MEDICAL ADJUSTMENTS

I just lost my doctor. Again.

 

For more thirty years, I had the same family doctor who saw me through regular exams and a melanoma ordeal, diagnosed when I was thirty-four. I’m supremely grateful I can’t recall any other concerns in terms of physical health—not even some debilitating flu or nasty colds. In many respects, I’m a healthy guy. 

 

But I can’t go without a doctor. Complications may arise. Ones that could jeopardize the “safe, ” manageable lifestyle I’ve carved out for the past nine years.

 

As one may surmise, my cherished, long-term doctor retired. But that was more than a year ago. We said our goodbyes which included tears and hugs and, since I’m a writer, a letter I wrote that conveyed the appreciation I needed to express without it getting muddled or muted due to worries about putting my doctor further behind schedule. He had a reputation of always running late because he never rushed his time with patients. Certainly not with me.

 

Before leaving, he’d arranged for a new doctor to take over the practice. A man half his (and my) age. I knew I would miss my familiar doctor, but I recognized a consolation, knowing in a clear, practical sense The New Guy would oversee my care until I died or moved from Vancouver. This would be a good thing.

 

I freak out before seeing a doctor. I’m a bundle of nerves during medical appointments. Basically, I can be too much. Thirty-four years ago, while living in Santa Monica, California, I went to see a new family doctor and, at the end of the session, he looked at me with disdain and said, “I never want to see you again.” (When did seeing a doctor mirror a coffee date?!) I remember thinking, Can he do that? and then: Why would I push the point? Despite the Hippocratic Oath, sometimes a doctor can indeed do harm.

 

Fourteen months after being assigned The New Guy, I got an email stating he was quitting his practice. While Canada prides itself in low- to no-pay healthcare even as it’s always struggling to deal with systemic flaws, it doesn’t mean all doctors are happy with billing procedures and the amount they are paid. (Back in 1978, my father, an Ontario medical doctor, moved our family to Texas, knowing he’d earn a larger salary under a less just American system.) According to a follow-up email after The New Guy’s announcement, the funding formula for seeing patients with HIV was changing—presumably being reduced. 

 

While I am not HIV+, I know that many of the patients seen by the medical practice which included my beloved, now retired, gay doctor are. When I first saw my doctor in 1995, virtually all his patients were gay men and, on days he wasn’t working in the office, he worked for an AIDS clinic. Lifesaving antiretroviral drugs came on the scene about a year later, but I knew it was important to feel safe, supported and unstigmatized when I went for appointments. All my gay friends felt it was essential to have a gay doctor.

 

Hmm…did my Santa Monica doctor reject me because of my frantic case of the nerves or because I was gay? Maybe it wasn’t an either-or situation.

 

HIV treatments have changed and, I suppose the provincial government decided to reduce funding, concluding rightly or wrongly that HIV patient care is closer to the norm now even though I would surmise that cases are still more complex and visits more costly because they take longer. Whatever the case may be, The New Guy isn’t having it. He’s quitting and most likely exploring a more financially robust area of medicine.

 

Alas, it turns out I will have to get a new doctor before I ever leave Vancouver. How that happens, I’m not so sure. I was directed to online to a site called Request a Doctor or something like that. A five-minute process. Easy-peasy. But the form seemed to indicate I’d be assigned a doctor OR a nurse practitioner. Hmm. Overlap, sure, but not the same. I want a doctor. I need a doctor. 

 

You really, really don't need
to see a photo of my nasty toenail.

I know, I know. I’ve said my physical health is fine. A nurse could probably advise me regarding my infected toenail which seems to be my only current concern. It seems silly to see anyone at all over a heinous looking toenail but over-the-counter treatments haven’t helped and I suspect I’m going to lose the entire nail. (Do they make press-on toenails so I can wear sandals without freaking out people who cast their eyes downward?) Maybe I’ll consult a pharmacist while waiting for a doctor/nurse practitioner.

 

It really needs to be a doctor. While my physical health is fine, my mental health is always vulnerable. That angsty episode with the Santa Monica doctor? In hindsight, I was probably experiencing an episode of anxiety, the kind that would be diagnosed as Generalized Anxiety decades later. That condition, combined with Social Anxiety, Major Depressive Disorder, Bipolar II and Anorexia Nervosa have led to two stints in the psych ward, one stay at a crisis care group home, a hospital admission to the provincial eating disorders ward and a group home sojourn for the same affliction. My file also includes references to Trypanophobia (fear of needles) which makes regular blood tests for my eating disorder something I delay since I seem to make a spectacle of myself each time I go. I’m done with labels—there’s no more room on my trophy shelf—so I’ve shot down other disorders for which I’ve literally ticked all the boxes at my psychiatrist’s office. A two-minute Google this morning had me newly diagnosing myself with Iatrophobia (“extreme, persistent fear of doctors, medical professionals or hospitals”) and Tomophobia (“fear or anxiety caused by forthcoming surgical procedures and/or medical interventions”). Maybe I should just get FEAR tattooed across my forehead.

