Tag: Health

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The Recliner, by Betsy

I do not own a recliner. In fact I never have owned one. I do not recall ever having one in our house when I was growing up. So I cannot say I really miss having a recliner. But I cannot say I never sit in one either because I have utilized certain recliners throughout my life. At this time in my life I find myself in one twice a year on a rather consistent basis.

I have always been conscientious about taking care of my teeth. Early in life my parents made me do that. So I guess I developed a good habit then which I continued into adulthood.

As a child my visits to the dentist were frequent. Like most children I dreaded them. I regarded them as trips to the torture chamber. The day my baby teeth were all gone and my permanent teeth were in place, my dental problems began and so too my frequent visits to the torture chamber began.

I was never offered the option of fluoride to protect my teeth which teeth were above average in their propensity to decay. In the 1940’s when fluoridation of water was first introduced, it was from the start controversial. In the 1950’s and 60’s fluoridation of the public water supply was regarded by some as a communist plot to undermine the health of the people of the United States. This belief had been especially entrenched on the east coast where I lived. Consequently it was not until I was about 60 years old then I had my first fluoride treatment.

By then, however, I had had most of my molars drilled out to nubbins and filled with amalgam which lasts about 40-50 years. When I came to Colorado in1970 and had my first appointment, every new dentist I had said the same thing. “Now open please. Ohhhh, hmmmm, I see you’re from the east coast. Your teeth seem to be in good repair—mostly repair.” Well, my fillings had been there for 40-50 years and they were beginning to crumble.

Fortunately I had a wonderful dentist when I was in my 50’s and 60’s. I had a good job which provided some kind of dental insurance. My dentist said to me, “ We have to replace all your repaired teeth with crowns.” That meant almost all my molars needed crowns. It took about ten years to accomplish that. It got so that every visit to the dentist when I walked in the door the staff would announce , “Betsy’s here for another coronation!” Dr. Jones said to me once, “I only know one other person who has more crowns in her mouth than you, and that’s my wife.” Anyway those crowns are still serving me well today. I would love to have some of the glue they use to glue them on. Wow, what a glue that is—really strong and never dries out.

They say you can’t remember pain. Maybe you can’t recreate it, but I sure can remember it was painful in that early torture chamber. That was before they used novocain. And the drill was so very slow. Dr Bienville, my childhood dentist, was not my favorite person. He would hold the drill in his hand and say, “This won’t hurt.” I knew good and well it would hurt. The instant the torture devise touched my tooth the nerve would send a searing hot pain down my arm to the ends of my fingernails or leg and toenails depending on the tooth being drilled. Yes, it was torture. And it would go on for what seemed like hours.

My teenage dentist was not much better. By then we had novocain and once that was very painfully injected into my gum, I knew there was a God. Mercifully, no pain while drilling.

Getting the injection was painful, the needles were huge, but the pain of the needle didn’t endure for hours like the drilling.

Dr. Young, however, had other means of causing discomfort. He, not so young, loved young women. He was always trying to wipe his hands on my bib, right in the area of……..well you can guess. Yes, he did that. I had been warned about this by my friends, and didn’t think he would try it on me, but sure enough, he did. From then on, I took to sitting with my arms crossed over my chest when his hands were free. He got the message and probably worried that I might tell my mother.

Today I really don’t mind going to the dentist. His cute young always female assistants do all the work and they are gentle and friendly chatting away as I sit there unable to form a word in reply.

I have to say I am a bit intimidated by the exam which entails her probing the edges of my gums and announcing a number from 1-5 depending on how bad the gap between my tooth and the gum is. A quick probe and the number is announced and recorded. I dread hearing “3” as that’s a bad score for any tooth. Several fours and I know I’m in trouble. I always feel like I’m on trial when they do that exam. Will I pass, or will I get scolded for not flossing enough. Flossing, they say, is essential for healthy gums. I must say their strategy is effective. I find myself flossing all the time so I’ll get a good score. They know I like to compete even against my own gums. It works.

Over my lifetime I have not just observed—I have experienced huge strides in the practice of dentistry. A clear journey from the torture chamber to the recliner and pain free application of new techniques and preventive treatments.

I also realize I have been one of the fortunate ones. Even though my teeth were prone to decay easily, I have lived a long life with the same teeth, at least the roots. And the bad parts have been repaired and replaced so that I enjoy a healthy mouthful of efficient chewing machines. This is something for which I am very grateful. Had I not had any dental care I know I would not have any teeth—at least not my own—and along with that I would be having chronic problems with my mouth and who knows, probably problems with my overall health as lack of dental care can cause many general health problems.

So thank you, thank you to all my dentists and their cute young technicians in whose recliners in which I have been fortunate enough to lie.

