crowds

Until there's a cure...we

2010-04-19T08:09:00.004-04:00

There is hope!

With each day that passes we are one step closer to finding a cure. The rapacious executioner that AIDS was is no more. The idea that it is a plague is a thing of the past.

However, as my household knows all too well, AIDS still debilitates and scars and even still sometimes kills swiftly. And until we find a cure, we must remain vigilant.

Did you catch that?

We.

It is up to we to find a cure for this disease, it is up to we to care for those afflicted. It is is up to we to make sure that this disease does not claim thousands more lives. We give, we pray, we hope, we live.

And we walk.

I am walking this year in the AIDS walk in New York City. It would be such an honor if you could sponsor me. The link below will take you to my fundraising page where you can give anywhere from $25.00 to $1000.00. If you want to donate less than $25.00, just email me and I will give you instructions.

Thank you in advance for giving of your hard earned money to help in the fight against HIV/AIDS.

I will walk on May 16 for Ric. I will walk for my friends. I will walk for me. I will walk for you.

I will walk, most importantly, for we. Until there’s a cure…we

Donate here: Jon-Marc's AIDS walk page

My Trip Down the Pink Carpet with Leslie Jordan

2010-04-15T11:22:00.011-04:00

I was a bit nervous when Ric and I walked into the Midtown Theater to see Leslie Jordan’s new one man show, My Trip Down the Pink Carpet, and I realized it was cabaret. We were quickly escorted to table 20 where a waitress promptly took our drink order.

Crap, I thought. I didn’t see anything in the press notes about this. What the hell? Isn’t Leslie in recovery?

“Yeah, I’ll have a ginger-ale and he’ll have a coffee” I said to the waitress, still a bit put off by the entire setting.

I mean the tickets didn’t say anything about a drink minimum. I hate this. I hate this!

About that time I looked at our table and noticed a special drink menu made specifically for My Trip Down the Pink Carpet.

Well ain’t that a kick in the balls! So glad I could come to this booze fest with a splash of Jordan for good measure.

There is no drink minimum the top of the menu declared.

Oh?

Well, uh, ok! That works. Very well then. Carry on. Don’t mind me and the conversation I am having with myself. Nothing to see here.

The show started about 15 minutes late but that was quickly forgotten the second Leslie stepped on the pink carpet.

What can I say about this show? It’s crude, foul, chock full of tawdry anecdotes and lurid details about some very bold faced names.

It’s also fall on the floor, laugh until it hurts and your ass falls off, downright hilarious. From the beginning until the end Jordan captivates with stories so cray-cray (wearing gold flecked contacts in the desert with Boy George, anyone?) you begin to wonder if he can top himself (ba-dum-bum). And he, of course, does!

Leslie has more energy on stage than someone (moi) twenty years his junior. And with the sweat pouring down his face he keeps moving. Pratfalls abound, he’s on his knees, dancing on a box, jump-roping with a pink velvet rope, jumping and bumping from here to there in no time flat. In fact, one of the best lines in the whole show results from Jordan’s profuse sweat (I won’t give it away, but you’ll know it when you hear it)

The thing that makes this show so effective is that a) it’s true and b) Jordan weaves just enough tenderness into the story that you walk away not only with new laugh lines but also with new lessons learned.

“The saddest thing in the world is a man at war with his own nature” Jordan proclaims in clarifying seriousness. At that moment you realize that Jordan’s trip down the pink carpet is meant to serve more than just laughs. It’s meant to make us think. About us. About what we think about ourselves. About our own “internalized homophobia” and self hatred.

To say that I enjoyed this is an understatement. There are not enough superlatives in the English language to attach to this show. Go see this. Go laugh. Go learn.

But whatever you do, don’t go order the ginger-ale. It sucks!

Spotting Love debuts on Broadway!

2010-03-16T07:49:00.004-04:00

My brother's play, based on my writing, will debut on [technically] Broadway this April! Please go to Grant's site and click on the words "Spotting Love". Click here

The Mindfulness of Merton

2010-01-25T06:10:00.004-05:00

"Do not depend on the hope of results. When you are doing the sort of work you have taken on, essentially an apostolic work, you may have to face the fact that your work will be apparently worthless and even achieve no result at all, if not perhaps results opposite to what you expect. As you get used to this idea, you start more and more to concentrate not on the results but on the value, the rightness, the truth of the work itself," - Thomas Merton, "Letter To A Young Activist"

h/t Sully

Let this be my daily prayer

2009-12-30T06:35:00.003-05:00

I received this email from a friend today. After researching the content, it seems the author is unknown. However, I claim this as my clarion call for each day of the new year.

On this day...mend a quarrel · Search out a forgotten friend · Dismiss a suspicion and replace it with trust · Write a love letter · Share some treasure · Give a soft answer · Encourage youth · Manifest your loyalty in a word or a deed · Keep a promise · Find the time · Forego a grudge · Forgive an enemy · Listen · Apologize if you were wrong · Try to understand · Flout envy · Examine your demands on others · Think first of someone else · Appreciate · be kind · be gentle · Laugh a little more · Deserve confidence · Take up arms against malice · Decry complacency · Express your gratitude · Worship your God · Gladden the heart of a child · Take pleasure in the beauty and wonder of the earth · Speak your love · Speak it again · Speak it still again · Speak it still once again.

A Week of Thomas Merton to end the decade ~ 4

2009-12-29T06:50:00.002-05:00

“Be careful of every vain hope; it is in reality, a temptation to despair. It may seem very real, very substantial. You may come to depend far too much on this apparent solidity of what you think is soon to be yours. You may make your whole spiritual life, your very faith itself, depend on this illusory promise. Then, when it dissolves into thin air, everything else dissolves along with it. Your whole spiritual life slips away between your fingers and you are left with nothing. In reality this could be a good thing, if only we could fall back on the substantiality of pure and obscure faith, which cannot deceive us. But our faith is weak. Indeed, too often the weakest thing about our faith is the illusion that our faith is strong, when the "strength" we feel is only the intensity of emotion or of sentiment, which has nothing to do with real faith"

A Week of Thomas Merton to end the decade ~ 3

2009-12-28T00:00:00.001-05:00

"If we want to understand alienation, we have to find where its deepest taproot goes--and we have to realize that this root will always be there. Alienation is inseparable from culture, from civilization, and from life in society. It is not just a feature of "bad" cultures, "corrupt" civilizations, or urban society. It is not just a privilege reserved for some people in society. . . . Alienation begins when culture divides me against myself, puts a mask on me, gives me a role I may or may not want to play. Alienation is complete when I become completely identified with my mask, totally satisfied with my role, and convince myself that any other identity or role is inconceivable. The man who sweats under his mask, whose role makes him itch with discomfort, who hates the division in himself, is already beginning to be free. But God help him if all he wants is the mask the other man is wearing, just because the other one does not seem to be sweating or itching. Maybe he is no longer human enough to itch." ~ Thomas Merton, Why Alienation is for Everybody, 1968

A Week of Thomas Merton to end the decade ~ 2

2009-12-27T00:00:00.001-05:00

"The earthly desires men cherish are shadows. There is no true happiness in fulfilling them. Why, then, do we continue to pursue joys without substance? Because the pursuit itself has become our only substitute for joy. Unable to rest in anything we achieve, we determine to forget our discontent in a ceaseless quest for new satisfactions. In this pursuit, desire itself becomes our chief satisfaction." ~ Thomas Merton, The Ascent to Truth, 1951

A Week of Thomas Merton to end the decade

2009-12-26T05:24:00.005-05:00

"The deep secrecy of my own being is often hidden from me by my own estimate of what I am. My idea of what I am is falsified by my admiration for what I do. And my illusions about myself are bred by contagion from the illusions of other men. We all seek to imitate one another’s imagined greatness.

If I do not know who I am, it is because I think I am the sort of person everyone around me wants to be. Perhaps I have never asked myself whether I really wanted to become what everybody else seems to want to become. Perhaps if I only realized that I do not admire what everyone seems to admire, I would really begin to live after all. I would be liberated from the painful duty of saying what I really do not think and of acting in a way that betrays God’s truth and the integrity of my own soul." ~ Thomas Merton, No Man is an Island, 1955

That worth knowing...

2009-12-14T13:03:00.010-05:00

A year ago today I didn’t know.

Oh sure, I knew something was wrong with him. He had not been to work in over two weeks, we had been to so many doctors that I had given up months prior, he was dreaming and scheming about things that were neither real nor plausible nor true.

One year ago I knew nothing of what t-cells meant or viral loads or Kaletra or Truvada or Isentress or Seroquel or Risperidone or B6 or Folic Acid or Tricor or Levocarnitine or Lamotrigine or Ativan or Isoniazid or Rifampin or Rifabutin or Marinal or TMP/SMZ or Plant Sterols or the difference between an ID doctor and a GP. I didn't know what AIDS Demetia Complex demented or exactly how AIDS Wasting Syndrome wasted.

I knew nothing about SSI, SSDI, WIC, HICP, PACO, LIHEAP, ACCAP ADAP or any of the other sterile chains of letters used to abbreviate sterile names of sterile programs that suck the marrow from the last vestiges of one's independence.

I didn’t know tricks to make a grown man eat or how to change an adult diaper or how to carry the living dead to their next doctor appointment or how to go nearly a week without so much as a minute of sleep.

I didn’t know the agony of putting my precious dog to sleep or the pain of my father walking out of my life due to a relapse or how the words "six to twelve" would knock me off my feet. I didn't know how heartbreaking it would be to say, yet again, "My name is Jon-Marc and I have one day back" or the anguish that possibly losing a friend would bring or facing death and wishing beyond all else for it to carry me on to the side unknown.

Today I know.

I know that my arrogant and selfish expectations of life are never met and that ‘s ok, that life is hardly fair and never simple and that sometimes it just doesn’t break my way or it breaks me in two or it shatters me completely. I know that a man I once called my husband will never be the same, that his mind has deteriorated and is arrested at a 10 year old child’s development, that he withheld a secret so potent it could have killed me. I know I will never know the answers as to the where and how and with who. And I know that at this point it doesn’t matter.

I know now that slipping beyond the reach does not mean I’ve slipped beyond the grace, that the darkness is temporary, that hope won’t get you far but that a mustard seed of faith will destroy the mountains blocking tomorrow. I know that right at this moment, the present, I am always safe and always right where I need to be.

I know that Jesus calling to Lazarus was not an isolated incident, that I have seen miracles – life altering miracles – right before my eyes, that the lame do walk again and the blind do see again and those left for dead spring forth from their resting place. I know that God dwells in the dirtiest places and keeps company with the dregs and the bums and the ones just like me. I know that he restores the friendship in due time, she quiets the chatter and he rocks gently the ship. I know that she moves just beneath the current and just above the storm and he is just what you need when you don’t know what is you are looking for. I know also that God cannot be reduced to a simple pronoun.

I know I cling with reckless faith to a God that clings to me with reckless compassion, that my problems are only as big as God’s ability to handle them, that holiness is the currency of eternity and that my circumstances do not dictate my happiness in the here and now.
In this season of advent – expectant waiting – I know that waiting is the trickiest part of the game.

And tomorrow I will know what I don’t know at present.

And I know, above all else, that life is worth the living whether or not I ever know again!

NYRR Holiday Run in Brooklyn at Prospect Park

2009-12-12T16:56:00.009-05:00

Here are some pictures from the New York Road Runners' (NYRR) 4 Mile Holiday Run in Brooklyn at Prospect Park on 2009-12-12. The temperature was 26 degrees, it was very hilly and I finished in 37:00 at a pace / mile of 9:15 shaving 42 seconds off my mile from the God's Love We Deliver Race to Deliver just 20 days ago on 2009-11-22. To see pictures from that race, click the link at the bottom of this post.

This race I went alone, no family or friends to cheer me on, and I had a great time.
Me, Jon-Marc McDonald, about 15 minutes before the race

View of the crowd from my phone

Another view
My post race ugly face!

Click here to see pictures from the Race to Deliver

Facebook down? Can't login or logon

2009-12-10T17:31:00.002-05:00

This is so pathetic! Facebook has become such a part of my life and it appears that it is down. I should be able to move on and, oh, I don't know, go read a book but instead I am posting about it. My heart is beginning to race and I am breaking out in cold sweats!

Pictures from Rally for Marriage Equality at Union Square in New York City ( NYC )

2009-12-03T20:50:00.007-05:00

Me (Jon-Marc McDonald) at the rally with my sign. New York State Senator Hiram Monserrate was found guilty of slashing his girlfriend's face with a broken bottle and yet had the audacity to vote against marriage equality.

Rally for Marriage Equality Tonight in Union Square

2009-12-03T09:16:00.004-05:00

Be at the rally tonight in Union Square for marriage equality. Starts at 6 on the north side of the square. Deets here: Rally for Marriage Equality

The God of AIDS

2009-12-01T00:01:00.001-05:00

In years past I have never really given much thought to World AIDS Day. Of course I knew the disease disproportionately hit my community hardest but AIDS never really affected me in any meaningful way. In fact, in the twelve years since coming out of the closet I knew only one person to die from the disease and that was the year I came out. But thankfully – yes, thankfully – that all changed this past year.

On Christmas Eve, nearly one year ago, I learned that the love of my life had HIV. Just a few short weeks later I learned that he had developed AIDS. My world shattered, the firmament cracked and every notion as to who I was or what I stood for was challenged.

I was, whether I liked it or not, in the throes of the fight against AIDS and the fight for Ric’s life. I did not ask for this role any more than Ric asked for his disease but I’d be damned if I was not going to fight like hell for his dignity and by extension the dignity of everyone living with this sometimes rapacious executioner.

Ric’s case was unique, I was told. Many said they had not seen the ravages of AIDS displayed so pronounced in twenty years. Doctors told me to prepare for his last days, social workers told me to put him in a home, friends told me to walk away, family shook their heads in disbelief.

Indeed there were dark days. For two months I carried Ric to the bathroom, changed his diapers, fed him, listened to his delusions. Many nights I wanted to give up and walk away. Many days I cursed the heavens and raged at a supposedly all loving God.

No doubt many look at our life and see some divine condemnation. No doubt it has crossed the minds of some of you reading this that Ric and I would not be in the situation we are in had we not chosen the sin of homosexuality. The only reply I have for you is that of great pity. What an ugly, monster of a god you serve.

There are still others that stop short of proclaiming divine retribution but consider homosexuality to be sinful and not aligned with the will of God. To you I echo the words of Bishop Spong and proclaim "I am ready now to claim victory. I will from now on assume it and live into it. I am unwilling to argue about it or discuss it as if there are two equally valid, competing positions any longer. The day for that mentality has simply gone forever"

Instead I am grateful. I am grateful that God has allowed this disease to touch so close. I am grateful that I have been able to see the ravages of AIDS in all its raw, brute strength. Because of this disease I have learned compassion in the face of judgment, hope in the face of despair, freedom in the face of bondage, life in the face of death. I have learned that God lives in the heart of the wounded and broken, that his glory is etched in the faces of the dying, that his light beams from the souls of his marginalized creation. I have learned I am far stronger than I ever imagined, far more capable than I ever gave myself credit, far more resourceful than I ever knew possible.

God is in every crevice of this disease. He is in the t-cell, the viral load, the blood and the mucus. He is in every man, woman and child that has ever heard the words “Your test result came back positive”. He is on the death bed of every person that died alone, in every stitch of every patch of every quilt. He is in minister that embraces the afflicted, the volunteer that delivers the food, the advocate that pleads for more funding.

He is also in Ric’s prayer that he prays each night.

“They told me I was going to die but I proved them wrong, didn’t I God?”

To which the heavens respond “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”

Race to Deliver in Central Park 2009-11-22

2009-11-22T14:06:00.001-05:00

Here are some pictures for the 4 mile Race to Deliver that I ran on 2009-11-22. I raised nearly 4,000.00 for God's Love We Deliver. Thank you to all who donated. Here is my official time: Jon-Marc McDonald - Finish time: 39:49 Pace / mile: 9:57

UPDATE: To see my results from the New York Road Runners' (NYRR) Holiday run in Brooklyn at Prospect Park, click here

From the darkness he prayed

2009-11-16T06:40:00.004-05:00

I find this story poignant for two reasons. One is that I attended college in Waco and the only African-Americans I recall ever seeing were at a black church I attended a few Sundays. And the other reason I love it is that Sullivan references Merton, a man I have been fascinated by since my friend Christopher introduced me to Merton’s work back in September. And I am currently reading Seven Storey Mountain, Merton's autobiography, a book my brother gave me for my birthday.

The Oakeshott conference was quite wonderful in so many ways and I hope to blog about it soon. But leaving the rather poignantly named Waco International Airport, I came upon one of those little moments of grace worth passing along. On my way to the gate, the shoe shine man did a boisterous sales job. "You've got plenty of time, sir. Plenty of time." I brushed him off, but he kept at it. I find the whole process of a shoe shine faintly embarrassing (although it has its moments in a leather bar) and the idea of sitting up on a pedestal while someone bows and scrapes on your shoes ... well, it just feels wrong to me. Before me in line, Roger Scruton had sat there and been ministered unto and I had inwardly smirked (to my shame).
But the man insisted - he was African-American - and at that point my libertarian instincts kicked in. This was his job and my own snooty sense of p.c. amour-propre shouldn't get in the way of his making a buck.
So I climbed up, sat down, and by way of easing my discomfort, asked him where he was from.

"Waco, all my life, sir." I then asked him what it was like when he was younger (he seemed in his sixties, I'd say). He told me of a tornado, and of floods. I then asked him about segregation. He didn't hesitate to talk about it, but I could tell he would have never brought it up if I had not prompted him. Yes, he recounted the indignities, as he dabbed my shoes with polish, but without a trace of bitterness: of how he and a co-worker would have to enter a store by different entrances, how any hint of rebellion would be met with violence, how you had to keep your head down or "you had a problem", how certain neighborhoods were simply off-limits by day or night, how his relatives had been beaten, how he had learned to keep his peace and do his job. At one point, it got so bad he left for Nevada. But he soon returned.
I asked him how he survived. "Prayer," he instantly replied. "I just prayed. We all prayed. We're Christians and we prayed. Couldn't have got through it without prayer. And prayer for them too."
He meant, prayer for those who tormented him.
We hear constantly about what Christianity is, but it seems to me that this was as clear a statement as it gets. And when I hear some dismiss religious life, and argue, as my friend Hitch does, that religion poisons everything, I wonder what they would say to this man.
On the plane to DC I took out my Merton (I'm re-reading The Seven Storey Mountain these days) and came across this passage:
It was St Augustine's argument, that envy and hatred try to pierce our neighbor with a sword, when the blade cannot reach him unless it first passes through our own body.
The shoe shine was a Christian. And he was happy.

A man I am proud to call my friend

2009-10-28T08:24:00.004-04:00

Corey Johnson, featured here on 360 with Anderson Cooper, is a man that I am proud to call a friend. He is also a fierce force in the gay community and has really come into his own over the past few weeks.

Today Corey will be at the White House to cover Obama's signing of hate-crimes legislation for Towleroad.com .

Way to go Corey. You make us all proud!

Hook. Line. And Simmer

2009-10-26T10:32:00.004-04:00

So for those of you privileged enough to watch my latest videos, you know that in the first part I give a mea culpa of sorts to food stylist, Victoria Granof. The apology came as a result of her contacting me over a year after I made a video that referenced a Bon Appetit magazine cover that she styled.

In the video I said something to effect that the styling and the cover looked as though it belonged on the menu board (not bar, but I suppose I should enunciate on my, uh, video cooking show) at Sparro's.

Anyway, Victoria and I exchanged emails, I told her I enjoyed many of her covers and that I would issue an apology. She was more than gracious and said that she would post both videos on her blog, that any publicity was good publicity and we left it at that.