 

Right now, with a primary doctor in limbo, my most pressing fear pertains to losing my long-term disability status which came into play nine years ago as of next month. Sure, I have a psychiatrist—who casually mentioned his own upcoming retirement(!) during our session two weeks ago—but I’m supposed to have a “medical team” overseeing my mental health care. The family doctor is generally viewed as team captain and, in my case, he’s skipped town, walked the plank or essentially left me in the same place I was after that episode in Santa Monica. 

 

Canada has a decent health care system, I keep telling myself, but I’ve been reading for years about doctor shortages and long wait lists for all-things-medical. Rural areas and smaller towns are impacted more than big cities, but I don’t want to get any personal insights as to how much Vancouver is affected by shortages. I’m learning that fear of not have a doctor can coexist with fear of doctors.  

 

NOTE: No actual moles are harmed
while playing this game!

I’m coping as best I can with my mental health, even as depression and anxiety keep popping up unexpectedly and I try to swat them away. (Think of a mental patient’s version of Whac-A-Mole.) In just the past month, I’ve had several episodes that have been vexing struggles and I’ve come close to loading up my backpack (soap, changes of underwear, books) and heading to Emergency for yet another possible psych ward admission. Even during a “good” month, I know I continue to function at a diminished state from my first psych ward stay in 2014 and even more so since the time of my return visit. If I lose my disability status—

 

Nope, I can’t even go there. I can’t start swirling over that.

 

Come on, Request a Doctor matchmakers! Do your thing. Please let this transition from doctor-less to doctor-assigned be but a blip.

THAT TIME MY BOOK WAS BANNED

It wasn’t a library. It wasn’t a school district. It wasn’t a bookstore. 

 

No, it was my sister-in-law.

 

It happened eighteen years ago, but I only remembered this yesterday. I’m good at repressing. Family matters can baffle me. I don’t like being baffled. But then, I also don’t like being banned.

 

The book, Fouling Out, is my only one to be published…so far. I keep knocking on agents’ doors and they keep turning out the lights and pretending no one’s home. To be clear, I don’t go door-to-door, throughout Brooklyn and Manhattan, my manuscripts resting in crisp manila folders in each hand. Yes, I’m pitching two novels at present while abandoning hope on a third. I email agents in the manner set forth on their websites. I wonder how long it takes them to clear their new messages. I picture agents sitting side-by-side in cubicles, opening up emails and pressing the delete button like it’s a duel, like it’s preparation to be contestants on Family Feud. It feels like the old days of online dating. I just need one to love me…or my work, at least. Alas, neither manuscript is set in a dystopian amusement park and involves queer body horror. (Yes, that’s “of particular interest” to the agent I thought of emailing this morning. I don’t think my funny, sometimes hapless, relatable main character navigating the West Hollywood gay scene technically includes body horror even if there is a certain scene that would qualify in my mind at least.)

 

Fouling Out, published by Orca Books once upon a time (i.e., 2008) is a middle grade novel which means the target audience is kids in grades four through seven. I was at the family cottage when my sister-in-law informed me that she’d read the book but wouldn’t let my niece or nephew read it. They were both in or around the targeted age group and I tried my best not to show that her matter-of-fact announcement felt like a gut punch. I’ve only seen my niece and nephew a handful of times in my life. When my brother’s family lived in North Carolina, I was in Los Angeles; when they returned to Texas, I moved to Vancouver. Our lives and locations felt worlds apart.

 

I’d been excited about the prospect of my niece and nephew reading my book. I hoped they’d get a kick out of knowing their uncle was a published writer. I thought they might get a better sense of me based on my humour, my storytelling and my connection to kids’ perspectives. (I was an elementary teacher when I wrote it and a principal by the time it came out.) But, no. The book was not available to them. I feel my own sense of horror imagining my sister-in-law telling them their uncle’s book was off limits. Like my work was chock full of sex, gore and gratuitous drug usage. Like I bashed puppies. Like I overtly promoted my vegetarian lifestyle. (That might have caused a sweeping book ban across the entire state of Texas.)

 

The intention of my novel, which features two grade seven boys, was to portray young male characters with expressed feelings while dealing with real challenges. (Sorry, no zombies or vampires. No empires in peril due to a deep-seated conflict between Starman and his evil nemesis.) I wanted to show that reputations embedded at thirteen could be undone. Boys had the power to be better.

