THE TENNIS CLOSET

Nothing against Joâo Lucas Reis da Silva but he’s not exactly a household name. As Wimbledon gets underway this week, he is the only active male tennis player to ever come out as gay. Six months ago, Reis da Silva made headlines, The New York Times asserting he was “the first out gay active professional male tennis player.” He’s not in the Wimbledon draw. He did not even compete in the qualification rounds. 

João Lucas Reis da Silva

Based on a quick Google, the twenty-five-year-old has never competed in a Grand Slam (Australian Open, French Open, Wimbledon, U.S. Open) beyond the level for juniors. This week he is tied with his highest ever ranking at Number 250 in the world. Not bad. He’s currently the sixth highest ranked Brazilian player in singles. Still, I wonder where all the professional gay players are in the upper echelon of tennis. Why are they closeted?

 

I don’t watch tennis the way I used to, now that I can quickly check scores on the internet and especially since I no longer own a TV after my flatscreen smashed three years ago. I still glance at scores on a daily basis and follow Canadian players in particular, many of whom are ranked lower than Reis da Silva. I haven’t played in five years after hitting the court with an ex and finding the strain too much on my back and entire lower body. (Very humbling.) Nonetheless, I am familiar enough with tennis to think it is not the sort of sport where a he-man, ultra-masculine straight image is required to withstand locker room harassment and taunts from numbskulls in the stands. I don’t even see coming out as hurting sponsorship deals. Can’t Nike or Wilson tolerate having a gay player wear their brand? I would posit to say there are plenty of gays who enjoy casual play on local tennis courts.

 

So where are all the gay professional tennis players?

 

Daria Kasatkina

Many women have come out as lesbian or bisexual, including Billie Jean King, Martina Navratilova, Amelie Mauresmo and active player Daria Kasatkina (currently Number 18 and previously 8^th in the world). While it’s easier to be a queer woman in sports, I find it hard to believe the taboo is too great in men’s tennis in 2025. 

 

Rafael Nadal

When I was a more avid tennis fan in the 1980s, I often admired the legs of male players but the sport never struck me as requiring loads of muscle. Jimmy Connors and John McEnroe almost seemed scrawny and Petr Korda was wiry at best. Even Ivan Lendl, while fit, did not seem brawny. While Rafael Nadal more recently liked to show off his guns wearing sleeveless shirts, he is known for his biceps, in part, because his body seemed to be the exception. I say all this only to make the point that men’s professional tennis needn’t be caught up in some hetero conception of uber-masculinity. 

 

Bill Tilden

A century ago, Bill Tilden was the number one tennis player, winning three Wimbledon and seven U.S. Open titles. It wasn’t his reputed gayness that was problematic so much as his having sex with minors, for which he was twice arrested and incarcerated after his professional career was over. Despite off-the-court behavior, Tilden is regarded as one of the greatest tennis players of all time. And still, a hundred years after his heyday, Reis da Silva is the only out male player. 

 

I really don’t get it.

 

Stefan Edberg

To be sure, there have been many players I have crushed on but, alas, Stefan Edberg never registered on my gaydar. Same for his compatriot, Anders Järryd. (I’m partial to Swedes.) Fabio Fognini and Grigor Dimitrov are also easy on the eyes. Again, no gaydar signals. I no longer need a gay crush; It would just be nice to know that a few gay men are succeeding on the tennis court and don’t feel their gayness is cause for shunning or shushing. Let them have their boyfriend or husband cheer on-camera in the stands, not as a “hitting partner” or “trainer” but as their current significant other. Let single elite gay tennis pros be able to have a normal life in public. Let them, however quietly, serve as role models and/or at least tennis players who can be as open on social media and in life as their straight competitors.

 

Will somebody else open the closet (or locker) door?

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

A SPECIAL CANADIAN PRIDE

Justin Trudeau, Mark Carney
and that other guy

When Justin Trudeau stepped down as prime minister of Canada, there were concerns. Actually, my concerns began last summer, Trudeau’s popularity fading fast, which tends to happen when a particular party is in power for what some feel is too long. There are always pendulum shifts. 

 

The leader for the Official Opposition, Conservative Pierre Poilievre, smelled opportunity. He’d already been campaigning hard for over a year and kept going on about how Liberal Trudeau should dissolve parliament and call an election. Had Trudeau done so in late summer or sometime during the fall, I’m certain Poilievre would have won. 