Well shortly after I released my video(s) I sent Victoria an email stating that my "mea culpa" was up and thought nothing of it...

That was until I went to her blog, www.ALongHotSimmer.com, and noticed I had been duped by the food stylist extraordinaire (after all, she did style the cover that won this year's "Most Delicious Magazine Cover" by the American Society of Magazine Editors)

Not only did she not put up my apology video, she put up my original video and wrote that I said "nasty things about [her] on [my]...uh...video cooking show".

Additionally, one of Victoria's readers, Martha, goes even further by writing

I think I need to say nasty things to you for making me watch that video. Euw! I was expecting it to turn to porn any minute.

So what's the lesson to be learned in all of this, boys and girls? Well, either don't say "nasty" things about a food stylist or if you do and that food stylist contacts you, proceed with caution lest the food stylist traps you like a big hot sticky mess of lasagna on a paper plate at Sbarro's.

On the Christ and Radical Rebellion

2009-10-21T13:29:00.002-04:00

I do not proclaim my faith with a boastful tongue or heavy pen. It has never been my intention, as the spiritual path before me begins to wend its way through expanses unknown, to presume a tone of judgment or to cast dispersion upon those of different faiths or no faith at all. In fact, in all that I write, my prayer is that it will be received in the spirit that it is written – that being an essay by me, for me that I share with you not to influence or decry, but instead simply to be, in the spirit of simply being.

The idea that I feel led to put a disclaimer on my writing when the topic happens to be faith is a bit unsettling to me, if only because it implies that perhaps what follows could possibly offend. Therefore if what I write offends you, then my faith offends you and it is not my intention to, in any way, offend. With that let me get to my purpose in writing today.

Often I feel as though we, as the human race, would do well to suffer from a severe bout of amnesia as far as Christianity is concerned. What I mean is that both those that profess a faith in Christ and those that do not would forcibly have all knowledge of Christianity blotted from their collective conscience and begin anew without the prejudices and preferences that each of us brings to the topic from years influence by both supporters and detractors alike.

If we were to have no working knowledge of Christianity and, more specifically, Jesus the Christ, we would, upon first encounter with his story, be stunned at how radically rebellious he was, how profound his words, how compassionate when faced with intolerance, how gracious in the face of hostility. Even if we were to simply assume Jesus to be a great teacher – as many do – if his story had never been told until this very day, how utterly amazing it would be to read "Go and sin no more", "lest ye who has not sinned", ""If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor…" , "Father, forgive them…", "For judgment I am come into this world, that they which see not might see; and that they which see might be made blind".

If we knew nothing of televangelists or the religious right or religious left, if we knew nothing of the Pope or denominations or leaders reviled and revered, what would our opinion be of the matter at hand? Who would Jesus be to us? What wisdom would we glean from his story and his life? What salvation would we find, what hope, what refuge, what nonsense?

If tonight, on the local news, they treated the story of Jesus as breaking news, what would our opinion be of him then?

I dare to say that some of his most ardent defenders today would be his most vocal detractors and some of his harshest critics would be at his side.

The entire landscape of faith would be altered and humanity would never be the same.

But that is precisely what did happen. Blotted from our collective conscience or not, some 2000 plus years ago the landscape of the entire world changed – radically and unequivocally – forever. And whether you believe him to be a great teacher or a crazed lunatic or a saviour, his life – in the finite span of three years – radically shook the foundations of earth.

And I have chosen, at the very age of his death, to live a life so radically bound to his call, so inextricably linked to his spirit, so inexplicably in love with his grace that I might very well lose myself in the journey.

In fact, I'm sure of it!

Five 4 Ten

2009-10-21T07:33:00.002-04:00

I have gone from my fundraising lead for the Race to Deliver to fourth place within the past three weeks. In fact I am around $2000.00 behind the lead. Though that sounds substantial, think about this.

If each person reading this asked 5 friends to go to my Race page and donate $10.00, we would easily raise the $2000.00 and more to put me back on top. 5 friends, 10 dollars.
Please ask as many people as you can, whether they know me or not, and see if they will help out. It would mean the world to me. And don’t forget to send them to my race page to donate.

Thanks oh-so much,
Jon-Marc

Jon-Marc's Deep Dark Chocolate Cheesecake PART1 and PART 2

2009-10-13T12:28:00.002-04:00

The Naked Baker, Jon-Marc McDonald, makes his most famous dessert to date, a Deep Dark Chocolate Cheesecake from the October / 2006 issue of Bon Appetit magazine. He also gets naked and highlighted in part 2 of the video.

Part 2 and the full recipe after the jump

Deep Dark Chocolate Cheesecake Bon Appétit | October 2006

by Jeanne Thiel Kelley

In the '80s and early '90s, chocolate cheesecake was at the top of our list. The simple ingredients in this rich, dense version let a good boutique chocolate shine.

Yield: Makes 12 servings

Crust
24 chocolate wafer cookies (from one 9-ounce package)
1 tablespoon sugar
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) butter, melted

Filling
1 9.7-ounce bar Scharffen Berger 70% Cocoa Bittersweet Chocolate,* chopped
4 (8-ounce) packages cream cheese, room temperature
1 1/4 cups plus 2 tablespoons sugar
1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder (preferably Scharffen Berger)
4 large eggs

Topping
3/4 cup whipping cream
6 ounces Scharffen Berger 70% Cocoa Bittersweet Chocolate,* chopped
1 tablespoon sugar

Bittersweet chocolate curls

*Use Ghirardelli 60%. Trust me!

For crust:

Preheat oven to 350°F. Butter 9-inch-diameter springform pan with 3-inch-high sides. Blend cookies in processor until finely ground; blend in sugar. Add melted butter and process until well blended. Press crumbs evenly onto bottom (not sides) of prepared pan. Bake just until set, about 5 minutes. Cool while preparing filling. Maintain oven temperature.

For filling:

Stir chopped chocolate in metal bowl set over saucepan of simmering water until melted and smooth. Remove bowl from over water; cool chocolate until lukewarm but still pourable. Blend cream cheese, sugar, and cocoa powder in processor until smooth. Blend in eggs 1 at a time. Mix in lukewarm chocolate. Pour filling over crust; smooth top. Bake until center is just set and just appears dry, about 1 hour. Cool 5 minutes. Run knife around sides of cake to loosen. Chill overnight.

For topping:

Stir cream, 6 ounces chocolate, and sugar in heavy medium saucepan over low heat until smooth. Cool slightly. Pour over center of cheesecake, spreading to within 1/2 inch of edge and filling any cracks. Chill until topping is set, about 1 hour. Do ahead: Can be made 3 days ahead. Cover with foil and keep refrigerated.

Release pan sides. Transfer cheesecake to platter. Top with chocolate curls. Let stand 2 hours at room temperature before serving.

Jon-Marc discusses the Race to Deliver for God's Love We Deliver

2009-10-09T09:25:00.003-04:00

It Drops in Two Days!

2009-09-21T11:55:00.001-04:00

We are golden : Mika
by morg92

Beyond Me, the peregrination of a pilgrim

2009-09-13T12:19:00.009-04:00

This was supposed to be an essay about my experience at Mount Saviour Monastery. For days after my return I struggled with the right words, beginning essay after essay, hoping to capture the essence of my time there. I told myself that I wanted to convey to you, the reader, every sensation and feeling that I experienced in order for you to fully understand how the entire weekend changed me. But then I realized something.

I wanted you to read about My weekend, My journey, My experience. I wanted you to be impressed beyond words by My words. Ultimately I wanted Me to shine through.

I wanted to write of the unspeakable beauty that surrounded Me and enhanced My encounter with The Divine. It was my intention that you know that I – Me -- was changed by the prayers and the silence and the moment of Epiphany where it all came together for Me. I wanted to write of the sweet smell of nature and the beauty of seeing a friend I had not seen in nearly a decade. I wanted to give you a glimpse of God through My lens.

And while all those things are true they are in no way Truth for they are in no way what my experience truly was. Unlike the endless church camps in high-school and junior high where I left “on fire for Jesus Christ” ready to “spread his word” and “get some people saved” , feelings that surely dissipated as quickly as they developed, I left the monastery with more questions than answers, more wonder than joy, more a sense of the Divine than a sense of My sense of The Divine.

I left tired and broken, with a paradoxically confused understanding that I will never arrive, that the thirst for God is an unquenchable thirst, that the more I enter fully into the presence of holiness the more sullied I appear. I realized that My mask, the mask I wear so no one sees the real me is so easy to wear but so difficult to pull off. And I realized that the first person I wore the mask for was Me so that upon seeing My reflection I would never have to see the real me, the authentic me that is still just as mysterious to me as it has been for nearly 33 years.

Ultimately I realized that I had to get off the cross and instead nail My mask to it. And begin anew the journey, ever aware that I -- Jon-Marc McDonald -- am just as much a mystery to me as God is to me and the more I explore the spiritual realm the more mysterious it all will be.

Renewed but not refreshed, faithful but not void of doubt, lifted but not buoyed. And above all else, seeking, panting, yearning to find myself in the presence of The Divine, with the sad realization that Myself -- the masked Me -- must die in order for me to move closer to the Porta Coeli – the Gate of Heaven – requiring even still the full understanding that the destination is as elusive today as it will be tomorrow and beyond time to the hereafter.

...to the East Side

2009-08-26T18:40:00.018-04:00

So yesterday, the husband and I made a trip to the Upper East Side. As we were heading up the West Side Highway( pictured) I made sure he was certain that what we were going to get was there. I told him that I did not want to take the car out, drive from the lower west to the upper east of Manhattan unless he was certain it was there. And by it, I meant that it needed to be in perfect condition and all my requirements had to be met. He assured me everything was according to my specifications.

As we crossed from the west side to the east side via Central Park I realized that it was the first time Belle, our car, had been driven through the park. I had to take a picture.

As we were approaching 5th Ave, where the east side of Central Park begins (also known as Central Park East) I began getting nervous. After all, Ric has said and done so many thing over the past year, we might arrive at where we were going and I might realize it was all a figment of his imagination.

As we were driving down 2nd Ave (I believe) there was a very attractive man talking at the corner. I figured he was worth the picture since I wont see my soho boys for a couple of weeks.
And when we arrived, there she was, just as Ric said she would be. At the 92nd Street ASPCA, which by all standards has got to be the nicest, cleanest, most efficient ASPCA in all the land, our little girl was ready to go.

In keeping with our tradition of naming our dogs after the area from which they come, we named our 1 year old Cairn Terrier, Weezie, after Louise Jefferson on The Jefferson's.
Weezie on her first car ride home, curious she! At one point she rolled down the window. Thank God for child safety window locks on the car

Weezie was perfect but she stunk so the first thing we did (I did) when we arrived at the loft was give her a good scrubbing. She was having none of it.
It was like that part of the rodeo where they send all the kids out to chase the pigs and the pigs slip through the kids' hands. She HATED it!

After Weezie dried off and I took a bath I familiarized her with her new home.

Ric posing with Weezie

Me posing with Weezie just after I woke up from a nap (Pardon the hair. Mine, not hers)

Weezie with her new favorite toy on her new favorite bed, which happens to be ours. She slept with us last night. It was nice. It was just as it should be. We waited, Ric, my amazing healing husband picked her out, he did all the ground work in securing her adoption and prayers were answered.

Weezie loves people, other animals including cats, and is fully up to date on all her shots.

And I would just like to write a word or two about the 92nd Street ASPCA. I highly recommend anyone getting a dog who happens to live in the tri-state area to adopt from them. Not only do they know their stuff, while you are there you speak to a behavior specialist about your dog, you go speak to the vet about your dog, you get a bag full of goodies for your dog, you are given a certificate for a free follow up visit with the Animal Hospital on the premises. You are given everything you need to ensure that your new dog's transition into your home is as pleasant as possible. We love this place.

When Angels Sleep

2009-08-18T13:36:00.001-04:00

As you may have noticed, my series Angels I Don't See, has not been updated in nearly a month. Though many "part"s of the story are written I have not posted them for various reasons. Interestingly enough, I have noticed a steep decline in my readership over that period of time as well. I suppose an explanation is in order. Many of you who have followed my blog(s) over the years know that I abruptly stop writing or posting without any explanation whatsoever. Many times in the past, it was due to a relapse or because of some other dramatic event. Thankfully this time my lack of attention to this blog has nothing to do with those things.

Over recent weeks I have been experiencing fatigue, the likes of which I have never experienced before. Doctors and therapists and other professionals who have seen me all have a name for it: Caregiver Burnout. In fact, one therapist, when going over a list of signs and symptoms of caregiver burnout, noted that all but three applied to me. The list, though not exhaustive, is as follows:

Being on the verge of tears or crying a lot
Feeling helpless or hopeless
Overreacting to minor nuisances
Feeling constantly exhausted
Losing interest in work
Decrease in productivity of work
Withdrawing from social contacts
Increasing use of alcohol or stimulants
Nervous habits such as chain smoking
Change in eating patterns
Change in sleeping patterns
Increasing use of medications for sleeplessness, anxiety, depression
Inability to relax
Scattered thinking
Feeling increasingly resentful
Being short-tempered with care recipient frequently
Increasing thoughts of death

Since that time, all but four apply to me. I quit smoking a few weeks ago (not for health reasons, mind you, but because it was just so damned expensive. And yes, quitting has been hard). Since I do not work (though being Ric's caregiver is a full time job) and do not drink that knocks four of the 17 off the list. And the idea of finding a job is overwhelming (see sign #2). But 13 out of 17 is not good. And, for me, at the top of that list is "feeling constantly exhausted".

So, dear readers, this is not just a post about my woes and how tired I am. It is a request. Over the Labor Day weekend, two of Ric's relatives will be visiting from Saturday, September 5^th- Monday September 7^th. And I need to get out of town (or at least out of the loft), not because his relatives are coming but because I need two days of peace and quiet and they will be able to watch him during that time.

If anyone in the tri-state area or beyond would be willing to have me as a houseguest for two days, please let me know. Originally I was going to just drive somewhere upstate or possibly New Hope (I heart New Hope), Philadelphia or Pitt and get a cheap hotel room and do nothing but perhaps read and walk and be still. However, after much prayer and counsel (thanks, MF) and the fact that I don't even have enough money for a cheap hotel room, I decided to reach out to you, dear readers. Also, me alone in a hotel room has never ended positively.

Or, if you live somewhere far away and want to fly me, that works as well (I'm kidding. Ok, not really. I will take all offers. I am not below begging ).

I do have some requirements. What's that you say? Why would I have requirements after having the audacity to ask to crash somewhere for two days? Well, here's the deal.

I need PEACE and QUIET. I need a place that I feel comfortable enough to come and go as I please and can sleep (or not) for two days. If that place is in Manhattan, fine. If it's in New Paltz, that's fine as well. But it needs to be peaceful and somewhere I can decompress without worry that I am imposing or getting in the way. Also I am 6 feet 6 inches tall. So unless you have a long couch or an extra bed I would probably not be a good fit.

Another thing, I don't camp. What I mean by that is I would rather be waterboarded than camp. It's just not my thing. I admire those that can (LL and MM) but just like throwing a football (or for that matter, watching a football game), it is not something I can do. My idea of camping includes a concierge and room service (I may be on food stamps, but a boy can still dream).

It also needs to be a place where there is no alcohol.

I know, it's asking a lot. But I need to get away. And bonus for you. You will get to be with, and I quote, "the very famous Jon-Marc McDonald". What more could you ask for?

The dog that was not meant to be

2009-08-08T08:18:00.004-04:00

Trotter, our precious dog, from 2001 to 2009

Those that follow this blog know that my series, Angels I Don’t See (AIDS), is only up to late January of 2009. As I have written before, the heart of the story has yet to be published. Much of what has occurred between January and now is truly astonishing and had I not lived it myself I would be hesitant to believe it.

One of those events was losing our precious and beloved little girl, our dog Trotter. She was the center of our universe and without getting into too many details here (that is a part of AIDS that will come later in the series) I was devastated and the day she was put down I was in such an emotional hell, the likes of which I have never experienced.

I decided at the time that getting another dog was unfair to the dog and to me. Ric was so sick and so incapable of doing even the simplest of tasks, so another dog, with all the unknown variables, was out of the question. Also, I was still grieving Trotter and the idea that another could replace her was inconceivable.

But as time went on, and Ric’s condition improved, I began toying with the idea. I felt it would be not only good for Ric, but therapeutic as well. Having a dog in the house would give Ric something to focus on besides the television and he could assist in training the dog and the dog would give Ric a companion in the rare times when he was left alone.

So earlier this week we went to a shelter looking for a Boston Terrier. Unfortunately, due to growing popularity of the breed we were unsuccessful. But as we went into the dog area of the shelter we saw a dog that piqued our interest. He was a Jack Russell Terrier, seemed sweet and, being the impulsive people we are we decided that, after taking him out of his crate and for a walk, we would adopt him.

There were many problems with this. The first was that the shelter was unsure if the dog was “dog aggressive”. While this should have given me pause when I heard it since we have so many dogs that live in our building, I thought we could train out the aggression, if such aggression even existed, of the dog. Inter alia, after researching JRTs on the internet I quickly realized that training a full grown JRT is extremely difficult, that they are lovable but stubborn and that they require rigorous exercise of running and playing outdoors.

Being Ric’s full time caregiver ( I do have help that comes in five days a week for a total of 27 hours, but I am still his full time caregiver) and given Ric’s dementia, I knew in my heart of hearts that the dog was not the right fit. But, much like a full grown JRT, I was stubborn and moved forward with plans to get our new dog, signing the adoption papers and paying the adoption fee.

Financially we did not have the money for the adoption fees and what would be a subsequent visit to vet and licensing of the dog, as required per the adoption papers. We also did not have the money for all the things we bought for our new dog and the things we had yet to buy that he needed.

Finally, after an email I received from our property manager that was curt and in many ways unnecessary, I determined that the only fair thing to do for the dog and for us was to cancel the adoption. Though the property manager’s email was unwarranted on many fronts, she did make some good points and, not being one to throw out the baby with the bathwater, I went to the shelter yesterday afternoon and stopped the adoption. I did so with a clean conscious since I knew that the shelter does not euthanize the dogs. I then returned home and gathered up all the things I bought for our new dog and, with Ric in tow, returned all the items.

Though these past few months has been a vale of tears, and though Ric cried the entire time we were driving to return the items, I knew that what I did was right for us and for the dog.

As my mother said, something better will come of this. Our heart, after all, was set on a Boston Terrier, and perhaps we will find one or even another breed that has a temperament better suited to Ric’s needs.

So now we return to searching for our new dog once again, one that perhaps we can adopt when we are financially on better footing and one that allows us all, including our property manager, to feel comfortable with our choice.

In the end, the adoption and subsequent cancellation, was my fault. I did not think it through. I so wanted a dog back in our lives that I was blinded by the realities that such a decision requires.

If any know of a small adult dog that has a good temperament around not only humans and little humans but also around other dogs and does not bark incessantly in the tri-state area (New York, Connecticut and New Jersey), let me know. Also we have a car and can travel to pick it up in Pennsylvania or Delaware or even Virginia.

A Host of Angels

2009-08-02T17:45:00.011-04:00

Ric, holding a bag full of meals from God's Love We Deliver

As I posted a couple of weeks ago, I am running in the Race to Deliver in Central Park on November 22nd to raise money for God's Love We Deliver (GLWD), an organization that provides not only nutritious and life sustaining food for those who are terminally ill and home-bound, but has never turned away a person in need. Also, the food is delicious. You should see the food these people turn out. Ric is one of those people that receives such food.

Well, it turns out that many have responded to sponsor me in the race by donating. In fact, I am honored that each and every person that has so generously given of their hard-earned money has done so to help me achieve my goal of $2500.00. They are all angels.