 

One of my writing challenges was realistically portraying one of the characters who was seen as an obnoxious bully by his peers. My publisher did not allow any profanity. A bully who doesn’t swear? (I guess they had an idealistic view of how twelve- and thirteen-year-olds talk.) I wonder how many times I had to resort to “He swore” in lieu of actually dialogue. It’s been a while since I perused the book, but I hope I refrained from using, “Oh, fudge” and “Shootsy.”

 

To be sure, the book included some dicey issues like racism, family abuse and homelessness. Early in the book, one character fires a gun but a squirrel is spared due to the quick action of his buddy. Only a window in an unoccupied house is harmed.

 

My sister-in-law said nothing about racism, abuse or the use of a gun. (Why would someone from Texas have any issue about guns anyway?) Instead, her problem was with the language in the book. 

 

I was dumbfounded. Had my editor and I missed a swear word despite multiple readings during the editing process? Had I unknowingly chosen a word that has a derogatory meaning in slang? Had the printer slipped in some offensive phrase? (Backwards, the darn trickster!)

 

No. Up until that moment, I’d been proud of my writing and the word choices I’d made. My editor was a top-notch wordsmith who knew which passages and plot points needed revision. I loved that her job was to point things out while leaving all the rewriting to me.

 

As far as I know, shopping at
Walmart on a Sunday is okay...
even in Texas.

What my sister-in-law objected to was the fact that I had apparently written “oh, my god” once or twice in the 168-page manuscript. In her mind, I’d taken the Lord’s name in vain. I’d broken a commandment. Not murder, not adultery, not coveting my neighbour’s wife. But still a commandment. It’s funny because, for the most part, I don’t swear. It’s even rarer that I take the Lord’s name in vain. I say “gosh,” “oh, my gosh” and “gosh darn it.” I’m an atheist, but I still consciously opt for “gosh” because I was raised with an awareness of the commandments…even though they weren’t yet legislated to be posted on classroom walls when I was going to high school in Texas. I don’t recall being in a quandary when I typed, “Oh, my god” as part of a line of dialogue from one of my characters. I’m certain it fit the context—say, after the gun went off—and it fit the character’s age and way of thinking. As a stickler, I don’t even view lowercase god is sacrilege. When one chooses to use the word as something other than a proper noun, I think this distinguishes the word as something ordinary rather than religious.

 

But I’m defending my word choice too much. Let’s say the commandment was specifically spat upon to cause a stir and to out myself as an egregious sinner. It may come off as blasphemy, but I don’t believe each commandment is equal. This might be an appropriate time to admit that I questioned that whole ark tale, too. I always wondered how big an ark would have to be to get all the animal pairs aboard. And didn’t they get hungry during the forty days and forty nights? Wouldn’t a lion or tiger have eaten the zebras and the antelope? What about the rest of the food chain examples I’d learned about (and been disturbed by) in elementary science class? 

 

It would seem to me that, if my sister-in-law was so duly offended—and I have no doubt that, as a devout Southern Baptist, she was—she could have scribbled through the reference(s) or, better, used it/them as a teachable moment. Your uncle may have been good enough to be a published author—ONCE—but let’s review the commandments, shall we?  

 

Alas, it wasn’t even worth a teachable moment. God comes before some rarely seen uncle—a heretic, no less. My niece and nephew were home-schooled. One attended Baylor, a Baptist university; the other went to Letourneau, an evangelical Christian school. Shelter and protect thy children was probably one of the principles at play regarding their education but I am absolutely certain they were exposed to swearing, sexual references and, yes, “oh, my god” many times at school, in shopping malls and at parks. The world doesn’t always conform. 

 

But I guess the idea was control what you can and so my book was banned. I suppose I repressed this because it breaks me more than a little bit when I think of it. My book was studied in many classrooms. It had a place on many school and public library shelves. I’m proud that every print copy was sold, the publisher turned a profit and the book can now only be accessed as an ebook. Still, there’s a part of me that would have loved it if my niece and nephew had been proud of me, too. Gosh golly, if and when one of those evasive agents takes on one (or more!) of my manuscripts and successfully woes a publisher, my niece and nephew will be sure to pass. I will never write a cleaner novel than Fouling Out. 

 

Maybe it’s a good thing they’ve had such little exposure to me. There are things beyond books they would surely find objectionable. I’ve heard that some authors come to view book banning as a badge of honour but, considering how close to home this incident was, I’m not going to get there. I don’t feel shame, but I find myself shaking my head a lot. Time to repress it for another couple of decades.

DO I WEIGH IN?

I’ve been going back and forth on whether to comment about a certain singer’s apparent weight loss, dramatic such as it seems. In general, I agree that people in the public eye can find the gaze too harsh and, frankly, inappropriate. Bodies change. Many have weight fluctuations—up, down, up again—that, for various reasons, seem hard to control. As a man in my (early) sixties, I’m finding weight stability tougher to attain even though my exercise and food intake are the same. Part of my life’s journey…my business and no one else’s.