 

Poilievre’s campaign consisted of nasty soundbites, lots of criticism, little in terms of his own proposals. Like all Canadians, he was aware of American politics and saw how being Mr. Nasty worked so well for Trump. I was shocked it was working so well in Canada, too.

 

This is not the Canadian way, I kept telling myself. I still believe Poilievre didn’t need to go low as he smelled blood and could almost taste power as prime minister. Trudeau had done what he could as leader and Canadians were tired of him. A rational, positive campaign by the Conservatives would have been just as potent, even if it generated fewer headlines. But Poilievre chose his path. 

 

Everything went wonky once Donald Trump returned to the Oval Office. Right away, he announced tariffs, specifically targeting China, Mexico and Canada.

 

What? Canada?! It felt like an affront to begin his new term by lumping Canada with China, a traditional “enemy” and Mexico, the country from which the bulk of illegal immigrants were entering the U.S. 

 

It’s no secret that Trudeau and Trump have never seen eye-to-eye. With Trudeau still not relinquishing power, Trump’s attack was supposed to bring Trudeau to his knees. But, no. Suddenly, Canadians clearly had someone to hate more than Trudeau.

 

Making matters worse, Trump talked of Canada becoming the 51^st state, an appallingly aggressive and/or belittling way of relating to the country that has traditionally been the United States’ greatest ally. Canadians boycotted travel to the U.S. and American products. While Trump continued to talk tariffs and refer to Canada as the 51^st state, all-things-Trump were reviled by Canadians. 

 

That included Pierre Poilievre’s campaign style, a carbon copy of Trump’s. Suddenly, the shoo-in next Canadian prime minister saw his popularity plummeting. When Trudeau stepped down as prime minister, all the hate for Trudeau had no place to go. Mark Carney became the interim PM with an election pending. Carney was respected, knowledgeable and, if a tad overly confident/arrogant, he was immensely more likable than Poilievre who had never campaigned on likability. 

 

Poilievre was caught off-guard by Trump’s antagonism and the ensuing backlash. Suddenly, his whiny, pit bull persona proved unpopular. The Conservatives never recovered. In fact, so sure they were of ascending to power—all those months of Poilievre calling for an election—they didn’t even release a party platform until the last days of the campaign, after so many Canadians has shown up for advance voting. 

 

In what no one would have predicted in the last half of 2024, the Liberals held onto power and Carney had his position as prime minister affirmed.

 

As a queer person, I am relieved. While some provinces have jumped on anti-gay and anti-trans initiatives that copy Republican-led American states, things remain protected at the federal level. A week ago CBC News ran a story with the headline, “Carney laments Pride ‘backlash’ and rolls out money to make 2SLGBTQ+ parades safer.”

 

Carney is quoted in the article as saying:

One of the strengths of Canada is recognizing that 

people can be who they want to be and love who they 

want to love. The federal government—we are the 

defenders of those rights.

 

Unfortunately, around the world, there’s a backlash

struggling against the progress that has been made. In

this time, Canada will always stand up for the 

vulnerable and the equal rights we cherish. We can 

take pride in how far we’ve come but we should also 

recognize there’s far more to do.

 

Trump’s aggressive, antagonistic tactics toward Canada have allowed the Liberals to hold onto power and keep LGBTQ protections in place, helping extend rights and normalize them with the Canadian public. During Pride month, I’m particularly proud of Carney’s leadership in affirming our equal rights.

  

 

 

GRINDR KILLED THE GAY BAR

In the book Gay Bar: Why We Went Out (Back Bay Books, 2021), author Jeremy Atherton Lin says, “Perhaps the bars were only ever meant to be a transitional phase.”

 

Certainly, that seems to be how it has turned out. The same seems to be the case with gay neighborhoods. Vancouver’s Davie Street and the slightly broader West End aren’t nearly as obviously gay as they were when I moved to the area three decades ago. 

 

Part of the evolution has been on account of queer people feeling more accepted in greater society—although current anti-trans actions are huge setbacks. As the “community” has dispersed, gay bars have a significantly smaller walk-in clientele. Uber provides another responsible option for a night out but it comes at a cost as well. With gayborhoods less apparent, gay bars were bound to take a hit in terms of business. Grinder, however, has gay bars on life support. 