But there are two angels that I wanted to address today. Two long time friends of my family donated the full $2500.00. They did so without hesitation and without question. In fact, on the honor roll of my race page, they elected to omit how much money they donated when in fact they donated the entire amount I set for myself to raise. They are angels for which there are no words. I would put their names here but have not asked their permission to do so, so I will just take this time to thank them. They are special people who have done so much for so many without taking any credit.

At this point, I am the number one fundraiser for the race, beating out both individuals as well as teams. And I am looking to maintain my lead. Though this race is not a competition to see who can raise the most money, I would love nothing more than to have the satisfaction of raising the most money of any individual (I am realistic after all. I know teams such as the MTV team and the Love Team will blow me out of the water as collective groups) running in the race (I will be walking by the way. I can't run my life, much less a race).

As an incentive to donate (no amount is too small...or too high), I have decided to shave all my beloved hair on my head if I reach the $5000.00 mark. And I will record the shaving for all to see here on this blog. Anyone who knows me knows that my hair is pretty special to me and the possibility of shaving it is a bit overwhelming, but the need to feed those in need is astonishingly overwhelming. I will also think of something else dramatic to do as well if the $5000.00 mark is reached. As soon as I figure it out I will let you know.

So, see that badge at the top right column (if you are reading this a few days after 8/02/09, the badge is at the top right column)? It takes you to my donation page where you can either safely donate online or download a form and mail in your donation. But please donate.

As a reference for what GLWD is, if you watched this year's Celebrity Apprentice, Joan Rivers' winnings went to GLWD

We Are Golden -- Mika

2009-07-30T22:17:00.003-04:00

Since YouTube pulled the vid I found it on Dailymotion. Watch it. I luvs me some Mika and this is by far my favorite of his so far (and I have quite a few favorites

We are golden : Mika
by morg92

Love Today

2009-07-29T20:38:00.001-04:00

Angels I Don't See PART XXI: Blood Angels

2009-07-24T04:57:00.010-04:00

If you want to read the parts leading up to Part XXI click here for Parts I-XX

Part XXI: Blood Angels

Late January/2009

The day my father was to arrive a snowstorm was predicted up the Eastern seaboard. We were both apprehensive about this but my father, who has an SUV, insisted that he could beat the storm if he left early enough. Putting my nervousness aside I tried to get some sleep.

But as I twisted and turned all night I could only think about two things. The first was my scheduled court trial the following day and the other was my dad’s arrival.
I was nervous that at the trial the man who filed the police report would be there and ultimately I would have to explain to the judge the truth about Ric driving without a license and fleeing the scene. Points would be added to my license (I was not worried about jail since no one was apparently injured) and that I would be forced to pay hefty fine with money I did not have.

I was also worried that it would be my father keeping an eye on Ric while I was at court. Did my dad fully grasp Ric’s mental condition? Would he realize that unleashing a torrent of verbal assaults on Ric would be futile as Ric would not understand a word he was saying? Would my father be physically able to carry Ric to bathroom or pick him up if he fell?

All these concerns and more were on my mind as I tried to get some much needed rest.
Around 3:00 in the morning, after finally falling asleep, I awoke to the sound of a dull thud. Normally such a noise would not rouse me from my sleep but, with Ric in such a fragile state, I became much like a new mother who awakes when her baby so much as rolls over.

Turning on the light at my nightstand, I looked around to see where Ric was. He was not in bed, he was not anywhere in sight and our dog, Trotter, usually nestled in her bed at the foot of our bed, was standing at the door, something she never did.

“Ric?

Ric?

RIC!!!!!” I screamed, manically jumping out of bed and into the hallway of our building in nothing but my boxer briefs.

There he was, about twenty feet down the hall, in a pool of blood, lying on the floor like a limp doll. How I managed to hear him fall so far from our apartment is beyond me. As I ran to him, with his blood soaked clothes and blood on the floor, I grabbed his wrist for signs of a pulse.

“Oh, hey babe” he said, turning his eyes up to me.

“What happened? Why are you out here? Where did you cut yourself?”

“I came out because I wanted to go outside and see the snow.”

It was 3:00AM; he was wearing underwear and a t-shirt with no shoes or socks. Had he made it to his destination, he would surely have frozen to death.

“Where’s the blood coming from? Where did you cut yourself?”

“Huh? What blood? I didn’t cut myself. That’s snow babe. Isn’t it pretty?” he said as he began to move his arms along the floor smearing all the blood around him. “I’m making snow angels”

“Babe, before I move you I need to know where you cut yourself so I don’t do any more damage than has already been done.”

“Make snow angels with me and then we could build a …..”

Before he could finish his sentence I was already back in the apartment getting alcohol, gloves, band-aids, bleach and paper towels.

When I made it back out he was sitting up. Reality had hit him.

“Babe! I’m bleeding! I’m bleeding! What is going on?” he screamed.

“Calm down, babe. It’s ok. You just fell. Don’t get worked up and don’t scream. You’ll wake the neighbors.” I said as I found the source of what seemed like pints and pints of blood; a small cut on his right wrist. I immediately took his t-shirt off and used it as a tourniquet on his upper forearm.

Then I grabbed the alcohol and began trying to wipe the blood from the wound. After a few minutes of trying to get the small cut to clot, it slowed enough for me to put some ointment on and bandage it.

“Babe, I’m scared. Are we in jail? Did I get beat up?” Ric said, shaking from fear and the cold.

With the pool of blood still around us and the paper towels, gloves and bleach just sitting there, I pulled him close to my chest and held him, whispering “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I am here. We are home. You are safe”

“But I am bleeding”

As I felt the warm blood from his arm drip down my back as he was holding on to me I whispered again “There’s nothing to be afraid of. I am here. We are home. You are safe”

“But you’re crying. Why are you crying, babe?” he said as I lifted him off the ground and carried him back to the apartment with blood now all over my face, chest, hands and back.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. I am here. We are home. You are safe”

After changing his clothes, wiping up the rest of the blood on his body and putting him back into bed I went back out in the hall to sanitize the area. When I came back in, I went to the bathroom to clean myself up. As I looked in the mirror, my face was crimson red with his blood. The only places on my face that were clear were where my tears had rolled down my cheeks washing the blood away.

There was nothing to be afraid of. I was there. We were home. He was safe.

PART XXII SOON

ANGELS I DON'T SEE PARTS I - XX

2009-07-22T02:31:00.004-04:00

PART I
(Note: Though the date of this post is July 22nd, 2009 this story begins at the middle of December, 2008. Ignore the post date. Also, comments made on different "parts" of the story are at their original pages)

If someone told me, when I was released from detox just over two weeks ago, that my life would be where it is right at this moment, I would have elected to stay in detox. I have written at length about my stay in detox here, here and here. And I plan on writing more soon. But tonight I want to let those of you who follow this blog know what is going on. I want you to know the truth. I want to be set free.

My partner, Ric, of over seven years has been sick for some time. Last April we began to notice that something seemed off. We could not quite articulate what exactly was askew and for a while we chalked it up to work related stress. However as time went on, we knew we were dealing with a medical problem, though we did not know what it was.

I wrote about my anguish here. Over the summer, after countless visits to specialists, Ric seemed to be getting better. Though we did not have any answers as to his condition, I eventually quit accompanying him to doctor appointments. With each day that passed his condition seemed to miraculously improve and by the end of the summer, and a bronchoscopy that showed that a mass on his lung was benign, I was convinced that he was going to lick the phantom foe.

But two months ago, the bete noire was back with breath taking ferocity. His old symptoms returned and new ones appeared, including bizarre behavior. I did not know how to handle it. He was lying all the time, not going to work, avoiding financial responsibility, angry, depressed. Before my eyes, my husband transformed into a stranger, a child and a recluse, all in one.

It was evident that the elusive illness was bigger than I imagined. Repeatedly I encouraged him to go back to the doctors so they could start testing him again. Repeatedly he refused. Baffled, I poured my entire being into trying to make him better. I was determined, despite his resistance, to walk with Ric through whatever it was.

In doing so, I neglected the work necessary to maintain my sobriety. I foolishly believed my battle with the bottle was a thing of the past. The obsession with alcohol had been lifted…or so I thought.

The day after Thanksgiving, at my wits end, I checked into a hotel room with a bottle of scotch, promptly poured my drink, and checked out.

PART II

Any recovering alcoholic who has suffered the agony of a relapse can testify to the fact that the disease picks up right where it left off…and then some. Basically, what happens when an alcoholic relapses is that they resume right where they ended with their last drink, no matter how much sobriety they have under their belt. If, let’s say, an alcoholic was drinking a half gallon of vodka a day before they entered recovery, they will quickly find themselves drinking a half gallon and more when they relapse.

I sipped my first scotch on the rocks in my hotel room. But soon, overwhelmed by guilt and shame, I began to chug. I needed to blot out my pain. And within minutes, the liter of scotch was gone.

Desperate, I took a cab from my hotel to a bar. It was around five in the afternoon and the bar was empty. I actually preferred it empty. It meant I had the bartender to exclusively do my bidding. It also meant that I could get sufficiently buzzed before a crowd showed up. The problem was, the crowd and the buzz could not get there fast enough. And even though the bartender was quick to replenish my drink, he was not quick enough.

I grew increasingly irritated and left within a half hour. If I was going to drink, I was going to drink Jon-Marc style, and the only way to do that was to make the drinks myself. So I went across the street to the liquor store and bought a half gallon of vodka, caught a cab and went back to my room.

The last memory I have that night was standing at the window in my hotel room, looking over the New York skyline, thinking to myself that my drinking was going to snap Ric back into reality. Surely he would see that his bizarre behavior was driving me back to the bottle. And since he has my best interests at heart, he would immediately begin again the process of trying to get well. The alcoholic is notorious for drinking *at* other people.

The next morning, on my way back to the loft, I picked up another half gallon of vodka. I was looking forward to a day of uninterrupted drinking. Ric was supposed to be working that day and I had quite a few hours to drink as much as I wanted.

My plan was shot to hell the minute I walked in my loft and saw Ric sitting there in his robe watching TV.

“Why are you not at work!” I screeched.

“I called in. I don’t feel well”

“What the hell do you mean you don’t ‘feel well’?”

“I don’t feel like going to work”

“You don’t feel like going to work!?!?!? You don’t feel like going to work?!?!? We need to get you to a doctor and quick! This is getting out of control!”

“Would you just shut up and drink! I have no desire to listen to some drunk tell me I need to get help”

My plan of snapping Ric back to reality was not going so well. In fact, it was having the opposite effect. Instead of prompting him, my drinking emboldened him to continue
his own slide into oblivion.

And, like a good, subservient spouse I submitted to his demand and poured a stiff drink of vodka with a splash of ginger ale.

I cannot blame my decision to pick up on any one but myself. But I do know that my frustration with his lack of concern for his condition was at the tipping point. I could not, for the life of me, understand why my husband was willingly ignoring his health despite all the evidence that there was a problem.

For ten straight days and nights I drank. I simply could not deal with the reality that was our life. Specifically, I could not deal with the fact that no one could figure out what was wrong with my husband. The most grueling thing about watching him go through this ordeal was not knowing what it was we were dealing with. No one knew…

or so I thought

Part III

The ten solid days that I spent drinking were a welcome respite from the worry that was consuming my every thought. While drinking, no matter what is going on around me, I am able to simply shut everything out.

Around day eight I knew that I needed to find help yet again. I was nervous that the amount of alcohol I was consuming – half a gallon to a gallon of vodka a day – was going to result in alcohol poisoning. But I was also worried that detoxing myself might send my body into shock and kill me. Though I had always detoxed myself in the past, I was aware of the dangers inherent in doing so. My days were numbered as far as withdrawing from alcohol and I was not going to take that risk again.

Finding a detox that has an available bed is harder than one might think. I called six detox centers before I found one in Princeton, New Jersey that said they could take me, and it would be a few days before a bed would be ready. Therefore, while waiting for them to call, I continued to drink and continued to notice Ric degenerate.

Finally, on a Monday, the detox in Princeton called and told me to come right away.

After six days in Princeton, I took the train home. I was excited to see Ric and our dog Trotter. Ric told me that he cleaned the loft and it was spotless and I was ready to spend a few days relaxing at home while I began the process of sobriety once again.

The smell I encountered upon entering the loft was disgusting. There were dishes piled high in the sink, clothes and sticky messes all over the floor, and the garbage was overflowing everywhere. Trotter appeared to be sick and Ric appeared to be dying. And I was mad as hell.

“This is what you call spotless?!?!”

“I cleaned. Look at the couch. I cleaned all the stuff on the floor and put it on the couch”

“You mean to tell me that you believe that the ten minutes it took to pick the crap off the floor and simply throw it on the couch is your idea of cleaning?”

“SHUT UP! I CAN’T STAND YOU! GO BACK TO YOUR FUCKING DETOX AND GET THE HELL OUT!”

As I sat down on the one part of the couch that was free of debris, I went through my mail from the previous six days. I noticed a number of envelopes were from lawyers. Since I rarely receive anything from lawyers I knew something was very wrong.

*Dear Mr. McDonald

Leaving the scene of an accident is a very serious charge and, if found guilty, you could find yourself having your license suspended and even facing jail time. We at the firm of Scare, Yoo, and Shatless have represented countless individuals in your situation. It would be a mistake to attempt to represent yourself in court…..

Dear Mr. McDonald,

You are probably worried about your upcoming court date. I understand. Leaving the scene of an accident is a serious charge and you deserve the best possible representation. I encourage you not to go to court alone. Don’t be fooled into believing that you can do this on your own…

Confused and a bit panicked, I came to my final piece of mail. Inside a handwritten envelope from the police department was a court summons requiring me to appear in court for “Leaving the scene of an accident”

My heart began to race. I mapquested the location where the summons said the accident took place, which turned out to be just outside our bank. I then looked up all the transactions I made the day the summons said the accident took place. And, like I thought, I had not been at the bank the day the supposed accident took place. But Ric had.

Ric had been at our bank that day at the time of the supposed accident to take his name off of one of our joint accounts and open another account that was exclusively his. He said his reason for doing so was because he was afraid that during my relapse I would spend all the money we had. The problem with that was that there was not any money in any of our accounts for me to spend. We were broke. Therefore, any money that I spent drinking was put on my credit cards.

There was another problem as well. Ric has not had a driver’s license since his expired nearly two years ago. Though we originally bought the car for him to get to work in New Jersey, he was quickly promoted back into the city and the car, which is in my name, became mine exclusively to use. When his license expired, we took his name off the insurance to save some money and if he needed to get somewhere that could not be reached by public transportation, I drove him.

“Ric, I got a court summons and about a dozen letters from attorneys saying I left the scene of an accident. I know I didn’t do this. I never drive while I am drinking and the time the accident took place was the exact time you were at the bank changing the accounts”

“Ok, so?”

“So the accident took place right outside of the bank”

“So?”

“So I was not at the bank that day and you were. I did not go anywhere that day”

“I took the train to the bank. I remember, because it was so cold that day and I had to wait a long time for the train to come”

“Are you sure”

“Yes I’m sure! STOP TALKING TO ME YOU FUCKING DRUNK! YOU JUST DON’T REMEMBER WHAT YOU DID THAT DAY! I TOOK THE FUCKING TRAIN! BE QUIET AND LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!

At my wits end I called a friend of mine who is a cop. I’ll call him Paul, though that’s not his name. He told me that I needed to get a copy of the police report and read what it said. He also told me that, whatever I did, I was not to miss my court date.

The next morning, I walked into my precinct and requested the report. I was relieved to learn that there appeared to be no damage to the other car and the report seemed to be nothing more than a perfunctory request from the other driver for possible insurance purposes.

When I returned home, I told Ric that I got the police report though I did not tell him what the report said. His response was telling.

“Well you know you were driving so just go plead guilty and it won’t be that bad”

“It won’t be that bad? I face possible jail time and/or license suspension and you’re telling me it won’t be that bad? I depend on that car! And I know I didn’t drive the car that day! I know it!”

The reason I knew it is because in all my years of drinking the one thing I never did was drive. Never. I did plenty of other deplorable things but I never drove. Driving was never a part of my drinking DNA.

But maybe this time was different. Maybe this time I did drive. Maybe the disease had progressed to the point that I simply did not remember driving under the influence. Maybe it was just a coincidence that unlicensed Ric was at the bank at the exact time the accident took place outside the bank.

Maybe I was going crazy.

Maybe I was already there.

PART IV

Every new day seemed to unearth another clue but no answers. Ric’s behavior became manic and so bizarre that he was not only a danger to himself; he was a danger to others. Most of my time was spent either begging him to go into the emergency room or calling family and friends for advice on what to do with him.

I was also left with trying to figure out how to pay our bills and rent while also having enough money with which to eat. I felt as though I was drowning in a sea of chaos, struggling to keep my head above water. Fear became my constant companion and sleep became a distant memory.

On December 18th Ric did something highly unusual, even for him. He decided that he was going to wait in the standby line of the television show “The View” because he wanted to get “a bunch of free stuff”. The man who had not moved from his chair in front of the television for over three weeks was all of a sudden up by six and at the ABC studios by 7:30 sharp.

And the phone calls began.

“Baby guess what? I am going to get in standby and get a bunch of free stuff. You should get here quick…”

“Baby, I am going to be in the audience and get all this free stuff. If you hurry you can join me and we can get even more free stuff and give it as Christmas gifts…”

“Baby, I am in the studio. I found out that there is another taping at 2 for the Friday show so I am going to get back in line after this and get even more free stuff. Then we can sell it for thousands of dollars and we won’t have to worry about rent or bills….”

Shortly before 2:00, my phone rang again.

“I didn’t get in for the 2:00 taping” he mumbled. “Oh well, I have an idea. See, the security guard was a real jerk. He said ‘get your skinny white ass out of here or I will call the police’ so I am going to call The View and get that guy fired. And then I am going to get them to give me all the stuff that I would have gotten had I been at the two o’clock taping”

It’s not that I felt sorry for the security guard, but I knew what Ric must have put him through in order for the guard to snap. I have no doubt that Ric asked the same question over and over again, never remembering the answer. He probably became belligerent, angry and even hostile. The guard had no idea that the man asking him questions was really a child in a fifty-two year old body.

I don’t know this because I was there. I know this because I lived it, day in and day out, for months. Ric’s constant questions were not really questions as much as they were an exercise in maintaining his sanity. If he could focus on a trivial question for which there was no answer, he never had to face the reality of his illness. In many ways it was (and is) a survival mechanism. Over the past few months, reality has been the demon he refuses to face.

Slowly his world became pure fantasy that only he knew. He truly believed everything he was saying, including being able to sell whatever “prizes” he received from The View. Though his intentions were admirable, he had absolutely no plan for making those intentions a reality.

When asked how exactly he would sell the giveaways should he receive them, he replied matter-of-factly that he would simply post signs on telephone polls and in the lobby of our building advertising the items. Pressed to explain what we would do if the items didn’t sell, he responded that we would sell our car…or our bed…or anything that happened to pop into his delusional mind at the time.

Meanwhile on planet earth, I had problems that were too much for one man to handle. Whereas in crisis of the past Ric had been by my side to weather the storms of life, this time not only was he not by my side, he was the thunder and lightening and gale force winds propelling the storm. His behavior, more than anything else, was wreaking unbelievable havoc on our life. Each of his actions required an equal and opposite reaction on my part in order to minimize the damage.

As I told my mother on the phone when the caca was hitting the fan, “Everyday I find a new body. It’s just a matter of time before I discover where another body is buried. It’s no longer a question of if, but when”.

Sure enough, on Christmas Eve, another body surfaced. And this time, the stench nearly killed me.

PART V

Two days before Christmas Ric finally agreed to go to the emergency room. As the nurse was taking his vitals he told her he needed muscle relaxers and anti-depressants. He also told her he was mourning the death of his father who died last week. His father died over seven years ago.