 

But there may be exceptions when someone has to comment, not out of criticism but concern. I have written many times on this blog about the fact I have anorexia nervosa. The perceived weight issues I’m struggling with now aren’t much different than they’ve been since I was ten; I can just use the aging process as a “legitimate” excuse for my current weight concerns. It truly feels harder but I’d have said that when comparing fifty to forty and forty to twenty. One reality that underlies all the unrealistic personal body scrutiny is that it may always be there for me. An eating disorder can be a relentless impostor. It moves in to stay.

 

When I was seventeen, anorexia fully took over for the first time. I stumbled into a new eating regimen and the weight was coming off with ease, week after week. I was giddy. I had discovered my own special diet, one I will not share here since I know how easy it is for people with disordered eating to latch onto anything people proclaim is an effective way to lose weight. We all face scrutiny, even if sometimes it is only perceived. Over the course of a semester in university, I got down to fifty pounds below my current weight which is the same weight I was forty years ago, allowing me to still fit into a Hugo Boss suit I bought forty years ago.

 

Do you sense the desperation in my writing? I am always trying to tell myself I am a reasonable weight. I have to affirm this over and over because my eating disorder brain is just as persistent in saying otherwise. 

 

I managed to halt that prolonged eating disorder episode from when I was seventeen only on account of friends saying something. I would have kept on with my newfound dieting tricks but a small group of people I respected and cared about held some form of casual intervention. Yes, they were concerned. They could see the weight loss. I looked gaunt. I appeared unhealthy. Basically, I didn’t look good.

 

This is not what someone with an eating disorder wants to hear. I regularly beat myself up over many aspects of my appearance but weight is the biggest issue. When my eating disorder is really clicking—pounds are coming off; I can see ribs and abs—I think I am looking better. It’s quite a jolt to have people around me say, no, I am not.

 

The message was not just a shock. It scared me. Here I thought I looked not just better but healthier. Slim and trim! (Back then, I wasn’t a gym goer and muscles didn’t even think of making an appearance.) Something about the tone of voice and the looks on my friends’ faces made me listen. There was no doubt they were speaking out of compassion. The jolt they gave me allowed me to let go of my tricks. I regained weight and managed to spend a lot of time shirtless that summer in my role as a lifeguard without feeling any more repulsive than I had before. Merciless criticism over certain body parts has been a constant that I’ve been learning to live with. I tell myself the eating disorder voice is quieter, that I can muffle if not mute it. Maybe I’m just exhausted from decades of telling myself I’m not good enough. Yeah, yeah…broken record.

 

I am certain that, if friends hadn’t spoken up, I would have kept losing weight and I could very well have shifted from “too thin” and “unhealthy looking” to medically at risk. That may have only been a few weeks away. 

 

I have great reluctance to see a medical doctor for anything. I have a fear of all-things-medical. This includes blood tests and any and all needle pokes, drops in my eyes during vision tests, and apparently diagrams of organs. (I once fainted during a hearing exam due to glancing at the diagram on the wall.) It takes considerable mental preparation for me to consult a doctor about concerns my eating disorder is spiking. The first time I confided in a doctor that I thought I had an eating disorder, he immediately dismissed the matter, concluding that I was just very fit. I don’t want to feel like I’m a hypochondriac. I don’t want to waste a doctor’s time. All this goes to the matter that I would greatly appreciate if a friend, family member or anyone at all questioned whether I had an eating disorder and expressed concern. There were times I suffered and didn’t seek help. I couldn’t do it myself. All the while, I wondered, Doesn’t anyone see? Why isn’t anyone saying anything? 

I once had an essay published by CBC about my eating disorder and it opened doors to other people, including complete strangers, reaching out to talk to me about their own wonderings whether they had some degree of disordered eating. I can’t say enough about how gratifying it has been to be someone they could confide in and to share my own experiences with them while encouraging them to seek help.

 

It shouldn’t be members of the public having to express concern whether one of the world’s most successful singers has an eating disorder. At first, I wondered if the issue was being fanned by paparazzi and publications that feed off them. Capturing celebrities at their worst has long been a practice that means a big payday. I suspected photos were being photoshopped to accentuate thinness to generate online clicks, to create a buzz and to entice outlets to purchase (or produce) more severe photos. 