 

Yes, as Lin suggests, we’ve been transitioning away from the bars.

 

For me, I have not been a regular gay bar patron since about 1998. I got in a relationship and both of us considered it a relief to no longer have to go to the bars, getting looked at or, more commonly, being ignored. I saw no reason to be in a cruisy bar when I had a partner. We got dogs and a house (beyond the gayborhood). The focus changed. Domesticity felt so much better than that depressing walk home from a gay bar far too many nights.

 

When I was single again in 2004, I didn’t run back to the bars. Instead, I ran farther. I bought a home for myself and the dogs on B.C.’s Sunshine Coast, a ferry ride away from Vancouver. Any gay connections all but ended. Gaydar did not extend that far.

 

I first saw for myself the decline in gay bars during the summer of 2014 when I spent a month at an Airbnb in West Hollywood. I went out one night with my former Santa Monica roommate and his husband, first grabbing a drink at The Palm in Beverly Hills, then heading to a gay bar, The Abbey, in WeHo. 

 

As I sipped my Tom Collins—too much ice, as always—I looked around to see if anyone was looking my way. It was a clearer than ever no. Having been out of the scene for so long, the difference in gay bar culture in sixteen years was striking. The fact no one was checking me out was same old, same old. But no one was checking out anyone. The people who weren’t talking to friends had their heads down, all of them looking at the palm of their hand—or, more specifically, the phone in the palm of their hand. Even my monogamous(?) married couple friends would look down at their phones. 

 

“What is going on?” I asked as the naïve, out-of-touch person I was. 

 

But my friends were preoccupied. Someone was 250 feet away. Someone else, 300.

 

When they finally explained that they were identifying people as gay with the Grindr app, I thought I was stating the obvious: “But it’s a gay bar.” Why should anyone need a phone to do the communicating? We were all right there. (Some of us without the dang app.) 

 

In time, the reverse of what I thought would happen occurred. People didn’t quit Grindr when they were in gay bars; rather, they quit gay bars. Who needed them when you could Grind at home… or in a restaurant… or wherever the hell you were at any given moment. No more faulty gaydar. The gays in your area—the ones who had the sense to download Grindr—could be tracked based on distance and private photos. Hot… hotter… HOTTER! 

 

It all left me cold.

 

When Jeremy Atherton Lin wrote, “Perhaps the bars were only ever meant to be a transitional phase,” I’d hoped the next phase might be something else. We’d come out of dark spaces with booze spilled on the floors. We could socialize in the open. Queer Meetups, maybe. Connecting based on common (non-sexual) interests. Zoom chat rooms perhaps—a singles social. Better yet, speed dating at the library. Maybe with the decline of bars, alcohol would be less of a problem in the community and we’d meet like other people do at park potlucks, softball games, arts performances. We’d remember each other’s names. We’d have conversations. We’d connect… or realize we didn’t. Real experiences IRL.

 

Alas, no. Like the gay bar, I too have been phased out. Person-to-person meet-and-greets? WHAT?! Too old-fashioned. 

 

Everything now fits in the palm of one’s hand. Our phones own us. Is this progress?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FLAG FLAPS

It’s June again. Pride month. Thirty days to celebrate but also to irk certain people. I’m not talking about the obvious homophobes. I think they’re irked year-round. A decade after the right for queers to marry was affirmed by the U.S. Supreme Court, there are plenty who grumble amongst their group while sampling cheddar at Cracker Barrel, eating sandwiches at Chick-fil-A or letting their eyes wander at Hooters. Instead, I’m thinking about people in our own ”community” who can’t process—or even actively reject—all the progress in terms of queer culture this century.

 

I’d like to think they’re not selectively homophobic; rather, they’re stuck. They like and accept what they were familiar with during their twenties and thirties. More recent changes in queer culture are too wonky for them. They don’t understand how evolution continues without them on board. This is old-person thinking. Sometimes it can feel challenging to keep up with the times. 