“He’s actually here because he is delusional, unmotivated, cannot remember much of anything and he is increasingly becoming a danger to himself and others. He has an undiagnosed neurological disorder and we have been to countless doctors and no one can tell him what is wrong” I said.

I could recite his symptoms in my sleep. The entire week leading up to his visit to the emergency room was spent on the phone with the many doctors that had treated him pleading with them to try again and find some answers. The time for speculation was long gone and it was imperative that they find something out, and quick. Otherwise I was convinced we were going to lose him.

After taking some blood, an x-ray and a CAT scan the emergency room doctor admitted Ric to the hospital overnight. Ric was having none of it. He wanted to go home and was making life as difficult as possible for all the medical professionals. Finally, they gave him some Ativan. Within minutes, he was sleeping like a baby.

On Christmas Eve, an infectious disease doctor examined Ric. After a few questions he asked if he could talk to me privately. I agreed but asked if one of my good friends who was visiting Ric at the time could join us.

Before we went to the hall the doctor asked one more question in front of Ric.

“Is there any other strange behavior Mr. White has displayed” the doctor asked.

“Well I suspect he drove my car even though he is unlicensed. I received a court summons about leaving the scene of an accident”

In a moment of rare clarity, Ric spoke up. “I drove the car to go to the bank. I hit a Mercedes but there was no damage so I left”

I never mentioned to Ric that it was a Mercedes that was hit so I knew he was telling the truth.

After the confession the doctor, my friend and I went to the hall.

“What we are dealing with here is probably one of two things. It’s either a cancer or it’s HIV. When was the last time Mr. White was tested for HIV?”

“Oh no, it’s not HIV, doctor. He has been tested as recently as August and he was negative. It must be cancer”

“Why was he tested in August?” the doctor replied.

“For a bronchoscopy he had due to a mass on his lung”

“Is there anyway you can get me the bronchoscopy paperwork. I’d like to see what it says”

“I guess, but the mass was benign so I am not sure what the paperwork would tell you. And besides, it’s Christmas Eve. I doubt the doctor who performed the procedure is even there”

“Well try and call and see if you can get the results faxed to me. Also see if they can send the results from his blood test.”

I called the doctor who ordered and performed the bronchoscopy and, unbelievably, someone was there and agreed to fax over the results.

Ten minutes later the doctor came back to talk to me privately.

“The results show Mr. White is positive. Is there a reason he would have withheld this information from you?”

At that moment my knees buckled. In less than an hour I learned that Ric had, in fact, driven the car and been in an accident, but also that he was HIV positive, something he did not tell me for nearly six months. The enormity of it all was almost too much.

But the enormity of what was about to happen would put me at the gates of hell. The battle had just begun and my life as I knew it had just ended. For good.

PART VI

My friend Michael and I went to the waiting room on floor seven of the hospital. I looked out the window at a magnificent view of the Statue of Liberty. For years she had welcomed people from foreign lands – the tired, the poor, those yearning to be free.

My tears began to flow because I now was the tired and poor. I was the one in search of freedom and a new beginning. I was in need of the hope that Lady Liberty had given to the nameless faces and huddled masses.

“Are you mad at him?” Michael asked.

“Mad at him for what?”

“Are you mad at him for not telling you he was positive”

It was the strangest thing because I was not mad at him. I wanted, more than anything, to be mad at him to ease the pain. But at that particular moment I simply felt sorry for Ric.

What deep, abiding fear must someone have in order to live in such denial? Was his fear of HIV so strong that he would not only risk his own health by not getting treatment, but he would risk my health by not telling me? If his fear of HIV led to his denial, from where did such a fear come?

Ric’s life has been a series of tragedies. He lost his mother when he was 12, lost his brother to complications from MS, lost another brother who died an infant. He also lived through the plague years when many of his friends died rapid deaths to AIDS. Perhaps the combination of all these things caused him to slip beyond the reach of reality. Maybe his own mortality was the one thing in life he simply could not face.

“I know this is hard to hear right now but you should really get yourself tested” Michael said as he held me.

“I am. I just need to find a place and I will”

“Use my doctor. Here’s his number”

As Michael took my phone and programmed his doctor’s number in it, I looked out again at the statue. The Statue of Liberty has always played a special role in my life since I moved to New York nearly eight years ago. The night before 9/11/01 I took a cruise around Manhattan chartered by the international trade association I was working for at the time. As we passed the statue I opened my fortune cookie and my fortune read “Cherish your freedom. You never know when you might lose it”.

A few months later, Ric and I took a stroll through Battery Park which was a couple of blocks from where we lived at the time. We sat on a bench with our dog and savored the view of the Hudson and the statue in the distance. It was a cloudy day but the sun shone like a spotlight on Lady Liberty’s crown. It is, to this day, the most exquisitely beautiful image ever etched in my mind.

And just last year, my friend took us out on her boat and we circled the statue. I had never seen her so close and the detail amazed me. She was such an epic symbol of all that was right with our country and at that moment I whispered a prayer that what she stood for would be protected for generations to come.

But as I looked out at the statue the day I learned of Ric’s status, I wondered if Ms. Liberty could inspire me yet again.

Sadly, I knew the answer. This time her guiding light could not lead me out of the dark abyss. Symbolic hope was not a solution anymore and I doubted if it ever was. At that moment she was nothing more than a jingoistic backdrop used to instill a false sense of patriotism and arrogant pride.

In fact, at that moment in such overwhelming pain, I wanted to take her torch and shove it up her patina'ed copper ass. And give it a twist for good measure!

PART VII

On Christmas Eve my mother, grandmother, aunt and brother visited Ric in the hospital. All except my brother were visiting from Texas on a long-planned Christmas vacation. My brother is a sophomore at NYU and he acted as their tour guide while they were here.

My heart broke that the first – and probably last – time my grandmother met Ric was in a hospital room. Though she did not know what he was hospitalized for at the time, my concern was that when she found out it would only reinforce negative notions of gay people and AIDS.

But my grandmother did something extraordinary. My mother asked if we could pray and my grandmother took Ric’s frail hand in hers and bowed her head. It was one of the few times in my life that I have seen the compassion of Christ so magnificently personified. For all my misgivings with my family and their beliefs, that one moment of absolute love without condition is something I will never forget as long as I live.

She spoke to him as though he was one of her very own grandchildren, gave him Christmas gifts (one of which was a pamphlet by Ric Warren, but she didn’t realize why that might not be the best pick. I doubt she even knew of the controversy surrounding Warren at the time), laughed at his silly jokes and listened as he repeated the same story over and over again.

Shortly after my family left, Ric decided he was going to leave the hospital. He ripped the IV out of his arm and started to get up. I restrained him and the nurses rushed in and put the IV back. Once he calmed back down I asked him about the HIV results, something up to that point I had not mentioned. He had no idea I knew his status.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were positive?” I sobbed.

“What? I’m not positive. What makes you think I have HIV?”

“Dr. Stop, the infectious disease doctor, had your bronchoscopy results faxed over from Dr. Libby’s office and the paperwork said you were positive”

“Dr. Libby’s an ass! He just made it up. I’M NOT POSITIVE”

“You’re telling me that one of the top pulmonologist in the nation, with posh offices on Madison Avenue, made up your HIV status just because he’s an asshole?”

“That’s exactly what I am saying. And besides, if I was positive I would have contracted it from you!”

“Well that remains to be seen. I am scheduling an appointment with Michael’s doctor to get tested” I said, trying to regain some composure.

“Well, I’m not positive. I just need muscle relaxers and I will be fine”

Once a certain idea entered Ric’s mind it was hard to shake him of it. The muscle relaxer bit was one such idea. He continually talked about muscle relaxers even though a) none of his muscles hurt and b) he could never explain how muscle relaxers would help his condition. He was convinced that acquiring the pills would be the cure for all that ailed him.

Exhausted and emotionally spent I went home to try and get some much needed rest. I took comfort in the fact that Ric was in the hospital despite some misgivings I had with the doctor to whom Ric had been assigned. Though the infectious disease (ID) doctor proved to be invaluable, Ric’s general doctor during his stay was completely worthless.

On Christmas day I returned to the hospital only to find Ric in an incorrigible mood.

“CALL DR. MIRZA AND TELL HIM I AM LEAVING” Ric screamed to the nurse.

“Whatever you say, Mr. White” the nurse conceded, visibly shaken by Ric’s behavior.

“He can’t be released! If he is released he may never make it back! He might die before he gets help again” I pleaded.

Shortly after the nurse returned to Ric’s room with another doctor and a piece of paper for Ric to sign.

“Dr. Mirza said that if you wanted to go home, it would be AMA. Therefore he wants you to sign this piece of paper and also agree that if you come back to this hospital for treatment, you do not see him” the other doctor explained.

AMA, for those not blessed to know medical jargon and acronyms, means “against medical advice” and usually when a patient checks out of a hospital AMA, insurance will not cover the stay.

Ric signed the paper and began to walk towards the elevator. I followed closely behind.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked.

“Leaving. I am not spending Christmas in the hospital. I will come back another day”

“But another day might be too late. You’ve got to stay. You’ve got to get an HIV test and they’ve got to figure out what’s wrong with you”

Even though Ric denied that he was HIV positive he refused to consent to a test during his stay at the hospital. Since his status was not absolutely certain, the ID doctor could not start him on HIV medicines to improve his condition.

After a tumultuous night spent at home, full of yelling and discord, I spent the following morning scheduling my HIV test and figuring out my escape.

At that point, I didn’t know for certain what my next move would be. But I did know that I was leaving Ric. If he was to willfully choose to ignore medical advice and possibly die, I was not going to be around to watch it.

I could not watch him choose to end his life. But ultimately I could not allow Ric to take me down with him. His suicide mission would have only one fatality.

I was going to live. And if not, I would die trying.

PART VIII

Seven and a half years. That’s how long Ric and I had been together when I decided that I needed to leave in order to live. As I packed my clothes and some other things I couldn’t help but remember all the wonderful times we had together.

Here was a man that I loved more than life itself and every time I thought about my impending separation I found it hard to breathe. Literally, I would gasp like a man surfacing for air after being underwater for a period of time.

In order to walk through the excruciating pain, I had to push the pain out of my mind. I repeatedly told myself that there would be time for mourning what I had lost, but that time was not then. Every time I found myself waxing poetic about my relationship with Ric, I forced myself to stop and think of other things like what I needed to pack or what bill I needed to pay or anything just to keep my mind away from those seven plus years.

But the time came when I was to spend my last night in the loft with Ric. Oblivious to the fact that I had moved all my clothes and much of my belongings, Ric asked why I was crying.

Little did he know that I was drafting the following letter to be left on his nightstand the next morning:

Babe,

If you are reading this it means I have moved out. Leaving was the hardest decision I have made in my entire life. I hope you know I will always love you and that my heart aches that our life together had to end this way.

Watching you choose to die has nearly killed me. I was so hopeful that during your stay at the hospital they would find out what was wrong with you and could correct it. But you chose to leave, against medical advice and doctor’s orders, and they were not able to give all the tests that you needed.

Also, learning in the hospital that you had HIV and that you knowingly withheld that information from me for months devastated me. And that you walked away from the hospital when you were getting help made me realize that you, in fact, want to die. Since you have chosen to die, I have chosen to leave in order to live.

And to make matters worse, your confession on your hospital bed that you did leave the scene of an accident while driving my car even though you do not have a license cut me to my core. That you would watch me anguish, for nearly two weeks, over a court summons and vehemently deny any involvement was the final straw. I realized, after your confession in front of Michael, Jen and Dr. [Stop], that you no longer care for me at all.

I want you to know that if you get help and start on meds and I am able to verify with your doctors that you are trying to get well, I might change my mind. And by help I mean that you must return to the hospital (I suggest New York Presbyterian) until they figure out what is wrong with you. But as of now, you are on your own. And you are currently on a path to die penniless and alone.

Also you will need to figure out a way to get all the bills AND rent paid as well as return to work or find a new job in order for me to return. We are financially ruined due to your denial. And I won’t be here to watch your life deteriorate.

Things you should know:

• I have taken things that I need in order to live. I have taken all my clothes, as well as some things that we own together. Someone will be back to pick up the rest of my stuff soon, including half of the furniture.

• I will begin the process to dissolve our civil union within the next two weeks. Since you are dying I am not sure you will be there when the court divorces us.

• Your bank account has ten dollars in it. When that is gone, you will not have any more money to live off of.

• The electricity and cable are about to be cut off, as well as your cell phone.

• The rent is due on the first and they will begin eviction proceedings on you by January 7th. When they evict you, they will seize all your stuff in the apartment.

• Trotter must be walked and fed. Do not let her die because you can’t get your life together.

• I suggest you urgently talk to Audrey so that she can send you some money. Otherwise you will not be able to survive. You should ask for 2500-3000. Anything less and you will not be able to pay the bills and the rent.

• Starting tomorrow I will be blocking my mother’s number from your phone once again.

• I have a new phone and phone number. You will not have access to it and my old phone number on our family plan will no longer work beginning January 1st. Therefore you will not have a way to get in contact with me.

• There is plenty of food here to live off of for a couple of weeks. After that, it’s gone.

I hope you get the help you need. All these things that you are suffering from are reversible. But soon they will not be. Soon it will be too late and you will die in a hospital room all alone. I sincerely pray that you face reality soon before such a thing takes place. As I wrote before, if you go get help at the hospital and do all that the doctors tell you, I will return. In addition, all bills must be fully paid as well as the rent. But until I can verify that you are going to the doctor, taking meds and the bills are paid, I will not be back. And since you have lied about so much over the past few months, I am sure you won’t do anything.

I wish you all the best and will miss you terribly. I cannot tell you how difficult it is to leave. I want nothing more than to walk through this with you. But the fact of the matter is you gave up on life long ago. And I will not join you on your death march.

I love you more than you could ever know. Always have, always will.

Love,

Jon-Marc

Ps. Don’t forget to walk Trotter and feed her. Walk her the right way, outside the gate, on her leash. Do not neglect her. She means so much to me and she should not suffer due to your negligence.

The next morning, before Ric woke up, I left my letter and walked out the door.

PART IX

It was Monday morning, December 29th and as I drove my car stuffed full of clothes and other belongings to a friend’s house, I was confident that my letter would shake Ric out of his state of denial and snap him back to reality. I really believed that once he woke up and read what I wrote he would immediately call me to say that he was willing to get treatment for his HIV as well as find a way to pay our bills and rent.

Three hours passed and Ric had not called. I wondered if he had even seen the letter. Worried that he might have hurt himself I called him and much to my relief he answered:

“Just checking to see if you got my letter”

“Yes I did. Thank you. It was so sweet. It made my day” Ric said in all seriousness.

“Thank you? Thank you !?!?! It was so sweet!?!?! What are you talking about? The letter said I’m leaving you. Do you understand what that means?”

“Yes and it was very sweet”

After a long pause he continued “On your way home would you pick up a London Broil that we can make on New Year’s? I’m going to have a party. Can you also pick up wine and beer and some snacks?”

He was dead serious. Even though we were broke, and even though I wrote him a letter stating that I was leaving him, and even though I was (and am) a recovering alcoholic, his alternate reality was as strong as ever. In his world it was not even possible for him to comprehend we had no money, much less that I was leaving. It was also impossible for him to see why asking me to pick up alcohol was a deadly request. His mind was incapable of discerning anything.

At that moment I realized that the possibility of him getting help was slim. Why would he get help? He did not even see that he was sick. Therefore, in his eyes, help was not necessary.

Though it was evident to everyone except Ric that he was probably suffering from HIV dementia, there was another matter at hand that morning that needed attention. It was the day of my HIV test. For some reason, I was not nervous at all. Like everything else in my life, that quickly changed.

“So you’re here because you think you might have been exposed to HIV? Is that correct?” the doctor said in a heavy, yet easily understood, French accent.

“Yes. My partner has HIV, did not tell me for many months and is refusing to get help even now. I just found out last week when he was in the hospital for what I thought was a undiagnosed neurological condition. It turns out he probably is suffering from dementia related to HIV. Also I have these bumps on my hands and I don’t know what they are”. I spit my words out in rapid fire.

These “bumps” had formed on the tops of both my hands and they were worrisome. I did not know what to make of them and everyone that looked at them thought they could be the manifestations of stress.

“But doctor, there is a strong possibility that I don’t have HIV. I mean, he found out in August and we haven’t…”

“Let me see your hands” Dr. M interrupted. “I may take a biopsy of these bumps. They concern me. As far as you not having HIV, I have to be honest with you. You would be the luckiest man alive if you test negative”.

With that, he took five vials of blood and whatever remaining hope I had left.

“Come back next Monday for the results and we will discuss what we need to do next”

As I left, I noted three things I learned during my visit:

I learned that five vials of blood is enough to put me on the brink of unconsciousness. I learned that I have close to perfect blood pressure.

And I learned that there was no way in hell I was negative. Why?

The previous three weeks proved I was anything but the luckiest man alive!

PART X

Throughout this entire ordeal there have been unsung heroes who have quietly encouraged me behind the scenes. As my world was, and is, falling of its axis, these angels held, and continue to hold, me up with their prayers and words of wisdom. They have never sought to save the day or fully repair the damage. Instead, they have simply stood in the gap when my own resources failed me, threw lifelines when I was drowning and provided hope when mine vanished.

My mother has listened to endless phone calls of panic, has sent money to help me with bills and has never responded angrily when I lashed out throughout this entire ordeal. Though we will never see eye to eye on most issues, she has shown me during these weeks that her number one issue is her children. Through her dedication and love she has truly lived the faith she professes. If not for her devotion, I would have given up long ago.
For Christmas one year my parents bought me a Hot-Wheel. I remember I would ride up and down my grandparent’s driveway while my mother watched. Each time I would pass my mom, I would scream “Mom, am I going so fast you can’t see me?”

Each time she would respond “Yes, so fast I can’t even see you”

Since learning of Ric’s true condition I have felt as though my life was moving so fast that not even I could see it. But the entire time, my mom has seen my life and pressed me forward, step by tiny step.

Another angel is my friend Michael, my closest friend who held me the night I found out Ric’s status, calls everyday to make sure I am ok, allows me to spew my anger. We have been through so much together and he has made sure that though all of this he would be by my side. As we end every conversation, he says “I love you, Jon-Marc”. And at the end of every conversation I never doubt it.

My friend Jen, who offered her home to me after I decided to leave Ric, gave me room to breathe when I needed it, has never asked for anything in return and always gives me glimmers of hope when mine seems to fade.

My dad, a man I had not spoken to in nearly three years, offered whatever support he could provide, from coming here to help me put my stuff in a storage unit to genuinely wanting me to land on my feet again. It pains him to see me suffer and all along he has wanted nothing more than to alleviate the heartache. His love has given light to the darkness.

These are just a few of the angels that you don’t see as I tell this story. There are many more, and as this story continues you will have a chance to meet some of them.

Each and every one are the only reason I am alive today. They are my flights of angels that carry me on.

PART XI

My first night apart from Ric was relatively easy. I was staying at a friend’s house that had flooded, forcing the friend and her husband and daughter to move out while repairs were being made. The second floor, the area in which I was staying, was not damaged.

Though I was not able to sleep that night, I was able to suppress my sadness over leaving Ric by focusing on the fact that Ric had not told me he was positive, thereby producing sufficient anger and suppressing the hurt.

The next morning I turned on my cell phone and checked my messages.

“Your mailbox is full. Please delete some messages” the computer generated voice instructed.

I had forty-five messages on my voicemail. Each one was from Ric and each grew increasingly desperate. Apparently, it was sinking in that I was gone.