 

I’d been concerned when the singer promoted a movie last fall. At the very least, she looked fragile. But then I watched a video for her latest song yesterday—until a scene with a chainsaw and spewing blood. (Fear of blood, remember?) Presumably the scene represented the artist’s response to critics. The eating disorder can become stronger and more resistant when it’s poked at. The most alarming part of the video showed the singer as incredibly emaciated. Her exposed, protruding clavicle was disturbing. In various treatment programs, I’ve met many people with eating disorders and, while people who are afflicted have a range of body types and sizes, the singer’s body resembled the classic poster image of a young woman with an eating disorder. I’ve also noted that some people with eating disorders cover it up with loose-fitting sweatshirts while others seem to flaunt it, perhaps thinking they look good or crying for help or doing both at once. 

 

Like others, I wonder if the performer’s “team” has tried to intervene. Publicly, a statement on behalf of the singer has only implied she and her staff are doubling down, blinking so much so as to announce a cancellation of an upcoming commitment, but asserting it’s on account of the harshness of “public scrutiny” rather than based on a need to get help. 

 

Too often, I suspect a celebrity’s team enables concerning behaviour (think, Michael Jackson, Mike Tyson, Amy Winehouse, Donald Trump). Teams are paid to say yes. They’re general role is to fulfill their employer’s wants. Saying or doing otherwise risks being fired. (Um, again…Trump.) As with any job or relationship, however, the difficult conversations should not be avoided.

 

Perhaps it’s partly because of my own anorexia, but I think often of Karen Carpenter, one of the few female crushes I’ve had in life. As a kid, I used to sit on the step down to our sunken living room and stare at her image on the cover of Close to You while playing both sides on repeat on my father’s stereo. While I wasn’t born at the time so I can’t say, “I remember where I was when JFK was assassinated,” I do know where I was when I heard the news on February 4, 1983 that Karen Carpenter had died. (The date is permanently etched in my brain, no tattoo necessary.) It came nine months after my friends intervened. When I look back on photos and videos of the Carpenters, Karen often looks far too thin, particularly as shown in her face. I’ve always wondered if people in Karen’s world said enough, persisted enough and remained strong even as Karen’s ED voice presumably resisted. 

 

The current singer being scrutinized has, no doubt, plenty of haters. People resent success. For some inexplicable reason, they pit female singers against one another, as if there is only room at the top for one fave. For the most part, however, I think people are speaking out due to genuine concern. It should not have gotten to the point where it’s public opinion that is making pronouncements, but given images produced by the singer’s own team (e.g., her current music video), I don’t believe her fans want to be complicit in the silence. 

 

I sincerely hope that during some time off, the “yes” people, including enabling doctors, will step aside and allow those who truly care to guide the singer to proper assessments and, if there comes a diagnosis, then all possible treatments will be explored. Imagine if this artist comes out healthier on the other end. She doesn’t have to become a role model but she could positively impact so many. 

 

For now, a toast to the artist, maybe with a can of Boost or Ensure which I saw many times during my hospital admission: To her health!

 

 

 

 

 

  

DONNING MY GAY APPAREL

I’m writing this from a Gastown café in Vancouver as rain falls and thousands of people in the city are, no doubt, hoping it stops within the next three hours. The Pride parade begins at one o’clock. I’m not going. I’m not fond of crowds unless it’s part of the kinetic madness of walking through New York City or hopping on The Tube in London. Part of my parade apathy, I suppose, is I don’t like standing in place and peering between people’s shoulders just to see a lot of gay men walking around shirtless. I don’t know how this became What Gays Do at Pride. 

 

Think I’m exaggerating the propensity of gay men to turn a celebration into an opportunity to go shirtless? (Yes, my entire post last week was on the topic.) The Vancouver Pride Society Events page includes a single photo of the parade. Yes, it’s a shot of a buff man in a Speedo, with other Speedo-only dudes walking behind him. I’m beginning to think there needs to be a clothing drive for gays. We have a shirt shortage, folks! 

 

I’d be more inclined to attend if the focus were more political and not yet another event in which the gay men seek the most attention among those in the LGBTQ+ community. Yes, I said it. I’ve been out to various degrees for four decades now and gay men always take centre stage. I’m sure that’s why VPS also had a trans march two days ago and the Vancouver Dyke March & Festival was yesterday. Had I taken more initiative to be informed, I might have gone to the trans march—but then it’s been a challenging week for me as depression and anxiety have persistently needled me since Monday. 

 

My first Pride parade was in 1990 in Los Angeles—West Hollywood, technically. Still being the peak of the AIDS crisis, I was drawn to groups calling for more funding, more action, less stigma. Attending alone, a group of lesbian nurses welcomed me into the fold and together we cheered these marchers, along with the contingent from AIDS Project Los Angeles and various PFLAG participants holding up handmade signs that said, “I love my gay son” and “I support my lesbian daughter.” It was also kitschy cool that Elvira, Mistress of the Dark (Cassandra Peterson) was the grand marshal.