© 3 February 2017

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

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The Energy Drain, by Phillip Hoyle

I had been worrying over what I called an energy drain and presented my concern to my doctor along with my generally feeling off, itchy, and lethargic. I said, “I wonder if one of the two prescriptions I’m taking could be to blame.” Dr. Elango picked up his smart phone and started punching at it. I assumed he was connecting with the HMO’s website. The room was silent as he concentrated, his face expressionless like a student in a library. He frowned, then smiled at me and said, “Neither of your meds have those side effects.”

“Good,” I said, “because they seem to be helping me.”

The doctor asked, “Phillip, don’t you take some supplements?”

“I’ve quit most of them but still take a multi-vitamin and a single Saint John’s Wort capsule daily,” I said.

Doctor started poking at his phone again. “The symptoms you described are all possible side effects of St. John’s Wort. You know,” he looked up, “even supplements have side effects.”

I agreed to quit taking that pill even though I had an extra bottle not yet opened. I so wanted to feel better that practicality lost. Still, the next morning as I prepared to get rid of the pills, I hesitated since I had begun taking the herbal anti-depressant years before when my partner Michael died. Back then I didn’t want to slide into some emotional morass due to the grief I was experiencing. With the pill I seemed to do just fine. About two years later when Rafael died, I upped the dosage to two capsules a day mindful of a character in the TV show “Will and Grace” who finally admitted he’d been taking eight capsules daily. I didn’t want to be like him. Even though I had doubled my dosage, I found my grief more intense that time as if I were experiencing grief on top of grief. Eventually I returned to one pill daily and seemed just fine. But the fine effect apparently failed after fifteen years and gave me the group of symptoms I described to my doctor. I quit and have nothing more to say about the episode except that when I followed my doctor’s advice those symptoms disappeared.

But now some months later I am worrying over a slight feeling of anxiety I cannot seem to overcome. I’m tired of how I feel, but at least I’ll have something to say to my doctor at my next physical still seven months off. I feel worked up and have less energy than I want, but I don’t have those age-related unrealistic desires like returning to what I was at age thirty-five. I just want more pep so I can accomplish more things with the time I have available. I am open to advice from friends but most of them think I’m already too busy. I don’t want more social responsibilities or more leadership in any programs. I have plenty of that to keep me at least half awake, and some nights way too awake or awakening from some responsibility dream or worse yet some date I had made but hadn’t put on the family calendar. But to call any of this actual worry or actual anxiety—you know of the clinical type—doesn’t seem warranted.

Doctor did give me some great practical advice about one of my symptoms, dry skin. He said, “Get some lotion and put it on every day.” I had been using sunscreen for many years but hadn’t considered adding just plain old lotion. I didn’t want to begin smelling like a rose or a lily so I bought lotion for men. Even so, a friend embracing me one day said, “You smell good.”

Like a good queer I said, “Well thank you,” but just at the last second stopped myself from saying, “I try.” You see I’m a self-respecting queer. So surely I will get over the energy drain quickly enough. And I’ll begin wearing enough lotion the rest of my life for the wind not to cause unnecessary friction and enough for anxieties to slide right off my shoulders. At least those are my goals. “Energy drain, be gone.”

© 28 November 2016

About the Author

Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, and socializing. In general he keeps busy with groups of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”

He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com

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Smoking, by Betsy

I started smoking in my last year of high school. It was presented to me not as an option, but rather as “of course your going to smoke, adults do it and now that you are an adult there is no reason not to be a smoker.” This was early 1950’s and there was nothing in my conscious mind that told me I shouldn’t. I knew my parents would disapprove. They would think I wasn’t old enough. But what did they know? And in a year or so they would realize I was old enough to smoke.

In college most of us smoked. Between classes, before classes, and after classes, mornings, evenings, and weekends. At parties and in our rooms. The father of one of my classmates was the CEO of Reynolds tobacco. The tobacco companies were “in high cotton” in those days.

All our heroes and heroines smoked. In the movies the doctor consulting with his patient was sitting at his desk smoking a cigarette. The advertisements led you to believe that if you smoked, your image would improve and you would become much more sophisticated and successful. Everyone smoked from the Marlboro man to the savvy housewife. Everyone smoked everywhere from the workplace to any public place including public transportation vehicles, eating places, drinking places, shopping places, the doctor’s office, and, of course, at home.

I don’t actually remember how I got started. Probably someone gave me a cigarette. I do remember how it felt the first time I took a drag and inhaled. It made me dizzy and made me cough. It didn’t particularly taste good either, but I persisted and after a couple of tries I was hooked.

I’ve never done any drugs other than tobacco and I do drink alcohol, but rather sparingly.

Cigarettes were my addiction of choice. I smoked about one pack a day until the early sixties.

I smoked through 3 pregnancies, by the grace of God with no apparent consequences to the babies. Then the revelation that it was hazardous to one’s health started to trickle out into the public consciousness. I remember we started calling cigarettes “coffin nails. I think I’ll have a coffin nail. Ha, ha,” We would say to our friends, not realizing this was no joke.