“Hey babe, I need you to come home. I can’t find my glasses…”

“Babe, you need to come home. Trotter needs to be walked and I can’t walk her…”

“You need to get home this instant. Trotter is very sick…”

“Babe, I am moving to the Virgin Islands and if you don’t come home right now you will never see me again…”

“Babe, you need to come home. I just stabbed a man…”

The last message, left at 10:47PM and the only one that was true, said “Please come home, I think I’m dying”.

Ego aside, there was no way Ric was going to have a shot at life without me. The only thing he was capable of was creating more fantasies out of whole cloth. If I was to follow through with my plan, it would be a matter of days before Ric passed on. If I was to cave and return to him, I knew I would be his full time nurse. I was stuck between a Ric and a hard place.

He clearly understood that I was gone but he did not understand what that really meant. Therefore the purpose of my leaving – to get him help – was useless. But if I returned home there would be absolutely no incentive for him to seek treatment.

I compromised with myself and decided that I would visit Ric during the day and continue to stay at my friend’s house at night until I received the results regarding my own status. If I was not, as Dr. M said, “the luckiest man alive”, and was indeed positive I would focus on my own health first. But if I was negative I would continue to try and help Ric in whatever capacity I could.

Following my new found plan, I went back to the loft only to find every pair of shorts, every short sleeve shirt and every beach towel strewn about. Ric was standing in boxer shorts, no shirt and holding tanning lotion.

“What’s going on?” I asked, surprisingly calm.

“I’m trying to figure out what to wear to the beach. Should I wear the red swim trunks or the blue?”

He only had black swim trunks. But that didn’t really matter. He continued.

“While I am at the beach, the carpenters will be coming in to install the new cabinets. After they are done, you should join me. We can have a drink and toast our new place”

“Ric, I went and saw a doctor yesterday and was tested for HIV. I told him about your condition and, though he is very busy, he said he would see you immediately. Would you go today? I can take you and we can get this thing under control”

“I am not going to the doctor today! I am going to the beach! There is nothing wrong with me and I have my muscle relaxers to make me feel better”

Again with the non-existent muscle relaxers. Again with the denial that there was a problem.

“What about Friday? Will you go see him on Friday?”

“Sure. But his office better be close to the beach. Is it close to the beach? I won’t see him unless he is close to the beach”

“His office is not only close to the beach, it’s right on the beach!”

The beach. The Hudson. Tomato. Tomahto.

PART XII

“These paintings are ugg-ah-leeeee!”

We were sitting in Dr. M’s packed waiting room when Ric decided to announce to everyone what he thought of the art work adorning the walls.

“Our dogs could paint better than that”

Dogs. Plural. We only have one dog.

Sotto voce, and turning a unique shade of red, I responded. “Shut up. His wife painted every painting in this office. You cannot say things like that when you meet Dr. M”

Amplified, and uninhibited, Ric replied. “His wife painted these? She needs to find a new hobby. Did you bring beach towels?”

“Yes. We will go to the beach after the doctor”. I was not above lying if it meant Ric would get help. However, after waiting in the waiting room for over an hour, Ric was getting testy and I knew it was a matter of minutes, if not seconds, until he decided that he wanted to go home. And by home, I mean his new imaginary beach house that he purchased with imaginary money from an imaginary realtor.

“Mr. White, come with me” the office assistant said.

We were escorted to a room and Ric got on the scale. 111lbs. One-hundred-and-eleven pounds with his clothes and shoes on.

I began to cry.

“Why are you crying? We are going to beach soon. You shouldn’t cry” he said, oblivious to what his weight meant.

Just as I pulled myself together, Dr. M joined us.

“Mr. White” he said in that thick but easily understood French accent. “My advice to you is to get to the hospital today. I cannot properly evaluate your condition without first getting the results of the blood work and that will take a few days. But I can tell you, based on your symptoms and from what I can see, you need to be monitored in the hospital for a few days until we can determine a treatment for you.

“As for you, Mr. McDonald. I think we have your results back. If you’d like I can give them to you now instead of Monday”

“Uh, yeah, ok. That would be good” I said as I replayed the “luckiest man alive” comment in my head.

Before Dr. M went to get my results, Ric chimed in. “I am not going to the hospital. We are going to the beach. Oh, besides, we know Jon-Marc’s results. He has HIV too. He gave it to me”

“Well Mr. White, I am not concerned with how you acquired the virus. I am concerned with getting you treatment. I strongly suggest you go to the hospital”

As Dr. M retrieved my file with my results I braced myself. If I was positive – and surely I was – then Ric was probably right. I probably did give it to him. After all, I was the one that, years ago, cheated and strayed in the relationship. Not him. He remained faithful throughout our 7 ½ years. All previous tests showed him to be negative. And now he was suffering the consequences of my inexcusable behavior. He never cheated.

Never!

Dr. M returned with my file in hand. “Are you positive you want your results today? I'd be happy to tell you on Monday if that's what you prefer”

“I'm positive”

“You’re negative”

Part XIII

My mind didn’t know how to process any more shocking information. Though I entertained the possibility that I might be negative, actually hearing it created an entirely new dilemma I had not yet considered.

If I was negative, and I had strayed in the relationship many years ago, and Ric and I had not been sexually active in over eight months, and Ric was positive, and I was tested three times within the previous 18 months, and it takes a maximum of six months for the virus to show up on blood tests then it meant either…

he cheated and when he found out he was positive he withheld the information from me for several months or…

he had been positive for far longer, telling me he was negative and withheld the information from me for possibly many years.

In fact, using my handy dandy deductive reasoning skills I learned in college years ago, with all the scenarios as they were, there was no way I could have given Ric the virus at all, even if Dr. M said I was positive at that moment.

Dr. M then handed us seven prescriptions for Ric. Two for what Dr. M knew was HIV without having the results to prove it and five antibiotics to fight the thrush Dr. M found in Ric’s throat and mouth.

In the car on the way to the pharmacy I let loose.

“Did you hear Dr. M? He said I was negative. I just wanted to make sure you heard him tell me I was negative”

“Yeah, so?”

“Just making sure you heard. I never want to hear again that I gave it to you. There is no way I gave it to you. In fact, there would have been no way I could have given it to you even if Dr. M said I was positive today”

“I guess Charlie gave it to me”

“Charlie, your ex from eight years ago?”

“Yeah, Charlie. I guess he gave it to me”

“You think Charlie gave it to you and since then, and all subsequent HIV tests, you have shown up negative until last August when, voila, you turn up positive?”

“Guess so”

As we pulled up to the pharmacy, his detachment from everything going on around him became even more apparent.

“After we drop of the ‘scrips to be filled, let’s get lunch at Subway or something, ok? If I don't eat something I think I am going to go insane. I mean it. I think I am going to explode”

“No, drop them off and then take me home, then come back and get my prescriptions”

“Um, are you trying to tell me that you want me to drop you off at home then come back to the pharmacy to get YOUR medications for HIV that YOU hid from me for months, possibly YEARS? That’s rich! THAT'S FUCKIN’ RICH!”

“Yeah, just take me home. Thanks” he said, so void of any ownership or responsibility and so callously indifferent to what I might be going through that I began to honestly wonder if he was a textbook sociopath.

“Could you explain to me where the hell my husband went? ‘Cause I am about to lose my fuckin’ mind and it would be really nice to find him!”

After I dropped off the prescriptions to be filled I took Ric home. No matter what happened, no matter how much I wanted to hate him, I simply could not look at him and see anything except a very sick man that I loved more than anything.

Back at the pharmacy...

“Your total is five-hundred-and-sixty-seven dollars”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you had our insurance information on file. Here, let me give it to you again” I said to the cashier.

“Yes sir. The total is with your insurance. Without insurance it would be twenty-one-hundred dollars”

We didn’t have five hundred dollars. We didn’t have fifty dollars.

“What is so expensive?” I asked, as if knowing would somehow help.

“Um, let’s see. The Truvada and the Kaletra”

In other words, the HIV meds. In other words, the meds that he needed if he were to survive.

In other words, he was a dead man

PART XIV

What a difference a year makes. A year prior we could have afforded four times the 567.00 each month with money to spare. But standing at the pharmacy that day, with absolutely no money to pay for Ric’s life-saving medication, I was just a bum in a nice coat.

We had no money for rent, no money for bills, no money for food and, of course, no money for medicine. Our life was no life at all. And the light at the end of the tunnel was an oncoming train.

“Can you tell me how much it would be without the HIV medications? Maybe I can just get the antibiotics and come back after I figure out how to pay for the Kaletra and Truvada” I humbly pleaded with the cashier.

“Thirty-seven dollars” she replied.

Thirty seven dollars. Ten dollars less than all the money we had.

“Ok, let’s do that. I’ll take the five antibiotics now and come back for the other two later”

Despair knows no depths. The second you think you have hit rock bottom, the rock bottom falls out. And with it, the world as you know it gets swallowed up in the black hole of hopelessness.

When I walked out of the pharmacy I snapped. Pity the person in my path that must deal with me when I lose my shit

“Mom, I can’t do this! I can’t do this! I can’t! I am about to break in two!”

I called my mother because I did not know what else to do. There was no way I could pay for the HIV medications and there was no way she could pay for the HIV medications but I did not know what else to do. So I did what I always do when I am in an impossible situation. I called my mom.

“Why don’t you call your friend with HIV? Maybe he knows something you can do” my mother suggested.

“What?!??!?! THAT’S YOUR SOLUTION? CALL MY FRIEND WITH HIV! ARE YOU CRAZY? WHAT GOOD ARE YOU IF YOU CAN’T HELP ME DEAL WITH THIS? RIC NEEDS HIS MEDICINES RIGHT NOW AND YOU WANT ME TO CALL SOMEONE WITH THE VIRUS FOR IDEAS? YOU HAVE LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND” I said as I furiously pressed the button on my Bluetooth headset and disconnected.

Angry beyond belief at my mother’s ridiculous idea, I picked up the phone and called my friend with HIV.

“Jon-Marc, go back to the pharmacy and ask for four days worth of the meds. They’ll do that and it buys you four days to figure out where and how you are going to get him the meds for the long term” my friend said. “There are plenty of organizations in this area that will provide you with assistance. After you leave the pharmacy stop by my place and I can give you some names and numbers and we will go from there”

“But I literally have only ten bucks”

“Ok, stop by my place beforehand and I will spot you a few”

Literally four days. If the pharmacy would sell me four days worth of the meds, it meant I had four days to figure something out and not a day more. Once someone starts an HIV regimen it is imperative that they continue, uninterrupted.

When someone stops taking their meds, or skips a day, the HIV starts again making literally millions of copies of itself. Every copy literally has a chance to mutate into a new form that may not be stopped by the drugs if started again.

Little did I know that four days later the drugs would literally be the least of my worries.

In four days Ric was going to stop traffic.

And I don’t mean that figuratively.

Part XV

In the fall of 2007 I put pen to paper and listed all my greatest fears. Known as a fear inventory, this exercise in sobriety was meant to reveal, in plain sight, what in my overactive imagination I feared most and how exactly those fears were impeding my recovery.

The first four fears on the list were 1) Losing Ric 2) Becoming homeless and destitute 3) Being accused of a crime I didn’t commit and 4) Ric or me contracting an incurable disease.

As I discussed my fears with my mentor at the time, I could hardly imagine what utter hell it would be like to live through any of them. As I conjured up scenarios in my mind, each fantasy ended with either suicide or drinking myself to death. I did not have the emotional fortitude to withstand any situation that included any of those four things.

But staying alone at my friends house allowed me time to reflect. On the night of January 3rd, after yet another plea on the phone with Ric to do as Dr. M instructed and go back to the hospital, it hit me that each of those four fears were no longer imaginary. Instead, they were as real as the air I breathed.

I was in the throes of such unspeakable agony and yet I had not acted as I presumed I would. There was nary a thought of suicide and the thought of a drink repulsed me in ways it never had before. Instead something remarkable was happening.

Life on life’s terms was no longer a slogan cooked up in a smoke filled basement of some church by a bunch of drunks in need of a drink. Rather, it was a possible new way forward. Whereas in my past I managed to shirk life’s reality in a gadarene rush to the margins, I no longer had such a luxury. In fact, there were only two options left.

I could face my fears, bundled as they were, and risk defeat.

Or I could declare defeat without a fight, ensuring a future that was wholly controlled by my circumstances, thereby ceding my fate to everyone and everything except me. This option would also hasten Ric’s death.

If I chose the former, I would be navigating uncharted waters. Up to that point my decisions were always made by determining what would bring optimum comfort and minimum pain (an MO, by the way, that ironically almost always brought about the opposite). Steering my life instead of my life steering me was a foreign concept and the possibility that I might fail to meet those challenges was more incentive to just do nothing.

If I chose the latter, I could simply allow the situation to dictate the outcome like a rudderless boat adrift at sea, praying that one day by some miracle I would make it back to land. Though this option would be painful, it would also be easiest. And when it was all said and done, I could wallow in my defeat and bemoan the uncontrollable winds of life. Besides, there was already a drumbeat of doomsayers in my life that were whispering from the safety of the shore to put Ric in a state run home and secure my belongings at the apartment, chirping from their broken lighthouses words like eviction and death.

“He’s just jumped out of the car! It was moving and he just jumped out! He...”

“Where are you, sir?”

“At the corner of, HOLY SHIT! HE’S RUNNING INTO TRAFFIC! I’VE GOT TO GO GET HIM! SEND SOMEONE QUICK!”

“What is your location, sir?”

Behold, the power of the wind.

PART XVI

I managed to restrain Ric at the corner of Holy Shit and He’s Running Into Traffic until the ambulance arrived.

“Why did you jump out of the car, sir?” the EMT asked.

“Because Jon-Marc would not stop and get me cigarettes! That’s why!”

It was true. I would not stop to get Ric cigarettes. The reason I would not stop to get Ric cigarettes was because he agreed to go to the hospital and I was racing there before he changed his mind, something he did twenty-seven-hundred times a minute.

Like everything else in our life, a seemingly simple drive to the hospital was turned into a chaotic mess starring the dynamic duo of dysfunctional and delusional. There was no way to go from point A to point B unless we first made pit stops at points C through Z.

“Can you take him to UMC please? That’s where we were heading when he jumped out of the car. That way his doctor can be his attending physician. Otherwise if you take him to [a hospital I refuse to name because it is so abysmal] we will be forced to have him transferred, which will take hours and delay him getting treatment for his condition, a condition that is getting worse by the minute”

At that point one of the EMT’s was already talking to Ric in the back of the ambulance.

“He has HIV, just started taking meds that he runs out of today and I convinced him to go to UMC because he is delusional and growing increasingly dangerous to himself and perhaps to others”. It was all part of the same song I’d been singing for weeks every time I spoke to a medical professional about Ric.

“Sir, we can’t take him to UMC. We have to take him to [the shittiest hospital this side of the Hudson]. But as you said, just get his doctor to order the transfer to UMC”.

I followed the ambulance to [if I am ever put in this particular hospital, someone please just come and pull the plug and shoot me full of a thousand bullets to make sure I’m dead]. When I arrived the ER doctor was already talking to Ric.

“Mr. White, can you tell me who the president is?”

“Bush but soon to be Obama” Ric replied.

“Can you tell me what month it is?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake! Yes, he can tell you what month it is! Yes he can tell you who the president is! He can tell even recite his home address! For the love of God, would someone please ask him about his dog Mojo, his home in the Virgin Islands, his new car and his yacht off the coast of Fiji?” I screamed.

“And you are?” the doctor asked, turning his attention to me.

“I am his Civil Unioned Partner” As I said it, I noted the acronym CUP in my head. I’m his CUP. Cute though CUP does not roll of the tongue the way husband does.

“He needs to be transferred to UMC right away” I continued.

“Well we are going to run some test here. Who is his doctor? His doctor would be the one that would order the transfer”

“I know that his doctor would be the one ordering his transfer. So please, whatever you do, get Dr. M on the phone and tell him to transfer him to UMC. That’s where we were headed when he jumped out of the car and we were forced to come to [if you are ever in this hospital you should do yourself a favor and go ahead and off yourself]. I don’t want him admitted here”

“He tried to jump out of the car?” the doctor responded, genuinely unaware of why Ric was brought in.

Are you f’in kidding me??? You don’t know why the guy you are treating is here? Do they even screen the doctors at [sometimes I have nightmares about being tied down with barbed-wire to a gurney in this place as they are wheeling me into surgery] or do they just have them watch a couple of episodes of Grey’s and give ‘em a stethoscope and some scrubs and then throw them on the floor of the ER for some hands-on training? I thought, for fear that if I said it out loud they might declare me dead right on the spot and start lifting my organs from my still-warm-to-the-touch body.

“Mr White, why did you try to jump out of the car?”

“He didn’t try to jump out of the car. He did jump out of the car!” I replied.

“Sir, I am talking to Mr. White. Now, Mr. White, why did you try to jump out of the car? Were you trying to get away from someone?” said the doctor, staring right at me.

“What? What does that even mean? He jumped out of the car because he wanted cigarettes. The reason he jumped out the car is irrelevant. The man JUMPED. OUT. OF. THE. CAR! He is suffering from HIV dementia or AIDS dementia complex. Either way, he needs help and quick and I want him transferred to UMC where his doctor can see him”

“Mr. White, is that true? Did you try to jump out of the car because you wanted cigarettes” the doctor said as his attention turned to what looked like a Blackberry.

“Why do you keep saying try? He didn’t try! He jumped out of the car. There was no trying involved. He opened the door and jumped out and then ran into traffic”

“I jumped out because he wouldn’t get me cigarettes. I wanted cigarettes and Jon-Marc wouldn’t stop and get me some”

“Well, you know Mr. White, cigarettes are bad for you”

“Well, you know doc, I hardly think lung cancer or heart disease or anything smoking related is at the top of our worries right now. With all due respect, could you please call Dr. M? I can give you his number” I said.

“I’d like to run some tests to see if Mr. White has toxo. Are you aware of what toxo is, sir?”

No, I am not. But I do know what push-me-too-far-you-mother-fucking-piece-of-doctor-caca-and-I-will-go-psycho-on-your-ass-and-if-you-don’t-start-listening-to-me-I-am-going to-take-that-Blackberry-and-make-it-a-permanent-part-of-your-face is.

“No, what’s toxo?” I replied, keeping my thoughts to myself.

As Doogie Whoseit schooled me in all things toxo I quickly caught on to what was happening. Though toxo is serious there was no reason that the test could not be performed once Ric was transferred to UMC. No, the reason we were being held up at [I’m serious as a heart attack. If you have a heart attack do not go to this place!], at least in my mind, was because the ER was slow and they wanted to get as much money as they could before they transferred Ric. Call me paranoid but I think ERs are like traffic cops -- They have a quota to meet.

Six hours later and he still had not been transferred.

“Why are you putting an IV in?” I asked as the nurse tried to find a vein on Ric’s arm.

“The doctor ordered it before Mr. White is taken upstairs” the nurse replied, still jabbing away at Ric’s arm.

“Taken upstairs as in being admitted over night?” I said as I faced the other direction so as not to watch her using Ric’s arm like a dart board..

“I don’t know. I’m just doing as I was told”

“First of all, he is being transferred to UMC and secondly, if you are going to put an IV in, you better restrain him. He will pull it out if you don’t”

“Mr. White, you’re not gonna pull this IV out of your arm, are you?” the nurse said as she rolled her eyes in my direction.

“He jumped out of a moving car! He wouldn’t think twice about pulling it out. And, did you just roll your eyes at me?

“Noooo. I wouldn’t pull it out. I never pull IVs out. He’s lying. Jon-Marc is lying” Ric responded like a five year old child getting ready to pull one over on his parents.

“Ok, that’s it. I’m done! I’m freakin’ done! Get your own damn help with all the lovely people at this sorry excuse for a hospital. I am going home. Good luck. Besides I’ve got to walk the dog”

As I was walking Trotter the phone rang.