 

But back to shirts. I know exactly what I wore during that day in June 1990. It was a white tee with an inverted pink triangle emblazoned on the chest and the phrase “1 in 10,” a figure that goes back to research by Alfred Kinsey in 1948 that stated 10% of American males were homosexual. (As time went on the 10% figure was applied to the broader LGBTQ+ umbrella even though Kinsey’s research only focused on gay men.) During my coming out years, I always felt the number was inflated. I remember sitting in classes of thirty and wondering who the other two gays might be. I needed to feel I wasn’t alone while in high school and university in Texas. (Oh, did I feel alone!) The statistic offered comfort—somewhere out there are gays—but, even when I moved to Los Angeles, my gaydar signal only activated 2 or 3% of the time. I bought the shirt because it offered some form of hope and suggested solidarity if ever 10% of men stepped out of the closet.[1]

 

My shirt also listed famous people in history reputed to be gay, their names running across the pink triangle in pale green block letters…people like Tchaikovsky, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Harvey Milk, James Baldwin, Oscar Wilde and Walt Whitman. It affirmed I wasn’t a freak or a pervert as had been the derogatory labels in society while I was growing up. Respectable, talented, intelligent people were gay. 

 

I loved my shirt. There was no chance I would take it off at any gay event. It said far more than my pecs or my six-pack-free midriff. (So many sit-ups, all for naught.) It was a no-brainer that that’s what I would wear to Pride. 

 

I bought the shirt at A Different Light, a gay bookstore in West Hollywood, the same place I would buy copies of Advocate magazine and books like Paul Monette’s Becoming a Man. I only wore it when I was venturing into West Hollywood. It felt daring, even risky, when I’d stop somewhere in Westwood or Woodland Hills on the way there or heading home. Did I really need more gas? The shirt only offered comfort and confidence when I was among my people…and I mean in numbers larger than 1 in 10. While I rued much about West Hollywood—the superficiality, the dismissiveness of all the models/actors/waiters, the plain ugliness of that stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard—it felt like the only world where I could wear something that announced, “Hey, I’m gay.” 

 

I’d like to think the t-shirt is still in my possession, in a storage box under the bed with extra sheets and lesser worn sweaters. In the back of a cubby in my bedroom closet. Perhaps in the storage space under the stairs. But, alas, I suspect the memento from my earliest years as a sometimes-out gay man likely got tossed during one of my moves, probably in 2020 when I was supposed to move to Toronto and I ruthlessly got rid of so much. I’d decided nostalgia wouldn’t be coming with me. Goodbye all Christmas decorations and CDs; so long, boxes of teaching memories; and, gasp, adieu to boxes and boxes of clothing. Five days before the movers were scheduled to come, COVID shut down the everything and the move never happened. 

 

I just Googled my prized shirt and it doesn’t come up. It was the pre-internet era. I can order a plain white tee with an inverted pink triangle but it’s not the same. Maybe I didn’t chuck the shirt in haste but out of a sense of pride and practicality. I didn’t need it anymore. I am now gay to anyone and everyone. I don’t care who knows or doesn’t know. I don’t need to glance down at a shirt I’m wearing to feel empowered in some places and in danger in others. I’ll wear what I want whenever, wherever.

 

In the café right now, I’m wearing a short-sleeved purple shirt with buttons, white shorts and some razzle-dazzle on my feet: rainbow-striped socks with rainbow peace signs and rainbow Converse high tops. As established at the outset, I’m not going to a Pride event. I’ll finish my oat latte, then grab blueberries and ketchup at the grocery store and walk home along Water Street past cruise ship tourists and several unhoused people. They can look at my footwear or not. Society has come so far, especially in Canada, and so have I. Turns out I’m feeling some pride today, after all. It comes with a lowercase “p,” nothing organized, nothing chest baring, but that’s all I need.

---

[1] An article from 2014 on a queer Canadian website noted that the actual percentage of gays and lesbians is far lower, but a poll from last year found that, when all LGBTQ+ identities are included, the figure comes close to 1 in 10, coming in a 9.3%.

DO YOU OWN A SHIRT?

Yes, it’s summer. I know that means warmer temperatures. I know that in many cultures, that means guys may take off their shirts in public. I can expect to be flashed men’s pecs, biceps and bellies on a regular basis. But let me say I am thankful that this past weekend in Vancouver included cloudy skies and cooler weather. 

 

It’s nice to have a break from all that flashing.

 

I admit that it can be pleasant to see a nice set of pecs, bulging guns and six-pack abs. I suspect that many men with these physical assets ascribe to an “if you’ve got ’em, flaunt ’em” mindset. Most of them have to work at maintaining these gifts—yes, there’s usually a god-given base to start with—and I suppose there’s a desire to display what they’ve paid for in terms of protein powders, oatmeal-chicken breast-tuna diets and hours of workouts. 