I read now that the link between tobacco and health problems was suspected in the 1930’s. The link to lung cancer was discovered and confirmed in Britain in the early 1950’s. Apparently the American cigarette companies did a really good job of keeping the information regarding the health effects of smoking to themselves and away from the public. Finally some surgeon general came out with the pronouncement in 1964 that cigarette smoking could cause lung cancer. Finally, our government took steps to make it much harder to be a smoker. But 10 years had passed since the British doctors had linked smoking with cancer and other deceases.

Quitting smoking was one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. I did quit by 1964 or so. But when I came out in the 80’s I wanted the comfort of an old “friend” so I resurrected my old friend, cigarettes, and in no time at all was hooked again after two decades of not smoking. After a couple of cigarettes it was as if I had never stopped smoking for those 20 years.

Quitting smoking a second time was at least 2X harder than the first. In fact, it took several years of trying to stop before I was successful in staying quit—as they say.

I tried several different programs designed to help boost one’s resolve or scare one into quitting by relating all the horrors caused by habitual smoking. After struggling many times to quit I realized that what I hated most about smoking was my being dependent on something. Those darn things were controlling my life. My daily activities revolved around when I would have my next cigarette. I hated being controlled enough finally to say goodbye to the horrible things. How many packs of cigarettes did I buy, smoke one, destroy the rest of the pack in my resolve to quit, only to return to the store the next day or so to do it again. In those days a pack cost bout $1.25. That’s a lot of money for one cigarette.

I have seen friends of my age group with the same smoking history quit for a year or so, declare they can quit if they want to, and then return to smoking confident they can quit if they have to.

For one thing one year of no smoking is no where near long enough to be able to say you are free of the habit.

It is not only the drug nicotine that is addictive. Smoking quickly becomes a behavior addiction.

I think this is why it takes years and years to be free of the habit—long after all traces of the drug have left the body.

In my experience after five tobacco free years, I could say I was more or less safe from the danger of slipping back into the habit. As to the damage done to my body is concerned, I have no idea whether or not having smoked cigarettes for one quarter of my life will take a significant toll. But I have no doubt there must be some price to pay, hopefully insignificant. Did I benefit in any way from taking up the habit? That’s a no brainer. NO! Some say it’s pleasant to smoke. What that really means is that when the withdrawal from the drug begins to make you feel uncomfortable it feels pleasant to ward off the encroaching discomfort by lighting up once again.

Today the proven detrimental effects of smoking are known to almost everyone. Tobacco companies are held responsible for the harm their product causes in the U.S. Cigarette sales have plummeted in the U.S. in recent decades and young people do not seem to be taking up the slack and are choosing not to smoke.

Despite what is happening here big tobacco is thriving globally. Smoking rates in developing countries far exceed those here. Population growth and growing incomes contribute largely to the increasing rates of tobacco use in those countries. So cigarettes will continue to be produced and sold in growing amounts.

Because of my love affair with cigarettes I learned something very important about myself.

I learned to stay away from addictive substances of any kind. Once I had quit smoking I never ever wanted to go through quitting anything addictive again. For that lesson I am grateful.

© 15 August 2016

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

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A Visit to the Doctor/Nurse by Pat Gourley

“The responsibility of the nurse is not to make people well, or to prevent their getting sick, but to assist people to recognize the power that is within them to move to higher levels of consciousness.”

Margaret A. Newman, Health as Expanding Consciousness, 1994.
There are fresh flowers daily, AIDS Grove in Golden Gate Park
Photo by Author

I would have thought that after forty years in health care and thirty-five of them as an R.N. I could write on this in my sleep. That proved not to be the case.

Looking back on my own considerable number of visits to a nurse or doctor and the many thousands of interactions I have had where I was the nurse I do think the most satisfying and hopefully successful interactions were those that could be characterized as a partnership.
The realization, that I suppose was forced on me through my own HIV infection and then being in a caring capacity for many dying from AIDS, was that we, the medical establishment, were essentially helpless to make it all better. Our role seemed to be postponing and ameliorating the inevitable. This could obviously get very depressing in a hurry and I was occasionally asked over my 20 years of direct HIV care why I hadn’t “burned out.” I guess I never had a very good answer for that but looking back then and now I think I never felt that way, certainly not for very long.

Even in an AIDS clinic I was able to find joy in my work. On my best days I think it can be summed up with another quote from Newman: “The joy of nursing lies in being fully present with the clients in the disorganization and uncertainty of their lives – an unconditional acceptance of the unpredictable, paradoxical nature of life.” In other words always be aware that shit happens to everyone sooner or later. My own personal description of confronting this reality goes something like this. “Hey, we are all in this together and its always going to be messy, whether we are talking about the secret sauce from that Big Mac dripping down our chins or the drainage coming out of our private parts.”