 

I recently finished reading Jeremy Atherton Lin’s GAY BAR: WHY WE WENT OUT (Back Bay Books, 2021). It was a slow read. There were several thought-provoking comments which I flagged with Post-its near the beginning and the end, but it would have read better and had greater potency as an essay instead of a book. Still, I plan to write about a few of the Post-it posits in a few blog posts over the summer. The comment I thought about as Pride month begins is as follows:

The closing gay bars had me thinking about the finitude of gay… By 2018, an opinion piece in the Israeli newspaper Haaretz declared, “Being Gay Is Passé.” A few years prior, one poll showed half of young people in Britain were identifying as not completely hetero, with most of those placing themselves in a nonbinary area on a scale of sexuality. So, not completely gay. I came across a statement online by a woke young person expressing his consternation that cis gay males remained the most culturally validated type of queer. 

 

This, to me, feels like the latest incarnation of a tale as old as time. There will always be a generational divide—a gap, if you prefer—where younger people bemoan dominate culture, i.e., that established and/or embraced by an older generation. Why should it be any different among queers, especially when identity is what defines the group in the first place? Younger people are fighting for their place, trying to dissociate with older folks, agitating for changes to ways of being they perceive as stuffy, stifling and just outdated. There will always be a push and, in turn, the older set will often push back, sometimes mocking or dismissing change initiatives as pious, naïve or, to use an aging term, tomfoolery. 

 

I can readily embrace the term nonbinary in terms of my own gender identity. Still, I rarely use it and I won’t wave a nonbinary flag at any Pride events this year or, likely, any year. (The flag, FYI, is comprised of four coloured stripes: yellow, white, purple and black. Yes, I had to Google.) I’m good with the flag. Let whoever wishes wave it, fly it from a pole, tack it to a wall so as to conveniently cover a persistent, undefined smudge. Let it be present in Pride parades along with a range of other flags associated with specific queer identities—aromantic, pansexual, transgender and many others. 

 

All these flags get a lot of my queer contemporaries in a tizzy. I’ve sat through many a brunch listening to them grouse about the proliferation of flags, most consisting of different stripes for different types. The argument I hear the most is, “Why do we need more on the flag? Why do we need new flags? The rainbow includes EVERYTHING.” For these gay men, it’s a one-flag-fits-all stance. They truly believe it to be the case.

 

However, I think it’s important to consider when the flag came about and what identities were commonly recognized at the time.

 

My own perception of the dominant queer community when I was coming out in the mid to late ’80s was that the two main categories of queer were gay and lesbian, defined by one’s birth gender. Bisexuals were doubted with derisive comments about “wanting it both ways” and having “one foot in the closet.” Transgender existed but the numbers seemed too small to have much of a voice at the table. Then, as now, some gay men saw trans issues as a distraction or even a liability to making inroads regarding gay and lesbian acceptance. To deny this would be to whitewash queer history, painting a false image of a community united—happy happy, forever and always. 

 

The rainbow flag came into popularity in the late ’70s. The familiar flag, created in 1979 with six coloured stripes—red, orange, yellow, green, indigo and violet—is not, however, the original incarnation.  In 1977, activist Gilbert Baker had created a flag with eight coloured stripes, hot pink on top and turquoise wedged between green and indigo. I point this out to emphasize that the six-striped flag so many traditional queer people accept was itself a modification. Yes, folks, that flag is not the original just as the Starbucks people line up at across from Pike Place Market in Seattle is not the original café. (It was in a building that was demolished. As well, a few other locations opened and closed before the 1976 location was established.) The rainbow flag was subject to change from the outset. Love the flag. See yourself in it if you will but recognize its an adaptation from the original.

 

At the time both these rainbow flags were created, they represented identities encompassed, at best, by the LGBT acronym. No extra letters or numbers. 

 

Since then, queer identity has not been static. Neither has broader society. At some point a flag may become universally accepted, but there has been rapid change in defining queer identity in the decades since. Flags change over time. The American flag is not what it was in 1776. The current Canadian flag only dates back to 1965. Moreover, more than one flag may connect with a person. (In terms of where I live, I recognize both the Canadian flag and British Columbia’s provincial flag.) 

 

A rainbow flag may be perfectly fine for gays and lesbians but it is entirely possible—probable, even—that some queer people only see the L and G in it. The don’t want to be included as part of “et cetera.”

 

If the six-coloured rainbow flag doesn’t connect with you, embrace another… if flags have any importance to you at all. 