 

I will also acknowledge that I am naturally biased against flashing. I have had body dysmorphia, ever since having to wear my first Speedo at the age of eight when they seemed to be all the rage in the ’70s. Donning a Speedo was the worst part of being on my high school swim team. I still don a Speedo (a boxer style, not a brief) when I swim laps each week, but I always choose a pool in another area of Vancouver so I can be assured I won’t run into anyone I know. I also don’t linger. No hot tub, thank you very much.

 

Being anorexic, all the body flashing stokes negative thinking about my own body. I need to be thinner. Why don’t the love handles ever go away? Sigh, any muscle mass I’d attained is fading with age.

 

This is primetime for body baring at beaches and while jogging outdoors. It was particularly hot in Vancouver last week and so I set out to cycle at 6 a.m. Already there were men walking and running shirtless on the seawall. I suppose my history of melanoma and my propensity to avoid midday sun spare me peak flesh exposure hours. There always seems to be a silver lining to various conditions I have or have had.

 

Still, there are times, even months beyond summer season, when I feel that being a gay man is particularly daunting for a person who is, in general, flash-averse. This morning in my Facebook feed, some guy in the group Gay Men’s Life After 60 posted a shirtless pic in jean shorts and received 419 likes. God, we really are a needy lot. I often look at a few gay news and writing websites to keep informed, to look for possible ideas for this blog and to consider whether I may have an article or idea to pitch to them. A week ago, I checked out Out Traveler for the first time. For a guy like me, it was a jarring introduction. 

 

The image of a Montreal winter
that NO ONE has.

The first images were of younger gay men in nothing but the tiniest of swimwear. Whether the article was about a hotel, a music festival or even Montreal as a winter vacation spot, it didn’t matter. The photos inviting you to click to read the article all included men who’d misplaced their shirts. I had to scroll down a ways before I found an article about lesbians. The image included smiling women in casual clothing…no one in a swimsuit. The first article about people who are trans featured a photo of a train. But, if something had anything to do with gay men, the requisite photo had to focus on shirtlessness and a decent body. The site only underscored the impression that gay men are shallow and gay “culture” is focused on being young. No, I would not be writing for this site. It was most definitely not a place for me.

 

I subscribe to notifications for a smaller gay travel website based in Canada, having first been referred to the editor after I’d pitched a travel article to a mainstream travel site. When I clicked on the latest features, I scrolled to the bottom where the editor always posts a short essay related to something about travel. This time his photo featured him without a shirt, showing off a nice chest. I’m sorry, but this seemed an odd choice for an editor’s photo—unprofessional, perhaps. The editor changes his photo each time, but the shirtless one is in regular rotation. Every time I see it I get the feeling this is also not a site I can write for. 

 

Years ago, I had problems with the Advocate’s online presence. When I was coming out in the late ’80s and early ’90s, I subscribed to Advocate magazine. It was a resource for me to read about what was happening in terms of queer rights throughout the U.S., where I lived at the time. I felt it was like a gay version of Time magazine. But as an online site that depended on generating clicks, the publication went through its own shirtless phase. Best photos from Philadelphia Pride! Best shots from London Pride! It was a sure bet that there were plenty of pictures of young and buff gay men in skimpy swim trunks. But perusing the site now, Advocate seems to have mostly gone back to its roots as a source for queer news—several articles about trans rights, a story about the tragedy at Berlin Pride, a few posts about anti-gay politicians. I had to scroll down quite a bit before coming upon a photo of two young, shirtless men for an article from July 16 entitled, “29 nude beaches every gay man should visit.” Gay men…still with a shallow side but less prominently so. Whew, I guess. To be fair CNN published a similar article yesterday, “Dare to bare: 25 of the world’s best nude beaches.” Yes, some people get concerned about tan lines though I’m not sure how that makes a list of nude beaches newsworthy. 

 

I am being picky but the ageism continues on gay sites with this being the lead photo for Advocate’s nude beach piece:

 

CNN, by contrast, included this pic:

 

Think I’ll leave it at that. Shirts for all, please. At least in the tote bag.

 

 

 

 

   

 

   

"I SEE DEAD PEOPLE"

At some point in the past two decades, I streamed The Sixth Sense. It must have been a dreary day, probably while I was living in isolation on British Columbia’s Sunshine Coast. It’s not really my type of movie. What sticks with me is an image of teary, traumatized ten-year-old Haley Joel Osment saying, “I see dead people.”

 

Now, in 2026, I can say the same thing. I’m not sure if sixty-one-year-old me is any more composed.

 

Dang social media. My problem these days involves Facebook and Instagram. I’ve fallen into some irksome algorithm that gives me a daily dose of the deceased. 