A totally anecdotal observation on my part, and one certainly not applicable to all, is that hospice and oncology nurses tend to hang in there for a long time whereas ICU and ER folks tend to come and go much more quickly. Maybe that is why you see so many young ones in the urgent care settings and a lot more grey hair on those hanging your chemo. Perhaps this is due to a relationship in one setting predicated on a lot of adrenalin and the “I am here to save you” mentality while the other being more of a partnership that involves mutual problem solving around the issue for the day. Or perhaps it just takes a few decades to learn the art of compassionate communication?

I certainly am not suggesting that if you go to an ER with crushing chest pain that you should first insist on a mutual dialogue to outline a plan of care before they reach for the nitroglycerin. Give the providers all the pertinent information they ask for and then let them do their thing and hopefully they won’t have to reach for the paddles.

A key realization I came to some decades back, and I relate it to a combination of ICU nursing and the books of a physician named Larry Dossey, was that you really cannot as a provider and also as a patient view illness as bad or a failure. Margaret Newman, the nursing theorist quoted above, also planted the seeds for this in my nursing school years. I think it was Dossey who brought to my attention that health and illness are really two sides of the same coin; you cannot have the realization of one without the other.

It is, I think, when either or both the provider and the patient, perhaps even just subliminally, have the idea that someone has fucked-up that the real trouble starts. This leads to judgment and defensiveness and not an honest sharing of all the gory details that are often a part of everyone’s life. I am not implying that we don’t often make impertinent choices that have consequences, but that should not compromise the reality of the here and now and certainly does not need to define how we and our nurse or doctor will address the problem on the table at that moment. Those of us repetitive sinners can take some, rather sick I suppose, solace from the fact that a whole bunch of bad stuff happens even to those who are always doing it the “right way.”

What I think Newman was referring to as “moving to higher levels of consciousness” is realizing that we do not need to make so many impertinent choices.

As a patient if you have a truly nonjudgmental provider, not always easy to find, there is absolutely nothing you can tell them that will shock or if it does it will be only a transient reaction that is soon put into appropriate perspective. All the cards need to be on the table or an effective plan for addressing the issue at hand is often needlessly delayed. When honesty is involved many fewer mistakes get made in deciding on any intervention.

An example of this I heard once was, “I think I got this hepatitis from a bad lime in my drink at the Triangle,” when much more helpful information would have been, “Do you think maybe I got this from licking butt at the baths a couple weeks ago?” I have countless examples of this sort of magical thinking handed to me perhaps in an attempt to either not shock me or make me not think less of the person. Happily over the years of building trust with many of my clients we were able to dispense with the bullshit and cut to the chase, almost always facilitating a better outcome.

If we as both patients and providers could approach each encounter as an endeavor at caring for the soul everyone would be much better off. I’d close with another quote this one from Thomas Moore and his 1992 book Care of the Soul:

“Care of the soul… isn’t about curing, fixing, changing, adjusting or making healthy…. It doesn’t look to the future for an ideal, trouble free existence. Rather, it remains patiently in the present, close to life as it presents itself day by day….”

Gourley 6/23/2013

About the Author

I was born in La Porte Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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Game, Set, Match by Betsy

     I started out in the sport of tennis later in life. I discovered that it took very little time away from my three young children to play a couple of sets, not a great deal of expensive equipment, and there were plenty of courts around town, the closest to my home here in Denver being at the time in City Park. This, as well as the fact that I loved it. I started out taking lessons at City Park courts from an old man named Mr. Harper. He could hardly move, but he knew the right concepts and how to teach them. I grew to respect his teaching greatly.

     Through the 1970s and into the 1990s I played many tournaments and leagues as well as for no particular reason at all. I think I still have a few dust-covered trophies in a cabinet somewhere to remind me of the competitions.

     The greatest benefit of playing tennis has been the many friends I made. When I retired in 1998 I decided to get serious about my game and joined the Denver Tennis Club. This is a club for tennis lovers–no swimming, no indoor facilities except locker rooms and sign-in desk and directors’ offices and a place to sit and relax. There is no bar at this club, just a coke machine. The focus is on the 12 outdoor courts located in the heart of Denver where it has been since 1928.

     Many wonderful things have happened due to my passion for playing tennis. Perhaps the best of these was my participation in the 1990 and 1994 Gay Games. The best tennis experience for me was in Gay Games III in 1990. Many athletes in just about every sport along with various GLBT choruses descended on the city of Vancouver, British Columbia, that summer of 1990. Much preparation and practice went into sending about 300 LGBT athletes from Colorado to this Gay Games and Cultural Festival III.

     Our infant tennis team was not well organized and had not had much chance to practice together. But a friend I had know for a number of years, a former H.S. tennis coach, had asked me if I wanted to go to the games and play doubles with her. Of course, I jumped at the invitation. Mind you, one does not have to qualify. You just get your name on the roster and go.