 

Fly your own flag, I say. Fly it with your own sense of pride. And, when my contemporaries insist on one flag and only one, keep calm. Some fuddy-duddies just like things simple…the way they were in one particularly heyday.

 

  

GNARLY NAILS

Oh, such beautiful toenails.
Not a fetishist; just envious.
(But don't those clippers look like 
they're for pruning roses...or
cutting through wire fences?)

In general, my body is holding up well for sixty. No arthritic joints. No unusual aches and pains from my runs and bike rides. (There will always be normal aches, won’t there?) I have dark rings under my eyes which have been there since I was twenty. Not an age issue; just a bad sleeper. Even my hair has (mostly) hung around with grayness confined to the neckline and sideburns. I’m a lucky man.

 

But then I look down at my feet. Egad! Put some socks on.

 

Why did the generations before me only speak of sore joints, receding hairlines and expanding waistlines? (Do senior men drink more beer, move about less or is there a natural aging process that makes six-packs pack up as a rising midriff plateau moves in?) These are legit topics that bring humility to aging, but I could have used some forewarning about toenails. Mine have gone from toppings on “little piggies” to ghastly beasts in and of themselves.

 

Good grief! Is this
my new beach look?

Will I ever wear sandals again?

 

As I began to type in my Safari search window, it quickly autofilled: “toenails old people.” A-ha! So it’s not just me (and my Dad). It’s a thing. Those dang toenails change. Yes, I’m putting this topic front and center. We need to talk toenails.

 

I skipped over the AI response. As a writer, I have a hate-hate relationship with AI. No thanks.

 

Instead, I clicked on a report from the U.S. National Institutes of Health. Much better than scary YouTube videos which I’m sure are out there. Nope. I shall not watch zombie movies, slasher flicks, anything with Tom Cruise or clips about toenail fungus. Like I said, I’m already a bad sleeper.

 

Here’s a little reading material from the NIH:

 

Older people are at an increased risk of nail alterations, including normal age-related changes and disorders that more commonly affect this specific population. Secondary factors are important contributors to pathologic nail changes, including impaired circulation at the distal extremities, faulty biomechanics, infections, neoplasms, and skin or systemic diseases with nail manifestations. These factors can affect primarily the nail plate or involve other components of the nail unit such as the matrix, nail bed, hyponychium, or nail folds with secondary abnormalities in the nail plate. These nail changes can either cause serious symptoms, impairing the daily activities of this older population whose activities might already be restricted, or be asymptomatic but associated with substantial cosmetic problems, leading to negative psychological effects. 

 

Okay, enough of that. Gross. And tragic.

 

By far, not the worst
Google Image pic.

Next, I did a Google Image search: older toenails.

 

I lasted seven seconds. Some version of my big toenails was there. Thicker, hardened nails. Chipped. Slightly gray and/or yellow. 

 

I took solace in seeing much worse. Much, much worse. 

 

If a zombie ever comes for me, I shall take off my shoes and socks, stand on one foot and flash him my particularly creepy big toenail on my left foot. Back, zombie! If my toenails are this bad, imagine how unappetizing my brains and flesh are. Go track down a thirty-year-old with regular toenails. Yummy.

 

The NIH report was written with family doctors in mind. It anticipates that patients will seek medical advice from their doctor. It stresses the importance of early intervention, possibly involving referrals for specialized care. Is this within a podiatrist’s domain? Yeesh. I thought urologists had it bad. 

 

I have not mentioned my toenails—or exposed them—to my family doctor. He’s retiring. I don’t want the poor guy to end his career with frightful images of my toenails. The new guy doesn’t know what he’s in for. I will NOT make a good first impression.

 

Something I didn’t know about aging toenails is they seem to grow slower, too. I suppose that’s handy once your ninety and bending over to clip them feels as strenuous as running a marathon but, for cosmetic reasons, I’d like my nails to speed up their growth.

 

Not my actual foot. But the
purple part bears a resemblance.

As a regular hiker, especially in summer and fall, I hit the trails often. In hitting these trails, I repeatedly hit exposed tree roots and small rocks with the toe of my hiking boots. This happens more often in the final hour or two of my longer hikes. Presumably my feet are as tired as my legs. I must not pick them up as much. Bash. Bash. Bash! My toes, especially the two longer ones on both feet, take the brunt of it. Purple crescents emerge at the base of the nail on both my big toes, presumably something to do with bleeding or bruising. (I’m not Googling that. Anything blood-related makes me prone to fainting.) 