“Yes, Mr. McDonald. I wanted to let you know that Mr. White is in the process of being transferred to UMC” the nurse on the other end explained. “To make things easier on him next time, you should take him straight to UMC. There was really no need to bring him here first”

“You don’t say? Straight to UMC next time? Now there’s an idea. I’ll keep that in mind, you know, next time. Thanks for the ad…Oh shit!”

“Excuse me?”

“No, nothing. I just stepped in my dog’s poop. I guess I was so distracted by the fabulous suggestion you made that I wasn’t paying attention and stepped in my dog’s business. Is there anything else?”

“Not really. Just remember to take him directly to UMC next time. That is, after all, where his doctor is ”

I was, officially, in Dante’s 9th circle of hell.

Part XVII

When I arrived at UMC Ric was being monitored by a nurse that would sit in his room day and night. If Ric so much as attempted to get up the nurse would calmly but firmly dissuade him. If Ric persisted, the nurse would stand up and escort Ric back to bed.

It was comforting to know that he was in UMC. At the time, the beginning of January, I did not know anything about the disease that was consuming his life and, by extension, mine as well. Though I had friends with HIV in the past, I never knew anyone that not only ignored their diagnosis but chose to believe that the doctor bearing the diagnosis was an outright, maniacal liar.

"His viral load is 775,000. That is extremely high. But there is no need to be frightened. I have seen the number drop significantly within a few months. However, he must stay on the medication and try not to let him forget to take them as prescribed" Dr. M told me just outside his room.

"What do we do?" I responded not quite clear what viral loads were or what a high viral load meant.

"We make sure he is eating and taking his medicine. Those two things are key. First, get his weight up and get his viral load down and then we get his CD4 count up"

"CD4 count? What does that mean?"

"Basically, anything below 200 and the patient is classified as having AIDS"

"Oh. So does he have AIDS?" I responded without even asking what the actual CD4 count was.

"Yes, by definition, he would be classified as having developed AIDS. But there is a lot that can be done. There is no need to lose hope"

Dr. M continued to talk but I was not listening. Instead my mind was reeling as to how this disease progressed so quickly. If he did in fact find out his status in August, how had it seized his body so quickly? He had HIV tests just months before and they were all negative. Or were they?

Everything that I thought I knew, everything that I believed to be true was thrown into question. Did he cheat? Had he known about his disease for sometime before the August test? Months? Years? There was no way of knowing. As every day brought about more information and more disclosures, Ric's "truth" was as malleable as silly-putty. Up was down, left was right, day was night, my lover was a stranger.

"Now, when does his insurance run out?" Dr M asked.

Prior to arriving at UMC I called Dr. M's office and happened to tell his receptionist that Ric's benefits were set to terminate within days.

"Sunday or Monday I believe. I am trying to figure out how to get him on SSDI and Medicaid. Do you accept Medicaid?" I responded, not sure how I was going to fast-track the SSI, SSDI and, most importantly, Medicaid so there would not be a gap in his coverage.

"No, but don't worry. There are plenty of capable doctors that will. Have you looked into the Health Clinic?" Dr. M asked genuinely.

I knew Dr. M would not accept Medicaid. Though I was upset by that fact, I took comfort that Dr. M would find us a capable physician that could effectively treat Ric's disease.

"I have an appointment with them today. In fact I have so many appointments I am not sure how I am going to keep them all"

Little did I know in early January that my life would be nothing but appointments from that point on. Appointments and paperwork. Every charity and every government agency required separate and equally exhausting reams of paperwork that meant face to face meetings, notarized documents, bank statements and a bevy of intimate and personal questions – questions that one would not even ask their closest friend.

After speaking with Dr. M I went to Ric's bed and stroked his hair. He was sleeping and, as Annie sings, his "face at first just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of pale", and I began to pray.

"I can't do this alone, God. I don't think I can do this, period. If he goes, just take me with him. I have never known a love like this. Please give him a few more months, even a few more years. Bring back my love…my life…and I will do anything"

I have never been the type of person that negotiates with God. In fact I don't believe that God is in the business of negotiations. But I was willing to try anything. If someone told me to go to the Amazon Rain Forrest and pick fresh CamuCamu to be rubbed on Ric's belly while standing on my head at a 45 degree angle, I wouldn't have blinked and immediately booked my trip to the jungle.

Just as my prayer was closing, Ric opened his eyes.

"Where am I?" he asked, his speech slurred.

"You're at UMC. We had you transferred here so Dr. M could be your attending physician. How are you feeling?"

"I told you we have a home on the island. We don't need to stay at this hotel. I don't like this hotel. It smells like a hospital. Is this my iPod?". Ric was pulling at the tube connected to the IV that pierced his left hand.

"No, babe. That's your IV. Be careful. Don't pull it out. If you pull it out they will put it back in and that's no fun"

"Don't lie to me, Jon-Marc. They don't put IVs in at a hotel. This is an iPod and it doesn't work. You need to quit lying. God hates liars. Do you want God to hate you?"

With that, Ric yanked his iPod out of his arm and blood began to soak his sheets.

Two weeks, two IVs pulled prematurely, countless accusations that I was a liar and still believing fantasy.

Little did I know that I would long for the days when Ric pulled iPods out of his arm and screamed "Liar, liar, pants on fire". Things were about to get really messy, really quick.

PART XVIII

"Oh, I see! You're now calling me after three years of not talking to me because you need help. You know, all my friends have told me to cut you off completely, to never talk to you again. They're probably right. Why should I listen to what you have to say after everything you have done?"

My Dad was right. A few months after my father and his partner loaned us money for a car so Ric could get to work in Bridgewater, New Jersey, I quit talking to him. I was ashamed that I could not pay Dad back like Ric and I agreed we would and decided that, rather than tell my father about our struggles, it would be far easier to cut off communication. Quite frankly, shutting people out of my life for no apparent reason was a pattern. And my Dad's reaction to hearing from me after a three year absence had a familiar ring to it.

Though Ric could not possibly understand what I was saying at the time, I had been telling him the exact thing my Dad told me. I explained to Ric how most of my friends were encouraging me to leave him, to never talk to him again, to let his blood relatives and the state sort out the mess he had made of his life. I made clear that his actions were cruel and to some degree evil and that the idea of walking away and never looking back had crossed my mind more than once. I knew that Ric was unable to process what I was telling him but I needed to say it. I needed him to hear it even if he could not comprehend what it was he was hearing.

"Dad, I am really sorry. The situation is so desperate and so bad right now and I am turning to every possible resource I can. I am watching the love of my life waste away from the plague in the supposed non-plague years. I know how it looks calling you after so many years. And you are probably right. I probably would not have attempted to get in touch if the situation was not so dire. I just need some help". As I was talking to my Dad I was looking out the window of Ric's hospital room at the view of the Empire State Building, an ironic view, to be sure, since the last time Ric was in the hospital he had a view off the Statue of Liberty. Once again, the iconic view did not provide the inspiration it once had.

"What about his sister? Have you called her? Is she helping any? I can tell you right now that Jack (my Dad's partner, not his real name) will not be willing to send any money. He is livid at you about the car" my father replied angrily.

"Don't get me started on her. His sister Eunice (not her real name) has been no help whatsoever. Before we knew what was wrong with Ric I was on the phone with her all the time, trying to see if she could convince him to go to the hospital. Her solution was to get one of my friends to come over and forcefully carry him to the car and forcefully force him to the hospital! As if my friends and I could essentially carry a 51 year old man kicking and screaming to the car and then subdue him until we got to the hospital! But that was her solution! And when I did get him to agree to go to the hospital, he jumped out of the car while it was moving as we were heading there." My Dad hit on an exposed nerve when he brought up Ric's sister. Little did I know that in the coming months, Eunice's kidnapping suggestion would be the extent of all the help she would offer.

"What does she have to say now? Does she know he has HIV? When is she going to be up there to see him and help with him?" This was classic Dad. When there was a problem, he wanted to know who was going to step up to the plate and help and who was going to pass the problem off to other people.

"I don't think she is coming up to help. She had knee surgery a few months ago and…actually, can we quit talking about her? She is going to be of no help so I really want to be solution focused. She is not part of that solution. In fact, in many ways she is part of the problem. I don't want to get into it now"

"Knee surgery? Knee surgery a few months ago is preventing her from getting there to visit her only brother who is dying? Give me a break!" my father said as his anger shifted from me to her.

"Yeah, but anyway, our insurance runs out on Sunday and I know they are going to release him before it runs out. I met with a guy who is now Ric's case manager and he made an appointment for Ric to see the doctor at the Health Clinic on the 28^th. His case manager is also helping me apply for all the assistance we can get. I also met with the guy that is the head of one of the HIV resource centers here last week with Ric before he went to the hospital. He was so comforting and encouraging. He told us not to despair, that there is a lot of help out there and it's just a matter of finding it. The one thing he did say, though, was that due to the increased survival rate…no, sorry…the longer people are living with HIV has caused the funding for programs such as his to be slashed. But still, he was very helpful" In the short time since I found out Ric's status I was on the phone nonstop with charities and HIV organizations, scheduling meetings and trying to navigate the elaborate labyrinth of securing assistance.

"Ok, the 28^th. I will drive up on the 27^th and help you take him to the doctor. I will also bring things that you two need, like food, Depends, cleaning supplies, and whatever else you can think of. What else is happening? Is there anything else that we need to address quickly?"

"Well, yeah there is. Ric drove the car a few weeks ago without my knowledge. He does not have a license and apparently he hit a car and left the scene. Anyway, I got a court summons and now I am the one, since the car is in my name, that is going to face the charges" I said as I held my breath and waited for what I knew was not going to be a pleasant response.

"WHAT!?!?!?!" my father replied, his anger rising to white hot flame territory. "You mean to tell me that he drove the car we got him so he could get to work and he has never had a license?"

"No Dad, when we got the car he had a license. But since that time his license expired and since he no longer needed the car to get to work because his job was transferred back into New York, he did not get it renewed. I am the only one that has been driving the car…in theory"

"So he drove the car and now you are going to court? Good luck in jail!" My father has always had a flair for the dramatic, turning a bunny slope into Mount Kilimanjaro ready to erupt.

"Yes he drove the car and yes I am going to court. But I got the police report and there was no damage to the other car. I am not going to jail. I just have to go to court. Please don't make this bigger than it is. In fact, let's not make any of this bigger than it is" I said futilely trying to calm my father's rhetoric.

"Get your head out of the sand, Jon-Marc! I am not making this bigger than it is! Ric has HIV, possibly AIDS that he hid from you and everyone else for many months, possibly longer. He drives your car, gets in a wreck and, once again, does not tell you. Now you're going to court. You are carrying the weight of all his lies and cleaning up all his messes. Haven't you thought about leaving him? I don't need to make this bigger than it is. THIS IS FUCKING BIG!"

"First of all, it's AIDS. Secondly I can't leave him. I've made that decision. You might not agree with it and, to tell you the truth, most people in my life don't. But if I don't stay he's a dead man. And I couldn't live with myself if I left him to die. He does not have the mental capacity to take care of himself. I am really sick of people who essentially don't have a dog in this fight telling me what I need to do. His niece told me I needed to secure our belongings in the apartment because we were going to be evicted. Then she told me to find a job because if not, we were going to be homeless. When does she think I have any time to find a job and pack our stuff and take care of Ric all at the same time? Everyone has a fucking solution to this problem. And you know what? Every solution every person offers does not include that person!"

It took every ounce of humility I had left to call my father and ask for his help. Though I was clearly wrong for not paying back the money we owed him and his partner for the car, I still carried a huge resentment against my father – a resentment that, no matter how hard I tried, I could not shake. And the years that we did not talk only caused the resentment to metastasize and fester and, in many ways, become infected.

My father and his partner have been very generous to me through the years. But, despite that generosity, my father's generosity towards my younger brother has been unparalleled. He pays for most of his education at NYU, has taken him on lavish trips around the world, given my brother thousands of dollars in gifts, bought my brother a brand new car when he turned 16 (without condition that my brother pay him back) and, apparently, paints me in the worst possible light in discussions with brother. My father, of course, would justify all of this by saying that I continually screw up and he has given me plenty of chances.

The problem is that, while I worked from the time I was 14 and throughout college, my brother has never been required to work. And while my parents were separated and during their ugly divorce as they fought for custody rights and visitation rights concerning my brother, I was in college not knowing what the hell was going on, not knowing who was telling me the truth and also dealing with the painful, lonely, reality that I was gay. It was for these reasons and many more that made my groveling at my father's feet a bitter pill to swallow. I was a bitter man swallowing a bitter pill. However, having been broken to the point of complete defeat I was not in the position to decide which pills I was willing to swallow and which pills I would spit out. Every pill would be taken with a big glass of unsweetened iced-humility.

I had no other choice. My medicine chest was bare

PART XIX

As goes the insurance so goes the patient. I was not surprised nor was I upset. Ric's doctor did all he could do for him in the hospital and seemed hopeful about Ric returning home. I was also comfortable with Ric returning home due to him being approved for an AIDS drug program that would provide his medication at no cost to us.

Everything changed the moment we arrived at the loft. Prior to Ric's hospital stay his problems were primarily related to delusions of the mind and a childlike mental capacity. Upon his return, his entire body seemed to give up.

He lost all control of his faculties, could not speak coherently, was unable to feed himself, could not walk and slept at all hours. I could not leave him alone for even a minute. I was tethered to him, meaning I could not leave the loft unless someone was watching him for me. I fed him, cleaned him and carried him to the bathroom. In sickness and in health was no longer a sweet sentiment expressed when we exchanged our vows. It was pure sickness all the time without the promise that health would ever return.

Sure enough, the dreaded court date arrived and I was forced to leave Ric is someone's care beside my own. My brother, a sophomore at NYU, came over and watched Ric for a few hours. Though, as I wrote previously, I resent my father's favoritism of my brother, I have never resented my brother. After all, it was (or is) not his fault. I have never felt anything but love for my brother and am the proudest big brother in the world for all he is accomplishing.

"He has Depends on, he has eaten and the only thing you need to worry about is if he tries to get up, which he will. If you don't stop him he will fall. So make sure when he starts to move you stop him. If he were to cut himself or something use these gloves and clean the wound, put some ointment on it and a band-aid. Make sure you wear the gloves" I said as I handed my brother rubbing alcohol and a box of gloves and Band-Aids. I felt as a parent does the first time they leave their child in someone else's care.

I was nervous about my court appearance. There were two things I was determined not to do.; I would not enter a guilty plea and I would not mention Ric. The former was non-negotiable; the latter was contingent on the judge not asking if anyone else had access to the car. Of course, given my unfounded fear of law enforcement, it was likely I would blab like Khalid Sheikh Mohammed being water boarded if the judge so much as sneezed at me.

I sat in the packed court room, hoping beyond hope that I was outwardly masking my fear. I was dressed in a suit. Everyone else, except the prosecutor, was in jeans.

Great Jon-Marc. You look like an ass in your suit. Why didn't you just bake the judge some cookies and offer to wash their car? After all, it's obvious why you're wearing a suit. You want the judge to think that someone dressed as nice as you could not possibly be guilty of leaving the scene of an accident the voice in my head said.

GUILTY! the other voice replied.

"John McDougal. Is Jon McDougal here?" the prosecutor asked. I looked around the room to see if John McDougal came forward.

When no one responded I screeched "I'm Jon McDonald. Actually I'm Jon-Marc McDonald. Did you mean Jon-Marc McDonald because I am Jon-Marc McDonald? I'm here for a hit and run charge for which I am pleading not guilty because, uh, that's what I am, not guilty. Is that who you meant? Jon-Marc McDonald?" There was no other way to describe my outburst except that it was pure diarrhea of the mouth. So much for calm, cool and collected.

"No, I meant John McDougal" the prosecutor replied.

"Oh, well doesn't McDonald come before McDougal alphabetically?"

Shut. The. Hell. UP! Jon-Marc!

"It does if I was calling names alphabetically" the prosecutor said, his eyes fixed on me like a scope fixed on its target.

What was I doing? I listened as the prosecutor called people up to his table and knew that he was not calling people alphabetically. If my nerves got any worse, Ric was not going to be the only one with incontinence.

After a few more names the prosecutor came to my name.

"Jon. Mc. Don. Ald" He made a point to pause between every syllable which in turn caused the entire courtroom erupt in laughter. He continued. "No need to come up. We all know your plea.

"Ok, thanks" I said, wanting more than anything to run out of the courthouse into oncoming traffic. At once the anger and hurt and despair begin to bubble up. It felt as though everything I was going through could all be blamed on Ric. The court, dealing with his disease, finances – everything. I did not know how much more I could take.

"All rise. The honorable blah blah blah, blah blah" the bailiff or whatever you call the person who introduces the judge said.

"You may be seated" the stunningly beautiful and quite young judge, said.

"I want you all to know that if you are not guilty, do not plead guilty just to get your case over with. Pleading guilty when you are in fact innocent is not the solution" she continued.

Wow, I thought. This judge is cool. I am not guilty and I am pleading not guilty. She's gonna see all my evidence and she's gonna dismiss on the spot

After a few cases went before her and I realized that she was pretty damn awesome, she called my name.

"Mr. McDonald. It is my understanding that you wish to enter a not-guilty plea. Is this correct?"

"Yes, your honor. I wish to plead not guilty. I move to have this case dismissed" What the hell???? I was acting though I was Perry effen Mason!

"Unfortunately Mr. McDonald, you cannot move to dismiss the case at this time. I assume you are going to represent yourself. Is that correct?"

"Yes ma'am, um, I mean yes your honor"

"Ok, your trial date is set for two weeks from today"

"My trial? But I just pleaded not guilty. Isn't this the trial? I can prove I'm innocent. I have all the evidence right here" I said as I held up a folder full of documents.

"No, Mr. McDonald, we need to contact the other party involved in the alleged accident as well as the officer who took the report and notify them so they can come and testify if they so choose" the judge replied.

"You mean they weren't contacted already? That's silly. What a waste of taxpayer money. This could all be streamlined in my opinion, for the sake of the taxpayers." Perry Masson morphed into Ralph Nader with a touch of Grover Norquist thrown in for good measure.

"Is that all Mr. McDonald" the judge calmly asked.

"Yes, see you on the 27^th." The 27^th was the day my Dad was to drive up from Washington, DC and help take Ric to his appointment at the Health Clinic, ensuring that the 27^th would be the day I faced two judges. Ironically, both would end up judging me on things I had not done.

PART XX

The following takes place at the end of January, 2009

Since, at this point in the story of Angels, my father emerges, I should take some time and explain my family. My brother and I have often discussed turning our family life into a play. My brother is a theatre major at NYU and given the material with which we have to work is plentiful and replete with dysfunctional tales of family drama, I am certain we would have a hit on our hands. And the play would not be exclusively focused on my mother and father. It would include a cast of characters that include my extended family, most of whom make Mama’s Family look like the Brady Bunch (and I mean that in a good way…I think?).

My relationship with my father has been, to say the least, a strained relationship for many years. People often assume that since my father is also gay we have this fabulous, Rainbow-Brite, boa tight bond. Actually quite the opposite is true. In fact when I told my father I was gay, three months after he told me he was gay, his first response was “But I wanted grandchildren. Now I’ll have to wait years for Grant to grow up and have kids”

It was, to say the least, not exactly the confetti and ticker-tape, welcome-to-homo-land reaction I was expecting. Similarly, my mother, years after finding out I was gay, during a conversation (actually it was a yelling match, of which we’ve had many. My family loves to yell, myself included) said, after I asked her about my right to marry the man I loved, “What about my right to grandchildren!?!??!”, a non sequitur to be sure, but when my family argues, logic rarely makes an appearance. We tend to go for the jugular (or in this case, the non-existent grandkids). We are ruthless and logic is the farthest thing from our mind.