     Team Colorado–all 300 of us–were quite impressive when we finally all stood together in our uniform sweat suits at the ceremonial start of the event–a parade of the 7,300 participants representing 39 countries and 27 sports. The US–which had hosted the first and second quadrennial event, Gay Games I and II, had by far the largest contingent. But many came from Australia and Germany which were soon to become home of future Gay Games events. Canada, of course had a huge interest this being the first games on their side of the border.

     The Province, a conservative Vancouver newspaper, writes on its editorial page:

     “Almost a year ago, we called these gay games ‘silly.’ What’s next? we asked. Bisexual games? Asexual games? What, we queried, does sexual orientation have to do with the high jump? Since then, we’ve been educated. We’ve learned that these games are intended to build bridges, strengthen community and bolster self-esteem. Members of groups that bear the brunt of society’s ignorance and fear need to make special efforts to support each other. And sometimes they need to stand up and be counted. “It is not for us to question — so long as others are not being hurt — how the homosexual community chooses to celebrate itself and to educate us, any more than it is our place to question how native Indians or blacks or women choose to define and redefine themselves.” “What of the AIDS spectre? AIDS as a sexual issue is no more relevant to these games than it is to a convention of heterosexual mountaineers or carpet layers. These games are, above all, about having fun. It isn’t often we get to have fun and, at the same time, learn about tolerance, compassion and understanding. B.C. residents should go out to some of the events of the 1990 Gay Games and Cultural Festival.”*

     Vancouver is a wonderful city and we had a ball. Another comment that sticks in my mind was from another article in The Province. An event called Seafest was going on in the city at the same time as the games. The newspaper described Seafest as a drunken brawl with loud, rowdy, trash dropping people from all over the world attending. It goes into some length describing the unruly behavior of the Seafest participants. The article continues.

     “The GAY GAMES also brought in Zillions of men and women who spent lorryloads of money and indeed cluttered up the sidewalks, but who picked up their garbage, laughed a lot, said ‘excuse me’ and ‘good evening’ and ‘thank you’ a whole ton and, if they got drunk and disorderly, at least had the good taste not to do it under my bedroom window. In fact, the only disconcerting noise in the West End during the games was created by the yahoos who cruised the streets in their big egos and macho little trucks while shouting obscenities at anyone they deemed to be gay.”*

     Gay Games III was in every way a memorable experience for me personally. Gill was there with me cheering me on. Most of our time however was spent sight-seeing and enjoying watching the sports events. It was all quite new to me–all these gay people together. The men competing on the croquet lawn with their exotic hats and chiffon gowns flowing in the breeze as they wielded their mallets– that image will be with me forever.

     I managed to win a silver medal in the tennis competition. All the tennis awards were presented by a gay man whose name I forget. I do remember that he was an openly gay member of Canada’s parliament. Of course he was out. This was Canada.

     Four years later I would participate in Gay Games IV in New York. I was able to share this experience with my daughter Lynne who lived not far from NY City in New Haven, Connecticut. This is when my lesbian daughter came out to me. When I told her I was coming to New York to play tennis in the Gay Games she replied Oh good!! We’ll go together. I’m going to participate in the games too, Mom. I’m playing on the Connecticut women’s soccer team.” Yes, that was her coming out statement to me! We did enjoy that time together and watched each other in our respective competitions and cheered each other on.

     The New York event drew 12,500 participants from 40 countries. It was definitely a proud and memorable moment for me when I found myself marching with my daughter in a parade of 12,000 LGBT athletes through Yankee stadium to the cheers of tens of thousands of supporters and spectators.

     I do like the sound of that word “athlete.” It is important to note that the event was never intended to be focused on athletic ability alone, however. In the words of Olympic track star Tom Waddell whose inspiration gave birth to the games in the 1980s, “The Gay Games are not separatist, they are not exclusive, they are not oriented to victory, and they are not for commercial gain. They are, however, intended to bring a global community together in friendship, to experience participation, to elevate consciousness and self-esteem and to achieve a form of cultural and intellectual synergy…..We are involved in the process of altering opinions whose foundations lie in ignorance. “

     I have not attended another Gay Games since 1994. But the event continues in various parts of the world and has forever etched it’s name in the annals of sporting events.

     I am still playing tennis 20 years after the NY Gay Games–no tournaments, just an old ladies’ league called super seniors and with friends two or three times per week at the Denver Tennis Club. I suppose the day will come when I can no longer hit that ever-so-satisfying backhand down the line winner, but I’m not planning on that happening any time soon. As far as I’m concerned I will keep getting better until I can’t hear those three little words anymore–game,set, match!

Cockburn, Lyn. “Some Games can be a real education.” Pacific Press Limited, The Province, Sunday, August 12,1990.