 

Gradually the purple part of the nail grows out. When I say “gradually,” I mean slooooooooowly. In the past few years, I finally get to clip off the purple bits in June, just as I’m hiking again, working on a new purple formation at the base of the nail. With June nearing, the purple splotch has only moved halfway to the nail’s edge. This is proof my nails are growing even slower than last year. As long as I hike, I shall have some part of my already gnarly big toenails that is purple. It’s a little off-putting but the least, I suppose, of my toenail angst.

 

Perhaps the only useful part of this week's 
blog post: long-handle toenail clippers. 
(I fear I would sustain significant injuries.)

I’m glad I never was a foot fetishist nor have I ever dated one. My toes shall not be sucked. Not back when I was twenty and most definitely not now. How does such a person handle this phase of life? Maybe there’s a support group. I’m not Googling. I’ve Googled enough.

 

In fact, I’ve written enough. If you have aging toenails that are a tad wonky, I commiserate with you. If you’re older and have perfectly okay toenails, I’m totally jealous. I may send the zombie your way. If you’re younger, consider yourself warned. Love your toenails as you clip them at regular intervals. You are blessed. 

ROOM AT THE INN

I’ve been going to New York City for a decade now and finally crossed Item #1 off my gay travel itinerary. Evan and I, along with his New Yorker friend, Saul, had a drink at the Stonewall Inn. 

 

Over the years, I’d walked by it several times, strolled through the teensy Christopher Park that is a national monument across the street, even peeked in once or twice, but I’d never lingered. I have a complicated relationship with gay bars and, generally, the thought of parking it on a stool or leaning against a wall by a pool table has zero appeal. 

 

But this was the site of the Stonewall Riots beginning June 28, 1969, the symbolic, if not true, beginning to the gay rights movement and LGBTQ people standing up for themselves. A drink, we agreed. To commemorate history. 

 

As we walked in, a drag queen was beginning the first round of Bingo Night. I ordered a cider, grabbed a stool and didn’t bemoan this low level form of entertainment. We’d make an hour of it, twice as long as I’d anticipated.  

 

In addition to Bingo, the event included free popcorn—topped with M&Ms—and no cover charge. The drag queen called out and often sang Bingo numbers (e.g., “B-10…No, B safe.”). Lady Gaga’s “Abracadabra” and Billie Eilish’s “Birds of a Feather” played at a respectful volume rather than with a pulsing beat. This was Monday, after all.

 

In terms of game, the highlight, for me at least, was seeing Evan’s excitement as he won a round of four-corner Bingo. For this feat, he picked a rubber duckie shower speaker from the prize collection. That’s something, right?  One of those things a person doesn’t know they needed until there it is in a flashy box just begging to be picked before the Pokémon stuffie and the Mr. Potato Head set. Let his grin be enough of a prize for me (although Mr. Potato Head would have been my clear choice if B-11 had been called before the game-ending B-5.

 

Did I feel greater empowerment as a queer person from Bingo at the Stonewall? No. Not at all. Did I regret going? Of course not. It turned out to be an innocuous evening but, because it was at Stonewall, I shall always remember it. 

 

Christopher Park, now part of
a National Monument

Drag Bingo Night at The Stonewall will never be as epic as an uprising against the NYPD. It was a perfectly tame Monday night at a rather ordinary bar which happens to be gay. I’m grateful for the ordinariness. More than that, grateful for Marsha P. Johnson, Sylvia Rivera and others who’d shown up at the bar in late June 1969 just looking for a safe space to hang out for what should have been its own normal, uneventful night.

THE DOCTOR IS OUT

The doctor-patient relationship comes just after hair stylist relationship for me in terms of familiarity. I guess it’s fortunate that I see my stylist, Melissa, considerably more often than I see my doctor. Let good health keep it that way.

 

But a change is coming. Last Wednesday, I saw my family doctor, Scott, for the last time. (Yes, we’re on a first-name basis. It’s one of the things I like about him.) Scott is retiring. I knew this day was coming. Selfishly, I’d hoped it would be later rather than sooner. Sooner happens to be next month. 