My parents really want grandkids. And God help my little brother if he doesn’t produce. My mom and dad just might literally melt or go steal babies from maternity wards. God help my brother and all the maternity wards in my parents’ respective cities if he tells my parents that he does not want children, I hope he does it over the phone, thousands of miles away from where either of them could get to him.

A few years ago, while my brother was still in high-school, my father, his partner and my brother paid Ric and me a visit. It was not the first time they had visited us so I was perplexed as to why my father suggested after lunch on the Upper East Side that we go to F-A-O Shwarz. What in God’s good name would he possibly want to do there, I thought?

After strolling around the store with my father et al. in tow Ric and I decided to look around the store ourselves, alone. Though I have never been a big fan of F-A-O or anything in New York that attracts hordes of tourists like mosquitoes to a blood-bank, I have always been fascinated with their Barbie section (whatever! Stereotype my ass if you’d like!), and F-A-O has this fantastic collection of Barbie dolls.

After getting my fill of all things Barbie we went looking for my father, his partner and my brother. As we were descending the escalator I noticed that they were all staring at a huge display full of plush stuffed animals.

“What are you all doing?” I asked

“Oh, nothing”, my father replied, “just looking at all the stuffed animals I want to buy for my grandchild”

“You do realize that you don’t have a grandchild, right dad?” I responded, a bit flummoxed at his answer.

“I know I don’t have a grandchild!” he yelled in disdain, “But Grant will have children one day and I was just thinking about when I will have the chance to buy the baby all the stuffed animals and toys and things”

Daydreaming about what amounted to a fictional character in his life? If my coming-out response was not enough, this episode of delusion cleared up any notion in my mind that my father had moved past the grandchild kick. He was, without question, obsessed. And my brother was the vessel by which my father’s dreams would come true.
I tell that story to give you an idea of my father. As I have written in previous parts of this story, I have done quite a bit to earn my father’s rebuke. But one thing to keep in mind, due to all that have done, is that he has pinned all his hopes and dreams of grandchildren, among other things, on my brother. I don’t envy my brother’s position at all (well, except for the new car, the paying of his college tuition, the first class trips to European countries, and *fill in a plethora of resentments here*)

Anyway, as so many can relate, my father always expected more out of me. I never went to the right college, “worshipped” the ground my late maternal grandfather walked on (whom my father hates to this day and cannot have a conversation, any conversation, without bringing my grandfather up), never followed through on anything for more than a few weeks. And finally, my father does not believe in alcoholism and feels as though, when I bring it up, I am using it as an excuse for my behavior. Needless to say, our relationship has been tumultuous. Much of my father’s criticisms of me are valid and, of course, much of them are not. Two queers, father and son = High Drama.

This is not to say that my dad is a bad man. Far from it. I have never doubted his love for me and he always provided the necessities of life growing up, and then some. I was not abused, or neglected or even shamed as a child. But as I became an adult, just as my parent’s divorce was underway, my dad expected far more from me than I was able at the time to give. Their divorce became a battle royal for custody rights for my brother and, being away at college, I never really knew what was going on. What I did know was that it was a brutal, devastating divorce that was as nasty and heartbreaking as anything I have known.

But my mom and dad do share something in common. Heaven help anyone they perceive to have slighted either of their two children. My mother will rise up like an erupting volcano if she perceives her children being treated negatively. She is not a protective mother – she is THE protective mother who will fight like mad to protect us, even to this day. Similarly, my father will do anything to make sure that anyone who hurts my brother or me is met with an iron fist. His protectionism is more like a tornado set to destroy anything in its path. It is comforting to know this. In fact, my parents have been excellent parents and my love for them knows no bounds.

So anyway, as I was preparing for my father’s arrival, I was preparing for the worst (as is my standard operating procedure when waiting for an event to occur, any event). There were at least four things that I knew my father was not happy about:

1) That I called him only when I was in dire need of help after not speaking to him for nearly three years
2) That Ric kept his status from me for many months
3) That I was going to court to cover Ric’s ass after all that Ric had done to me and my father was livid about that as well considering that my father and his partner are the ones that bought the car involved in the alleged accident.
4) That Ric’s family had done nothing to help.

All four were fair game and he had every right to be upset. The problem is, especially when it comes to my father, whether or not I am right, I can never stand up to him and tell him what I think. I tend to keep my mouth shut until I am at the tipping point and relapse and then I call him and lose. It’s not just drunk dialing, it’s drunk dialing derangement syndrome. My mom and my dad are usually the targets but occasionally I will unleash my venom on others as well.

I was also preparing so many other things. The paperwork to get Ric on all the different programs he needed to be on in order to survive was endless. As I have written previously, many agencies ask for financial records that are impossible to produce and many others ask such intimate questions that you nearly want to just throw the applications away. I mean it was almost to the point of “Please, in inches, tell us your penis size, flaccid and erect. Girth and length must be included. If you choose not to answer, or answer incorrectly, it could delay the application process for up to ten years”. Some of it was just that bat-shit crazy!

Needless to say, the day my father arrived, I was a big hot mess of over-the-borderline get-me-in-a-cell-with-a-padded-room, stat!

Part XXI here

A pictorial of our stroll along the Hudson on Sunday

2009-07-19T15:52:00.009-04:00

Ric and me on the rocks. Shaken, not stirred

Ric, proudly displaying his Mr. Softee ice-cream cone. If you know about our journey over the past year, you know why this picture with Mr. Softee is so special to me

Waiting for Ric to finish his treat

Scream it, Tom!

2009-07-18T15:33:00.005-04:00

This is my life's mission. People like Tom Duane, who lived through the horrors of this disease for years, are my heroes. They continue to fight and they continue to win.

I am the accidental activist but I will not stop fighting until there is a cure. Scream it, scream it, scream it Tom!

And if you don't have time to watch all 22 minutes and 12 seconds, don't bother. It is too powerful not to watch it all the way through

Angels I Don't See PART XX

2009-07-15T06:28:00.008-04:00

If you want to read the entire story leading up to part XX, click here for Parts I-XIX

The following takes place at the end of January, 2009

Since, at this point in the story of Angels, my father emerges, I should take some time and explain my family. My brother and I have often discussed turning our family life into a play. My brother is a theatre major at NYU and given the material with which we have to work is plentiful and replete with dysfunctional tales of family drama, I am certain we would have a hit on our hands. And the play would not be exclusively focused on my mother and father. It would include a cast of characters that include my extended family, most of whom make Mama’s Family look like the Brady Bunch (and I mean that in a good way…I think?).

My relationship with my father has been, to say the least, a strained relationship for many years. People often assume that since my father is also gay we have this fabulous, Rainbow-Brite, boa tight bond. Actually quite the opposite is true. In fact when I told my father I was gay, three months after he told me he was gay, his first response was “But I wanted grandchildren. Now I’ll have to wait years for Grant to grow up and have kids”

It was, to say the least, not exactly the confetti and ticker-tape, welcome-to-homo-land reaction I was expecting. Similarly, my mother, years after finding out I was gay, during a conversation (actually it was a yelling match, of which we’ve had many. My family loves to yell, myself included) said, after I asked her about my right to marry the man I loved, “What about my right to grandchildren!?!??!”, a non sequitur to be sure, but when my family argues, logic rarely makes an appearance. We tend to go for the jugular (or in this case, the non-existent grandkids). We are ruthless and logic is the farthest thing from our mind.

My parents really want grandkids. And God help my little brother if he doesn’t produce. My mom and dad just might literally melt or go steal babies from maternity wards. God help my brother and all the maternity wards in my parents’ respective cities if he tells my parents that he does not want children, I hope he does it over the phone, thousands of miles away from where either of them could get to him.

A few years ago, while my brother was still in high-school, my father, his partner and my brother paid Ric and me a visit. It was not the first time they had visited us so I was perplexed as to why my father suggested after lunch on the Upper East Side that we go to F-A-O Shwarz. What in God’s good name would he possibly want to do there, I thought?

After strolling around the store with my father et al. in tow Ric and I decided to look around the store ourselves, alone. Though I have never been a big fan of F-A-O or anything in New York that attracts hordes of tourists like mosquitoes to a blood-bank, I have always been fascinated with their Barbie section (whatever! Stereotype my ass if you’d like!), and F-A-O has this fantastic collection of Barbie dolls.

After getting my fill of all things Barbie we went looking for my father, his partner and my brother. As we were descending the escalator I noticed that they were all staring at a huge display full of plush stuffed animals.

“What are you all doing?” I asked

“Oh, nothing”, my father replied, “just looking at all the stuffed animals I want to buy for my grandchild”

“You do realize that you don’t have a grandchild, right dad?” I responded, a bit flummoxed at his answer.

“I know I don’t have a grandchild!” he yelled in disdain, “But Grant will have children one day and I was just thinking about when I will have the chance to buy the baby all the stuffed animals and toys and things”

Daydreaming about what amounted to a fictional character in his life? If my coming-out response was not enough, this episode of delusion cleared up any notion in my mind that my father had moved past the grandchild kick. He was, without question, obsessed. And my brother was the vessel by which my father’s dreams would come true.
I tell that story to give you an idea of my father. As I have written in previous parts of this story, I have done quite a bit to earn my father’s rebuke. But one thing to keep in mind, due to all that have done, is that he has pinned all his hopes and dreams of grandchildren, among other things, on my brother. I don’t envy my brother’s position at all (well, except for the new car, the paying of his college tuition, the first class trips to European countries, and *fill in a plethora of resentments here*)

Anyway, as so many can relate, my father always expected more out of me. I never went to the right college, “worshipped” the ground my late maternal grandfather walked on (whom my father hates to this day and cannot have a conversation, any conversation, without bringing my grandfather up), never followed through on anything for more than a few weeks. And finally, my father does not believe in alcoholism and feels as though, when I bring it up, I am using it as an excuse for my behavior. Needless to say, our relationship has been tumultuous. Much of my father’s criticisms of me are valid and, of course, much of them are not. Two queers, father and son = High Drama.

This is not to say that my dad is a bad man. Far from it. I have never doubted his love for me and he always provided the necessities of life growing up, and then some. I was not abused, or neglected or even shamed as a child. But as I became an adult, just as my parent’s divorce was underway, my dad expected far more from me than I was able at the time to give. Their divorce became a battle royal for custody rights for my brother and, being away at college, I never really knew what was going on. What I did know was that it was a brutal, devastating divorce that was as nasty and heartbreaking as anything I have known.

But my mom and dad do share something in common. Heaven help anyone they perceive to have slighted either of their two children. My mother will rise up like an erupting volcano if she perceives her children being treated negatively. She is not a protective mother – she is THE protective mother who will fight like mad to protect us, even to this day. Similarly, my father will do anything to make sure that anyone who hurts my brother or me is met with an iron fist. His protectionism is more like a tornado set to destroy anything in its path. It is comforting to know this. In fact, my parents have been excellent parents and my love for them knows no bounds.

So anyway, as I was preparing for my father’s arrival, I was preparing for the worst (as is my standard operating procedure when waiting for an event to occur, any event). There were at least four things that I knew my father was not happy about:

1) That I called him only when I was in dire need of help after not speaking to him for nearly three years
2) That Ric kept his status from me for many months
3) That I was going to court to cover Ric’s ass after all that Ric had done to me and my father was livid about that as well considering that my father and his partner are the ones that bought the car involved in the alleged accident.
4) That Ric’s family had done nothing to help.

All four were fair game and he had every right to be upset. The problem is, especially when it comes to my father, whether or not I am right, I can never stand up to him and tell him what I think. I tend to keep my mouth shut until I am at the tipping point and relapse and then I call him and lose. It’s not just drunk dialing, it’s drunk dialing derangement syndrome. My mom and my dad are usually the targets but occasionally I will unleash my venom on others as well.

I was also preparing so many other things. The paperwork to get Ric on all the different programs he needed to be on in order to survive was endless. As I have written previously, many agencies ask for financial records that are impossible to produce and many others ask such intimate questions that you nearly want to just throw the applications away. I mean it was almost to the point of “Please, in inches, tell us your penis size, flaccid and erect. Girth and length must be included. If you choose not to answer, or answer incorrectly, it could delay the application process for up to ten years”. Some of it was just that bat-shit crazy!

Needless to say, the day my father arrived, I was a big hot mess of over-the-borderline get-me-in-a-cell-with-a-padded-room, stat!

Part XXI here

Angels Abound

2009-07-12T12:13:00.007-04:00

In a few days I will have some exciting news to announce. Stay tuned for an incredible announcement about an incredible angel.

But in the mean time, see that "badge" just to the right of this post? If you click on it, it takes you to a donation page for the 16th Annual Race to Deliver, of which I am participating in honor of Ric. It helps an organization called "God's Love We Deliver" (GLWD), which delivers healthy, nutritious meals to those who have life threatening illnesses who cannot prepare meals or afford meals on their own. Ric is one such individual who receives food from this wonderful place of love. No one, I repeat, NO ONE, has ever been turned away.

I know times are tight for many people right now but I would be grateful and honored if you could donate whatever you can to such a wonderful cause and help me reach my goal of raising $2500.00 for GLWD. The reason I chose $2500.00 is because $2500.00 feeds one home-bound, seriously ill person for six months. Remember, just click on the badge to the right that says "Race to Deliver".

Watch the video below to learn more about God's Love and then donate if you can:

And stay tuned for the big announcement coming within days (or maybe like a week or so)

A miracle that speaks for itself...literally

2009-07-05T06:01:00.004-04:00

Yesterday my husband pulled out a watercolor set that my mother had sent to him. Showing his independence on the 4th of July, he began to paint. This man, a man that I carried to the bathroom and fed like an infant two months ago, a man who could not speak or walk, is now painting with watercolors. To some, this might just be by chance. To me it is a miracle.

But following the miracle he had a terrible night, unable to sleep (among other things) which meant I did not sleep.

However, the miracle is in no way diminished by the night. Miracles never are.

This is why...

2009-06-30T18:09:00.002-04:00

Often people ask me why I stayed with my partner after he did not disclose his status to me for several months. This is the answer, originally written June 18th, 2008, before I knew what was wrong with him:

Spotting Love

The other day he fell. It wasn’t a terrible fall and in and of itself it would not have been a big deal. The problem is that the fall was not an isolated incident. Along with falling, his speech has been slow and mangled, his memory has been weak and his strength has been deteriorating rapidly. What does this all mean? We simply do not know.

Yesterday we went to see a neurological specialist on the Upper East Side. After a series of tests she said that he did, in fact, have a neurological disorder. To pinpoint exactly what it is will take a series of even more tests -- a MRI, a spinal something or other, extensive blood work, etc – and it could be a few weeks before they can diagnose him specifically.

Getting anywhere on the far east side of Manhattan is a bit of a hassle. We took the 4 to 59^th where we transferred to the 6 up to 68^th. At 68^th we walked east – all the way east – to York and 70^th. It would normally have been inconvenient but now that one of us has trouble walking, it was grueling.

Usually we walk at an extremely quick pace. We always have. New York is unforgiving to the slow. If you move to New York you accept certain unwritten rules, one of which is the requirement of a speedy gait. If you move slowly you pay the price.

Through the years when we have navigated the city together I usually walked a few steps ahead. And when I arrive at the destination I look back and he is just a few steps away. I never worried that he would fall…or stop…or forget where he was. That has now all changed.

Yesterday I made sure he walked ahead of me. My eyes never left his body. When he ascended stairs or an escalator I positioned myself just a few feet behind in case he lost his balance. If he were to fall, I was there to catch him. And if someone were to get aggravated by his slow pace I could step in so that they would be aggravated with me instead. I would be his strong arm when his became too weak, his legs when his quit working, his mind when his went blank.

On our way home, after we stepped off our last escalator, he leaned in and whispered “Thanks for spotting me, babe”. Up to that point I was unaware he noticed. In fact I did not want him to notice. I wanted him to feel as normal as possible and did not want him to perceive me as acting any way but normal.

And as we walked out of the station I began to cry. Thankfully my sunglasses were able to shield my tears from anyone noticing, especially him. But I began to cry because I am scared. I am scared out of my fucking mind. I have never been so scared about anything in my entire life. He has been through health scares before but nothing like this. And this is not the way it was supposed to play out.

The love that I have for him is something I cannot put into words. I never knew such a love ever existed. And if it did exist it certainly would never find me. But it did find me.

It found me on a Sunday afternoon in August of 2001. On that day I wandered into Hannah’s Lava Lounge in the Hell’s Kitchen area of Manhattan. They were playing BINGO and I thought it might be fun. However, when I sat down I noticed someone sitting a few feet away. He was cute, had an infectious laugh and he intrigued me. We began talking and we have been together ever since. Nearly seven years later, one day at a time, together.

I have had so many problems over the years, many of which I have put on blogs such as this. My issues, every single one, were issues he took as his own. If I was sick, he fed me. Dirty, he bathed me. Sad, he comforted me. Angry, he calmed me. He was always the rock, the foundation. The most charming of all the princes, the shiniest of all the knights.

He was the one that kept the red bucket by my side and washed it when it became full. He was the one that held me the night I sobbed over my grandfather’s death. He was the one that came to find me the night I was so drunk I did not know where I was and the one that made sure I had ginger-ale to drink when I was parched. He is the one that made me a bouquet of flowers out of paper napkins because we did not have the money for real flowers. He is the one that made me a cake to celebrate my anniversary of moving to New York. He is the one that left me a handwritten note on the kitchen counter every morning before he went to work. It always said I love you. I always knew.

But now I am the one. The one that makes sure I am never more than a few feet away when he is taking a shower in case he falls. The one that calms him when he can’t remember where he is. I am the one that makes sure he eats healthy food. I am the one that watches him while he sleeps to make sure he is still breathing and worries every time he coughs. The roles have changed, forcibly and by no decision of ours. The warrior is now the child. And the child, the reluctant warrior.

Today, like clockwork, the Mr. Softee ice-cream truck went by our building. Like a young boy, he perked up and said “I want an ice cream cone. Do you think I will be able to make it out there before he leaves?”

“I don’t know. Maybe…” Before I could finish my sentence he was out the door. Dressed in his slippers, pajama bottoms and a hoodie he went downstairs to find the ice-cream truck. I grabbed my camera and opened the window.

I wanted the picture. Not because I think he might be gone soon, though he might. Not because I don’t have enough pictures of him, though I don’t. Not because he looked so innocent and sweet, though he did. I took the picture because a day will come, no matter what comes of this, and I might forget.

I might forget just how adorable he looks in his pajama bottoms. I might forget that he loves ice cream. A lot. I might forget how cute he is when he eats from a cone and how cute our dog is watching him eat from the cone. No matter what, I don’t want to forget.

So tomorrow we go for the MRI. And as we go I will be just a few feet behind. I will make sure he doesn’t fall and that he gets to where he needs to be. I can’t promise I won’t cry. In fact I know I will. But through it all I’ll be spotting him. Because through it all he has always spotted me.

UPDATE: A continuing story on Ric's condition here

Mika, once again, captures the emotions...

2009-06-27T14:12:00.002-04:00

that I am feeling today

God's Love We Deliver

2009-06-23T17:42:00.005-04:00

Today, in the midst of the chaos and sadness, Jon-Marc and his partner Ric want to extend congratulations and thanks to God's Love We Deliver which today celebrated delivering their ten-millionth meal to those in need, one of which was included in a bag of meals that was delivered to us today. Please, to the many readers of this blog and know of our story through the series Angels I Don't See , consider making a donation to God's Love. You can do so here at their donation page. But first watch the video below.

Thank you God's Love. You are truly doing the work of God!

79 days ago

2009-06-23T15:45:00.003-04:00

I look at this picture to remind me of my drinking and how it physically transforms me. I look at it often so I can remember the hell of the relapse when "I cannot recall with sufficient force". The many days in the past 77 I have looked at this picture and see the pain and cry. Today, I looked at it and saw the pain and thought "it can't be worse than it is right now". The pain of today is so strong that the pain of that picture pales in comparison.