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver women’s chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change). She has been retired from the Human Services field for about 15 years. Since her retirement, her major activities include tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with National Sports Center for the Disabled, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and enjoys spending time with her four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 25 years, Gillian Edwards.

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Natural Enemies by Gillian

          Where we live in Lakewood there are several Rec. Centers within a few miles, and through Kaiser’s Silver Sneakers program membership to all of them, including 24 Hour Fitness, is free.

          So I have a stack of membership cards of which I was quite proud until Betsy the physical fitness freak explained patiently to me one day that the cards themselves in fact do very little to improve my fitness.

          I have to go to these godawful places.

          And worse than that, I have to stay there. For an hour, two, or even three.

          And still worse, I have to do unspeakable things while I’m there.

          Ah well, I suspect The Gym and I are simply natural enemies in the way of the fabled snake and mongoose. I will never learn to love it, but if I could simply leave my body there to get on with it and send my mind off elsewhere it wouldn’t really be too bad.

          However, much as The Gym is the epitome of mindless activity, there are pitfalls associated with excusing my brain from attendance.

          I find it necessary to count and/or time my activities, or else I cheat; 100 of this repetition, 50 of that, ten minutes on this machine, fifteen on that.

          I would so much prefer not to think of any of it and free my mind to write about our current week’s topic or listen to a book on CD, but alas I’ve found that when I try this, my workout is miraculously curtailed. Twenty minutes and I’m done!

          Well I thought I did at least 100 leg lifts, and surely I sweated on that machine for half an hour?

          No, I’m not to be trusted, so my mind must remain in the dreaded gym with my body at all times.

          By it’s very nature, the Gym is an unlovely place.

          But those who are in charge seem to go out of their way to add to the awfulness in all possible ways.

          Walls of mirrors, for God’s sake! What’s that about? Whatever nasty activity I’m performing I’m forced to see myself at it from ten different angles with no place to go to get away from myself.

          Now perhaps some of those young svelte creatures, bodies apparently not yet affected by the pull of gravity and clearly created without sweat glands, like nothing better than watching themselves in fluid effortless motion.

          And, I have to admit, why not? Their brightly colored form-fitting Spandex clings to every perfect curve without even a hint of one ounce of excess fat.

          I on the other hand am in little danger of engendering narcissism as I catch glances, no matter how hard I try not to, of this lumbering old body draped in ragged sweats, huffing and puffing amidst rolls of misplaced misshapen flabby flesh.

          It really should be confined to the privacy of it’s on home.

          So, yes, I try not to look at the mirrors which grace every wall, but what other choices are there?

          I can of course simply gaze with longing upon the aforementioned nubile young things, but I’m forced to confess that palls after only a few minutes.

          At my age it’s a bit like a dog chasing a car. Whatever would I do if I caught one??

          What does that leave? Oh God forbid, the TV. Banks of them, high up on the wall beyond the reach of prying hands hoping to change channels.

           Oh no! You will watch what they, whoever they may be, want you to watch or whatever they have decided you should want to watch. That means half a dozen sets tuned to ESPN and the rest of them showing FOX News. The latter is definitely not on my agenda so that leaves endless replays of Sunday’s NFL games or, no, wait a minute, there’s live football…oh, but it’s two local high school teams and the score is 73 to 3 – and it’s still the first half.

          The best, perhaps the only entertainment provided by the TV is the automated translation of the spoken word into printed words on the screen, as of course all the sets are muted.

          The computer programs which perform this function work much better than they did not so long ago but they still fall into frequent misinterpretation.

          President Obama undressed Congress. Now there’s an ugly vision.

          Dozens of thinks roll down the streets of Lybia. In fact a few thinks might be more beneficial than tanks….but..

          Well at least it’s good for a laugh, which is something not widely on offer at the Gym. This is a serious place.

          And that’s just one more reason I don’t like it, and I suspect it doesn’t particularly care for me. I don’t greatly enhance its image after all.

          But, like that snake and mongoose or the wolf and the moose or many other of nature’s natural enemies, The Gym and I need each other and so our fraught relationship continues.

          As it will, with luck, for many years to come.

About the Author

I was born and raised in England. After graduation from college there, I moved to the U.S. and, having discovered Colorado, never left. I have lived in the Denver-Boulder area since 1965, working for 30 years at IBM. I married, raised four stepchildren, then got divorced after finally, in my forties, accepting myself as a lesbian. I have now been with my wonderful partner Betsy for 25 years.

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Never Never Land by Donny Kaye

          In a time before reality TV and neighborhood video stores; long before Netflix was even a conception because there was no “NET” other than in women’s stockings and the fisherman’s contraption for pulling the resistant fish from its waters, and at a time when we still referred to theatres as just that, I saw Peter Pan. I was probably seven or eight years of age when we rode the bus down Broadway to the Paramount Theatre on 16th Street, to see Walt Disney’s newly-released production of Peter Pan. It was most likely then that I was most able to identify with the thought of Never Never Land, a place best known for eternal childhood and immortality. It seems that in the years that followed I moved farther and farther from the ability to exist in a simpler realm where life was childlike and pretty easy. At that point the world had not totally had its way with me in terms of experiencing society’s harsh need to have me be something other than what and who I am.