At first, it was an AI novelty. Each day on Facebook, there would be images of the cast of a movie or TV show from decades ago. The “then” image of Little House on the Prairie’s Melissa Gilbert would be joined sitting on a bench alongside her “now” image. “Then” Melissa Sue Anderson would meet her “now” self. I would linger for the nostalgic stirrings linked to a ’70s series that I watched weekly during childhood, back when there were only three channels to choose from. I’d smile when Alison Arngrim appeared. She played the unlikable Nellie on Little House, but I’d sat a pew away from her at a pro-LGBTQ church in L.A. during the early ’90s. A good person, it seemed, in real life. I’d see then-and-now Matthew Labyorteaux who played adorable Albert. (Still adorable.) 

But then there would be Michael Landon, his “now” image appearing with white angel’s wings, followed by angel versions of Mr. and Mrs. Oleson. Landon died too soon, as we tend to say, at the age of fifty-four while Mr. and Mrs. Oleson (actors Richard Bull and Katherine MacGregor) lived until eighty-nine and ninety-three, respectively. 

 

The next day, it might be the cast of TV’s Knots Landing or Angie or the movie The Lost Boys. Usually, I’d pause and let the whole reel play, intrigued enough to see what Joan Van Ark and Michele Lee look like today and, yes, morbidly curious over who has died. There were surprises and sad reminders. Oh, how I loved Doris Roberts in Angie but so much more so in Everybody Loves Raymond.

 

I’d become tense during each reel, bracing for whose AI image would don angel wings. Being as I’d scroll through Facetime while I was groggy and still had bedhead, it was a downer of a way to begin the day. I knew I needed to shake off the sudden knowledge that Eight Is Enough’s Adam Rich, aka Nicholas Bradford, died in 2023 and the reminder that Malcolm-Jamal Warner from The Cosby Show died last year from accidental drowning, but somehow that felt disrespectful, too. How could I go out and grab an oat milk latte at a local café and write on as if these posts about celebrity deaths could be brushed off as some perverse form of entertainment?

Thankfully, my favourite series, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, never came up since everyone but Joyce Bulifant (Murray’s wife, Marie) and Lisa Gerritsen (Phyllis’ daughter, Bess) would have angel wings. Too much death even if it was a show that debuted fifty-six years ago.

 

This nostalgic novelty became too much for me. I’d scroll past and beg the algorithm to recognize how quickly I skipped over these posts. Please, no more angel-winged celebs in my daily feed! There was no benefit. Did I really need to see what Michael Gross, the dad from Family Ties, looks like today? (No angel wings…whew.) 

 

During the past couple of weeks, Facebook, Instagram and Twitter seem to have upped the posts regarding famous people who have died. Some of it may have been stoked by the fact Lindsey Graham and Sam Neill trended for days after their deaths. These social media platforms picked up on the fact that the public was curious about certain dead people, whether beloved or reviled. Suddenly, it seemed that other posts were being boosted regarding deaths of folks who’d had some time in the public eye…a band member from a group I’d never heard of, a player for the Blue Jays in the ’90s, TV and big screen actors whose time in the spotlight preceded my birth. 

 

I can see the operators of Facebook and Instagram frothing and running their hands together, back and forth. They want dead people…we’ll give them dead people!

 

But, gosh, please count me out. All this death gets me thinking of my own demise. It’s a terrible way to start the day, making me want to climb back up the stairs—I can still do that—and hide under the covers.

 

There are many days when I still feel like I’m in my thirties. Other days, that is but a wish. But whatever the sentiment of the day, I’d like to think I’m a couple of decades away from saying, “All of my friends are dead.” Maybe I’m kidding myself. By golly, I’ve already outlived Michael Landon, Malcolm-Jamal Warner and little Nicholas Bradford! Perhaps it’s a good time to update my will.

 

Three days ago, I got another Google Alert that another one of my namesakes had died. (That’s what I get for having a common name. I’ve died countless times and been arrested for heinous crimes.) 

 

Let death be off the table for this week. Let me scroll really, really fast past any announcements and tributes. Let the algorithm determine I’m a cold, heartless man who doesn’t want to mourn and has no propensity for nostalgic downturns. I know that, on average, 150,000 to 180,000 people in the world die each day—oh, dear, what will Googling that do to my social media feeds?!—but let me put my head in the sand, ignoring all that loss just like I’m ignoring the lingering pain in my right knee from Saturday morning’s jog. Let me be vibrant and alive. Let me pretend I’m thirty-four…or thirty-nine and a half. Let me spend the next seven days blissfully ignorant of any new activity in The Grim Reaper’s logbook. Bring back that video with a moose traipsing through a sprinkler! Show me more recipes with cottage cheese as a main ingredient in entrees (blech). Allow me to “like” my friend David’s new speedboat in peace.

 

Let me live without death seeming like it’s lurking everywhere.