This is the hardest story that I've ever told. No hope or love or glory. Happy endings gone forever more

2009-06-19T21:47:00.004-04:00

This song, by Mika, is a song that captures the emotions that I have been feeling lately

A break from Angels

2009-05-29T10:21:00.004-04:00

So today I noticed this and thought I would show you all. It made my day. You can read the entire article by clicking on the picture above but my favorite quote is this:

"So, demoralized by failure, frustrated by my unnecessary expenditures, and hungry for answers, I turned to Google Search, typed in the cookies-that-shall-not-be-named, and came up with an amusing and, thankfully, reassuring post by the New York-based food blogger Jon-Marc McDonald of bake it til you make it.

McDonald is equal parts humorist and baker—he’s smart, snarky, sassy and downright hilarious. But what I appreciate most about him is that he’s a seriously good baker who takes himself and his trade lightly—i.e. someone I might do well to learn from."

Ps. I have a facebook profile. If any are interested, friend me. The link is here. Hope it works: Jon-Marc McDonald's facebook profile. If not just friend me the regular way on the facebook site

Angel I Don't See Part XIX

2009-05-26T18:38:00.005-04:00

Parts I-XVIII here

I sat in the packed court room, hoping beyond hope that I was outwardly masking my fear. I was dressed in a suit. Everyone else, except the prosecutor, was in jeans.

Great Jon-Marc. You look like an ass in your suit. Why didn't you just bake the judge some cookies and offer to wash their car? After all, it's obvious why you're wearing a suit. You want the judge to think that someone dressed as nice as you could not possibly be guilty of leaving the scene of an accident the voice in my head said.

GUILTY! the other voice replied.

"John McDougal. Is Jon McDougal here?" the prosecutor asked. I looked around the room to see if John McDougal came forward.

"No, I meant John McDougal" the prosecutor replied.

"Oh, well doesn't McDonald come before McDougal alphabetically?"

Shut. The. Hell. UP! Jon-Marc!

"It does if I was calling names alphabetically" the prosecutor said, his eyes fixed on me like a scope fixed on its target.

After a few more names the prosecutor came to my name.

"Jon. Mc. Don. Ald" He made a point to pause between every syllable which in turn caused the entire courtroom erupt in laughter. He continued. "No need to come up. We all know your plea.

"All rise. The honorable blah blah blah, blah blah" the bailiff or whatever you call the person who introduces the judge said.

"You may be seated" the stunningly beautiful and quite young judge, said.

"I want you all to know that if you are not guilty, do not plead guilty just to get your case over with. Pleading guilty when you are in fact innocent is not the solution" she continued.

Wow, I thought. This judge is cool. I am not guilty and I am pleading not guilty. She's gonna see all my evidence and she's gonna dismiss on the spot

After a few cases went before her and I realized that she was pretty damn awesome, she called my name.

"Mr. McDonald. It is my understanding that you wish to enter a not-guilty plea. Is this correct?"

"Yes, your honor. I wish to plead not guilty. I move to have this case dismissed" What the hell???? I was acting though I was Perry effen Mason!

"Unfortunately Mr. McDonald, you cannot move to dismiss the case at this time. I assume you are going to represent yourself. Is that correct?"

"Yes ma'am, um, I mean yes your honor"

"Ok, your trial date is set for two weeks from today"

"My trial? But I just pleaded not guilty. Isn't this the trial? I can prove I'm innocent. I have all the evidence right here" I said as I held up a folder full of documents.

"Is that all Mr. McDonald" the judge calmly asked.

Part XX here

Angels I Don't See PART XVIII

2009-05-10T16:45:00.004-04:00

You can read Parts I-XVII by clicking here

"Dad, I am really sorry. The situation is so desperate and so bad right now and I am turning to every possible resource I can. I know how it looks calling you after so many years. And you are probably right. I am watching the love of my life waste away from the plague in the supposed non-plague years. I probably would not have attempted to get in touch if the situation was not so dire. I just need some help". As I was talking to my Dad I was looking out the window of Ric's hospital room at the view of the Empire State Building, an ironic view, to be sure, since the last time Ric was in the hospital he had a view off the Statue of Liberty. Once again, the iconic view did not provide the inspiration it once had.

"Knee surgery? Knee surgery a few months ago is preventing her from getting there to visit her only brother who is dying? Give me a break!" my father said as his anger shifted from me to her.

"WHAT!?!?!?!" my father replied, his anger rising to white hot flame territory. "You mean to tell me that he drove the car we got him so he could get to work and he has never had a license?"

"So he drove the car and now you are going to court? Good luck in jail!" My father has always had a flair for the dramatic, turning a bunny slope into Mount Kilimanjaro ready to erupt.

I had no other choice. My medicine chest was bare.

Part XIX here

Angels I Don’t See PART XVII

2009-05-05T10:26:00.006-04:00

You can read Parts I-XVI by clicking here

Part XVII

"What do we do?" I responded not quite clear what viral loads were or what a high viral load meant.

"We make sure he is eating and taking his medicine. Those two things are key. First, get his weight up and get his viral load down and then we get his CD4 count up"

"CD4 count? What does that mean?"

"Basically, anything below 200 and the patient is classified as having AIDS"

"Oh. So does he have AIDS?" I responded without even asking what the actual CD4 count was.

"Yes, by definition, he would be classified as having developed AIDS. But there is a lot that can be done. There is no need to lose hope"

"Now, when does his insurance run out?" Dr M asked.

Prior to arriving at UMC I called Dr. M's office and happened to tell his receptionist that Ric's benefits were set to terminate within days.

"No, but don't worry. There are plenty of capable doctors that will. Have you looked into the Health Clinic?" Dr. M asked genuinely.

I knew Dr. M would not accept Medicaid. Though I was upset by that fact, I took comfort that Dr. M would find us a capable physician that could effectively treat Ric's disease.

"I have an appointment with them today. In fact I have so many appointments I am not sure how I am going to keep them all"

After speaking with Dr. M I went to Ric's bed and stroked his hair. He was sleeping and, as Annie sings, his "face at first just ghostly, turned a whiter shade of pale", and I began to pray.

Just as my prayer was closing, Ric opened his eyes.

"Where am I?" he asked, his speech slurred.

"You're at UMC. We had you transferred here so Dr. M could be your attending physician. How are you feeling?"

"No, babe. That's your IV. Be careful. Don't pull it out. If you pull it out they will put it back in and that's no fun"

"Don't lie to me, Jon-Marc. They don't put IVs in at a hotel. This is an iPod and it doesn't work. You need to quit lying. God hates liars. Do you want God to hate you?"

With that, Ric yanked his iPod out of his arm and blood began to soak his sheets.

Two weeks, two IVs pulled prematurely, countless accusations that I was a liar and still believing fantasy.

Little did I know that I would long for the days when Ric pulled iPods out of his arm and screamed "Liar, liar, pants on fire". Things were about to get really messy, really quick.

Part XIX here

We. Are. Here!

2009-04-28T10:38:00.001-04:00

I don’t remember walking into the liquor store but I do remember coming to and checking my voicemails, realizing that Ric had been taken to a hospital, where he would remain for some twenty plus days, suffering from pneumonia and a TB scare.

During that time I drank lethal amounts of alcohol, trying in vain to blot out the hell that had become my life. The pressure simply became too much and I turned to the most dangerous solution I could find. I snapped and spiraled into depths previously unknown. But, unbeknownst to me, angels were assembling around me, diligently waiting, interceding in prayer, ready at a moment’s notice to rush in and save my broken life.

Some friends fell away, making the relapse more about them than about the issue at hand. They claimed my best interest but the reality was my relapse and subsequent early departure from three detox units bruised egos and wounded hearts. I do not blame them. But all things that occurred were just as they were meant to be; all a part of God’s divine plan.

But there were yet still others who said “This battle is not yours alone to fight, this burden is not yours alone to carry. This loss is not yours alone to grieve, this path is not yours alone to walk. We are here. Family, friends, strangers. And we will lift you up and carry you on when your own resources fail you. You will not slip the bonds of this life and we will not let you fall. We are here. We are here.

We. Are. Here!”

They were the essence of faith, the essence of Christ. They extended their hearts and their hands. They forgave my foolishness and my actions, not once or twice. But seventy times seven. Their spirit of hope triumphed over my abyss of darkness.

While some who claimed to be my closest friends recoiled and severed ties with me in every way imaginable, treating me as a leper relegated to the colony, others stepped forward without precondition or demand, and said “Do not look back. What’s done is done. Look forward. We know what you are going through because we are you”

My mother, a woman who can barely walk on her own, flew up from Texas and stayed with me. She sat in my hospital room, day and night, rubbing ice on my arm for hours when the IV drip burned, cleaning my apartment from top to bottom, paying bills that I could not pay with money that she could not spare. She showed me that her faith was not simply reconstituted catch phrases, or feel-good superlatives, but was instead something she lived. We grew closer in ways I never imagined. From the ashes sprang new life, from the tragedy came renewed bonds. She shielded me from the elements when I could not shield myself and reminded me that love is sometimes a verb.

Acquaintances came to my loft and offered their experience, strength and hope. They wiped my brow and held my hand and prayed with me. They gave without asking, listened without demanding, spoke without yelling.

Many friends moved closer, lifting me up in thought and deed. They personified a sober life worth living. They did not scold or rebuke. They did not retreat in anger. In brilliant brushstrokes they painted a picture of a program that works if you work it. Suggestions became life-preservers. Words leapt from the pages of musty books written decades ago and were made anew by the actions of the many that humbly live with an obsession that has been lifted. They simply said, yet again, “We are here. We are here
We. Are. Here”

God, in his infinite grace and abiding love, opened doors where there were simply walls, moved mountains when they were too large to scale, changed the course of the ship in the face of the storm, and whispered from the heavens “I am here. I am here.

I am the Great I Am, and I. Am. Here!”

When Angels are silent

2009-03-20T19:27:00.002-04:00

My series, Angels I Don't See, will be back soon.

Soon...

Unspeakable loss

2009-03-08T14:11:00.002-04:00

My little girl
Gone too soon
Thank you for being you
I love you more than you could ever know
Trotter
2001-2009

Angels I Don't See PART XVI

2009-02-23T09:47:00.003-05:00

Parts I-XV here

I managed to restrain Ric at the corner of Holy Shit and He’s Running Into Traffic until the ambulance arrived.

“Why did you jump out of the car, sir?” the EMT asked.

“Because Jon-Marc would not stop and get me cigarettes! That’s why!”

It was true. I would not stop to get Ric cigarettes. The reason I would not stop to get Ric cigarettes was because he agreed to go to the hospital and I was racing there before he changed his mind, something he did twenty-seven-hundred times a minute.

Like everything else in our life, a seemingly simple drive to the hospital was turned into a chaotic mess starring the dynamic duo of dysfunctional and delusional. There was no way to go from point A to point B unless we first made pit stops at points C through Z.

“Can you take him to UMC please? That’s where we were heading when he jumped out of the car. That way his doctor can be his attending physician. Otherwise if you take him to [a hospital I refuse to name because it is so abysmal] we will be forced to have him transferred, which will take hours and delay him getting treatment for his condition, a condition that is getting worse by the minute”

At that point one of the EMT’s was already talking to Ric in the back of the ambulance.

“He has HIV, just started taking meds that he runs out of today and I convinced him to go to UMC because he is delusional and growing increasingly dangerous to himself and perhaps to others”. It was all part of the same song I’d been singing for weeks every time I spoke to a medical professional about Ric.

“Sir, we can’t take him to UMC. We have to take him to [the shittiest hospital this side of the Hudson]. But as you said, just get his doctor to order the transfer to UMC”.

I followed the ambulance to [if I am ever put in this particular hospital, someone please just come and pull the plug and shoot me full of a thousand bullets to make sure I’m dead]. When I arrived the ER doctor was already talking to Ric.

“Mr. White, can you tell me who the president is?”

“Bush but soon to be Obama” Ric replied.

“Can you tell me what month it is?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake! Yes, he can tell you what month it is! Yes he can tell you who the president is! He can tell even recite his home address! For the love of God, would someone please ask him about his dog Mojo, his home in the Virgin Islands, his new car and his yacht off the coast of Fiji?” I screamed.

“And you are?” the doctor asked, turning his attention to me.

“I am his Civil Unioned Partner” As I said it, I noted the acronym CUP in my head. I’m his CUP. Cute though CUP does not roll of the tongue the way husband does.

“He needs to be transferred to UMC right away” I continued.

“Well we are going to run some test here. Who is his doctor? His doctor would be the one that would order the transfer”

“I know that his doctor would be the one ordering his transfer. So please, whatever you do, get Dr. M on the phone and tell him to transfer him to UMC. That’s where we were headed when he jumped out of the car and we were forced to come to [if you are ever in this hospital you should do yourself a favor and go ahead and off yourself]. I don’t want him admitted here”

“He tried to jump out of the car?” the doctor responded, genuinely unaware of why Ric was brought in.

Are you f’in kidding me??? You don’t know why the guy you are treating is here? Do they even screen the doctors at [sometimes I have nightmares about being tied down with barbed-wire to a gurney in this place as they are wheeling me into surgery] or do they just have them watch a couple of episodes of Grey’s and give ‘em a stethoscope and some scrubs and then throw them on the floor of the ER for some hands-on training? I thought, for fear that if I said it out loud they might declare me dead right on the spot and start lifting my organs from my still-warm-to-the-touch body.

No, I am not. But I do know what push-me-too-far-you-mother-fucking-piece-of-doctor-caca-and-I-will-go-psycho-on-your-ass-and-if-you-don’t-start-listening-to-me-I-am-going to-take-that-Blackberry-and-make-it-a-permanent-part-of-your-face is.

Angels I Don't See PART XV

2009-02-17T12:01:00.001-05:00

Part's I-XIV here

In the fall of 2007 I put pen to paper and listed all my greatest fears. Known as a fear inventory, this exercise in sobriety was meant to reveal, in plain sight, what in my overactive imagination I feared most and how exactly those fears were impeding my recovery.

The first four fears on the list were 1) Losing Ric 2) Becoming homeless and destitute 3) Being accused of a crime I didn’t commit and 4) Ric or me contracting an incurable disease.

As I discussed my fears with my mentor at the time, I could hardly imagine what utter hell it would be like to live through any of them. As I conjured up scenarios in my mind, each fantasy ended with either suicide or drinking myself to death. I did not have the emotional fortitude to withstand any situation that included any of those four things.

But staying alone at my friends house allowed me time to reflect. On the night of January 3rd, after yet another plea on the phone with Ric to do as Dr. M instructed and go back to the hospital, it hit me that each of those four fears were no longer imaginary. Instead, they were as real as the air I breathed.

I was in the throes of such unspeakable agony and yet I had not acted as I presumed I would. There was nary a thought of suicide and the thought of a drink repulsed me in ways it never had before. Instead something remarkable was happening.

Life on life’s terms was no longer a slogan cooked up in a smoke filled basement of some church by a bunch of drunks in need of a drink. Rather, it was a possible new way forward. Whereas in my past I managed to shirk life’s reality in a gadarene rush to the margins, I no longer had such a luxury. In fact, there were only two options left.

I could face my fears, bundled as they were, and risk defeat.

Or I could declare defeat without a fight, ensuring a future that was wholly controlled by my circumstances, thereby ceding my fate to everyone and everything except me. This option would also hasten Ric’s death.

If I chose the former, I would be navigating uncharted waters. Up to that point my decisions were always made by determining what would bring optimum comfort and minimum pain (an MO, by the way, that ironically almost always brought about the opposite). Steering my life instead of my life steering me was a foreign concept and the possibility that I might fail to meet those challenges was more incentive to just do nothing.

If I chose the latter, I could simply allow the situation to dictate the outcome like a rudderless boat adrift at sea, praying that one day by some miracle I would make it back to land. Though this option would be painful, it would also be easiest. And when it was all said and done, I could wallow in my defeat and bemoan the uncontrollable winds of life. Besides, there was already a drumbeat of doomsayers in my life that were whispering from the safety of the shore to put Ric in a state run home and secure my belongings at the apartment, chirping from their broken lighthouses words like eviction and death.

“He’s just jumped out of the car! It was moving and he just jumped out! He...”

“Where are you, sir?”

“At the corner of, HOLY SHIT! HE’S RUNNING INTO TRAFFIC! I’VE GOT TO GO GET HIM! SEND SOMEONE QUICK!”

“What is your location, sir?”

Behold, the power of the wind.

Part XVI here

We interrupt our regularly scheduled series to say...

2009-02-13T15:34:00.002-05:00

Vic, did you find what you were looking for? Two hours is an ungodly amount of time to spend on my blog. Shouldn't you be working? Does the boss allow his employees to tool around on the internet all day?

Angels I Don't See Part XIV

2009-02-06T16:33:00.005-05:00

Click here for Parts I-XIII

What a difference a year makes. A year prior we could have afforded four times the 567.00 each month with money to spare. But standing at the pharmacy that day, with absolutely no money to pay for Ric’s life-saving medication, I was just a bum in a nice coat.

We had no money for rent, no money for bills, no money for food and, of course, no money for medicine. Our life was no life at all. And the light at the end of the tunnel was an oncoming train.

“Can you tell me how much it would be without the HIV medications? Maybe I can just get the antibiotics and come back after I figure out how to pay for the Kaletra and Truvada” I humbly pleaded with the cashier.

“Thirty-seven dollars” she replied.

Thirty seven dollars. Ten dollars less than all the money we had.

“Ok, let’s do that. I’ll take the five antibiotics now and come back for the other two later”

Despair knows no depths. The second you think you have hit rock bottom, the rock bottom falls out. And with it, the world as you know it gets swallowed up in the black hole of hopelessness.

When I walked out of the pharmacy I snapped. Pity the person in my path that must deal with me when I lose my shit

“Mom, I can’t do this! I can’t do this! I can’t! I am about to break in two!”

I called my mother because I did not know what else to do. There was no way I could pay for the HIV medications and there was no way she could pay for the HIV medications but I did not know what else to do. So I did what I always do when I am in an impossible situation. I called my mom.

“Why don’t you call your friend with HIV? Maybe he knows something you can do” my mother suggested.

“What?!??!?! THAT’S YOUR SOLUTION? CALL MY FRIEND WITH HIV! ARE YOU CRAZY? WHAT GOOD ARE YOU IF YOU CAN’T HELP ME DEAL WITH THIS? RIC NEEDS HIS MEDICINES RIGHT NOW AND YOU WANT ME TO CALL SOMEONE WITH THE VIRUS FOR IDEAS? YOU HAVE LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND” I said as I furiously pressed the button on my Bluetooth headset and disconnected.

Angry beyond belief at my mother’s ridiculous idea, I picked up the phone and called my friend with HIV.

“Jon-Marc, go back to the pharmacy and ask for four days worth of the meds. They’ll do that and it buys you four days to figure out where and how you are going to get him the meds for the long term” my friend said. “There are plenty of organizations in this area that will provide you with assistance. After you leave the pharmacy stop by my place and I can give you some names and numbers and we will go from there”

“But I literally have only ten bucks”

“Ok, stop by my place beforehand and I will spot you a few”

Literally four days. If the pharmacy would sell me four days worth of the meds, it meant I had four days to figure something out and not a day more. Once someone starts an HIV regimen it is imperative that they continue, uninterrupted.

When someone stops taking their meds, or skips a day, the HIV starts again making literally millions of copies of itself. Every copy literally has a chance to mutate into a new form that may not be stopped by the drugs if started again.

Little did I know that four days later the drugs would literally be the least of my worries.

In four days Ric was going to stop traffic.

And I don’t mean that figuratively.

Part XV here