          As a seven year old, I was unfamiliar with the story of Peter Pan by J. Barrie and immediately loved the characterizations by W. Disney, especially Peter Pan and The Lost Boys. They were magical and yet the experience of the fairy, Tinker Bell, has remained a favorite in my life. Some time ago when I was considering my first tattoo, Tinker Bell actually showed as a possibility, realizing the fairy has always been of special existence in my mind.

          I must admit that I have never desired reading the unabridged work of J. Barrie. In fact, reading Peter Pan has not advanced to my Bucket List however; I am being inspired somewhat just doing background work on the web, in prep for this story. The stories of Never Land are far more complex than the animated cartoon produced by Disney in 1953. Just as intriguing as Barrie’s original creation, are the interpretations of his work. His characters have become the inspiration for psychological theories regarding men, such as the “Peter Pan Syndrome”, and homoerotic discussions of his characters abound on the web.

          What I do know is that there was a time when my life was a lot simpler. The complexities of my family and those of influence over me had not had their way with me yet. As time went on, I quietly assumed others expectations of me as I denied my own desires and to some extent, my own dreams. Never Land was indeed NEVER Land.

          NEVER Land became an experience in my life which was solely fantasy. It existed in animated characters living in magical scenes complete with original musical scores and at times, experienced in 3-D.

          I remember a condominium time share presentation in Orlando, Florida in which after we had been seated in a handsomely decorated and cozy library-study setting, complete with drinks in hand, the book cases on either side of the fireplace began slowly moving. As the book cases and fireplace gave way to a video presentation that would be screened on the newly exposed wall, Tinker Bell actually flew in through the doorway on the opposite side of the room, sprinkling her fairy dust across the room and onto the newly revealed video screen as an arial shot of Disney World and Epcot Center filled the magically expanding space. That seemed as close as I might get at that point in my life to the experiences of Never Land that were waiting for me in my personal journey towards wholeness. If only it would have been as simple as purchasing a time-share in Disney’s newest resort community!

          I don’t know if Never Never Land equates with St. John of the Cross’s Dark Night of the Soul or Dante’s reference to “awakening in the woods to find yourself wholly lost,” but certainly there was somewhat of a nightmarish quality to Captain Hook’s eventually falling from the gang plank in to the water and the awaiting open mouth of the crocodile.

          Some place near the “stars of the milky way” and “always at the time of sunrise”, there is a “turn just after the second star” that takes a person on a path beyond the experience of Never Never Land. Beyond reference to escapism, childishness and immortality is the experience of unity and wholeness that comes as unresolved emotional baggage is discarded and as a result, unconditional joyfulness is experienced.

          Our nightmares, as well as our dreams all exist within us. We are the creators. We can take inspiration from a fairy tale, such as Peter Pan and fall into the experience of our own surrender and opening to our own desire which provides us our own kind of beauty and richness.

          On the other side of Never Never Land, we can emerge transformed, lighter and brighter, braver and more confident for having moved through the experience of the darkness, the nightmare, or the experience of being wholly lost.

          In my reflections on Never Never Land it seems that there is continual movement between different realms of being. As infants we come to this experience called humanity and are moved between Never Never Land; Always Always Land and eventually, transformation into an experience of our own beauty and richness as spiritual beings having a human experience.

About the Author

Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite. He has lived his life posing as a hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that of a gay male. In recent years he has confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated life. “I never forgot for a minute that I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the deepest corners of his memory. Within the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family and friends. Donny is divorced and yet remains closely connected with his family. He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of the GLBTQ community.

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Three Loves: Three Losses by Phillip Hoyle