 

I’ve been seeing Scott for thirty years. By comparison, Melissa’s only been cutting my hair for nine. 

 

I have no doubt I present challenges to doctors. Prior to Scott, the last family doctor I saw was in Santa Monica, a name I got from a list provided by the HMO that served my employer. That doctor—let’s just call him Dr. No-Go—said at the end of my (first and last) appointment, “I never want to see you again.”

 

I was startled. Did I hear him right? 

 

What was there to mishear?

 

Clearest, perhaps harshest breakup ever. Was he allowed to do that? What would be the point of asserting, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” Presumably, those little hammers to test knee reflexes could be weaponized. 

 

Scott knew how to deal with a squeamish, quirky patient like me. As I told him last week, he always regarded me with proper amusement, including the fact I’d show up for appointments in the early years drinking from a bottle of orange juice. “Someone told me it’ll keep me from fainting,” I explained. As he’d ask medical questions or share medical information, I gulped my OJ. 

 

I never fainted in Scott’s office. (Now would be a good time to belatedly apologize to an ophthalmologist and that guy who thought I’d passed out from a seizure during a hearing test.)

 

For at least the first two decades of seeing Scott, I had the biggest crush on him. He had—and has—classic good looks of a quintessential Scotsman: curly auburn hair, freckles, green eyes. My legs would shake; I had a hard time making eye contact. My awkwardness was no doubt seen as squeamishness. Oh, how it was so much more complicated! 

 

Despite the crush, there were a couple of years when I didn’t see Scott. It should come as no surprise that I avoided medical professionals. But then I got melanoma at thirty-four and I’d have to go in for, at the very least, referrals to dermatology specialists to get chunks of skin cut out. Fun times.

 

It wasn’t until 2014 when visits to Scott became considerably more frequent. I fell apart in his office before Easter, dropping from a chair to the floor. It wasn’t on account of fainting and, to this day, I’ve never had a seizure. Instead, I was suicidal. I was having a major mental breakdown. 

 

Scott gave me an Ativan, then asked if I needed to go to the hospital. “Yes,” I said through shakes and tears. His office was only three blocks from St. Paul’s so I did not want to go by ambulance. Instead, he called ahead to alert doctors of my pending arrival and current condition. He had an employee escort me to Emergency. My last words before leaving his office: “Don’t let them send me home.”

 

This week, I had the pleasure of thanking him once again. “You saved my life. I’m certain of that. I have lived eleven years longer—so far—thanks to you. I am immensely grateful for your care that day and since then as well.”

 

Of course, I was crying as I shared this with him. His eyes welled up, too.

 

That was my first stint in the psych ward. I was readmitted in 2017 and I’ve been on long-term disability ever since. In 2019, I was hospitalized for six weeks due to an eating disorder and then spent eight weeks in a group home. In 2021, I had a stay in a crisis care group home. I turned down another eating disorder hospitalization this year. (I’m receiving extensive outpatient support.) 

 

Scott has been the one constant as I’ve navigated my mental health journey since 2014. In that time, I’ve seen a dozen psychiatrists, a half dozen counselors, dietitians, occupational therapists, countless nurses and others in the medical field. So many introductions. But I always had Scott. What will I do without him?

 

Survive. I know that much.

 

“You made a difference,” I repeated several times during my last appointment. “I appreciate you so much. I am full of gratitude and I need to share it.” 

 

I’m guessing Scott is sixty-two. His husband, already retired at seventy, is awaiting full-time experiences together. They are planning a triathlon in the near future…at his husband’s insistence. Scott has always been very active and has gone on many adventure-packed vacations. “I’m so happy for you!” I said, setting aside tears for a joyous laugh. “So many good times are ahead for you. Enjoy retirement!”

 

A final thank you. One long, tight hug. 

 

And with a colonoscopy referral in hand—suddenly much less joy—I said goodbye.

 

Thankfully, there is a new doctor in place to take over the practice. No shoes to fill. Not possible. Just new shoes. I’ll do my best to behave. And, yes, there will be a bottle of orange juice in my backpack. Just in case.

If you are feeling suicidal, there is hope. There is an OTHER SIDE after getting proper support. In Canada and the U.S., the Suicide Crisis Hotline is 9-8-8. Also, 911 is available and medical staff are ready to connect you with support--and care--in hospital emergency rooms.