I tell of Ted, Michael, and Rafael.
I tell of Kaposi’s sarcoma, Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, and Hepatitis
C.
I tell of the loving effects of all on me.
Ted’s illness eventually became the focus of my
relationship to him, a kind of maturing friendship that clarified my need to
take care of another person who was dying. I wanted to attend to him at the end
of his life and realized I’d willingly take a leave of absence from work to do
so. This seemed a great change for me. It also clarified my anger at the church
and society for their often callus response to gay folk in general and
specifically to those living with and dying from HIV-related diseases. It seemed
that in our society to debate long-held fears was more important than to
support people—the real places of life and death.
I found meaning as well as satisfaction in letting Ted
teach me more about the issues and about myself before his death. The last time
we were together—a several-day stay at his home in San Francisco—we visited San
Francisco General Hospital, and I walked around Pacific Heights while he met
with his psychiatrist. We heard Beethoven’s “Missa Solemnis” together, and he
taught me how to smoke marijuana.  He
told me that when his KS lesions so distressed him, he complained to his HIV
physician. “I just can’t stand to look at them.”
“Then don’t,” she responded. “Wear long pants.”
Ted wore long pants but was not doing well on that last
visit. I wanted to return to be with him. Although I volunteered, I wasn’t
called in at the end, which frustrated me. Still, I was able to attend his
memorial service, an experience of balloons, tributes, music, and love.
After I moved to Denver I gave massages at Colorado AIDS
Project as a kind of memorial to my long-time friend Ted. There I met Michael,
a man who came to me for massage. I noticed that he was noticing me. He wanted
more massage. When later he came to my home studio to receive one, I was
pleased and served tea at the end of the session. Then he wanted more than
massage. We began seeing each other socially. Of course, I knew he was HIV
positive. What I didn’t know was that he was losing weight rapidly and that his
numbers were going in the wrong directions. When I realized these distressing
trends, I suggested that at his next medical appointment he show the swollen
lymph nodes in his neck and groin and insist that someone touch them. He did so
and the tests that ensued pinpointed non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I started spending
most nights at his place when he started chemotherapy and discovered just how
much I had come to love him in our short time together. As he sickened I did
more and more of his yard and housework. I wanted him to be comfortable and I wanted
to enjoy his company.
Michael taught me some rather genteel approaches to
breakfast, to eating out, and to living with another man. I was an avid
learner. He also was the occasion for me to see the down side of some gay relationships
particularly as relates to family complications. When his brother and elderly
mother were coming to see him after his chemotherapy had to be discontinued, he
asked me to move back to my apartment during their stay. I was confused but also
realized we are what we are: he was who he was, I was who I was, both imperfect
when coping with the extremities of life. I made sure I dropped by to meet his
family, to be for them one of Michael’s friends. I never knew what they understood
of our relationship.
I did for Michael in his last weeks what I couldn’t do
for Ted: made him comfortable, showered him with my love, sat by him while he
took his final breaths. My sadness mixed with love at his death. I was so
pleased that I had cleaned up after him, prepared his food, and loved him in
the most practical ways possible—the work of family and of gay lovers in the
face of AIDS. In it all, I came to appreciate the effective work of Denver
Health’s clinics and staff. I appreciated the attentions of other friends of
this lover of mine. His memorial service brought together a wide variety of
folk who celebrated his life, friendships, and love.
Some months later I met Rafael at a bus stop. We talked;
we liked each other. Eventually we got together after a frustrating courtship
characterized by my wondering where this cute man was. We came together with an
emotional intensity that surely would have entertained both Ted and Michael and
that surprised me. It also thrilled me to my innermost gay self that I was
still discovering.
Rafael told me he was HIV positive some weeks into this
intense relationship. I said that was fine and told him about Ted and Michael.
We set up housekeeping, but in a few weeks he was growing ill. He too was a
client at the Infectious Diseases Clinic at Denver Health. I warned him I might
cry when we went there because of my memories of going to the same kind of
appointments with Michael.
I felt somewhat like a veteran and told him I wanted to
meet his family before he ended up in the hospital. That didn’t happen. I met
his brother in his room at Denver Health. Later I met his parents and sister at
the same place. I stood by him and helped his family as his illness worsened. We
waited during a surgery on his aorta, made visits to the Intensive Care Unit, the
Intensive Care Step-down Unit, and other floors where he was treated. Finally,
a diagnosis of full-term hepatitis C emerged. Two weeks later, after a one-day
home hospice attempt, the Hospice of St. John took him in. There he died.
I liked that at the end he was surrounded by family. I
was pleased to be included. He had told his parents they’d not be welcome in
our home if they in any way excluded me. This frail man of indomitable spirit
took care of me with his family as I took care of his daily needs. Our love’s
intensity sustained and wrecked us both at the end. I let go gently, deeply
saddened, and with startlingly grateful respect for this man’s life and death.
But I was also afraid of the effect the loss of such an intense relationship
would bring. The resulting low I experienced was as intense as the heights of
the love we shared. I survived. I felt as if Saints Ted and Michael attended me
in my adoration of the beautiful and strong Rafael.
This awful disease with all its science, social ramifications,
and family trauma and drama continues to affect my life daily. Friends and
clients still live and die with its effects. Memories seared deeply into my
brain and body accompany my every move. I continue to hate the disease while I
love those with it, both past and present. 

About the Author

 Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”

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Dis-ease by Donny Kaye

Smile.  The threesome posed with an apprehensive grin
as their buddy taking the picture commented on the potential FaceBook caption
he would assign to this particular photo op,
“My buddies waiting to get tested at the STD Clinic”. 
And then, one-by-one each of
the buddies was called into the clinic offices 
for their chance to fill one of those plastic containers, complete a blood
draw,  and finally, meet with the
counselor. 
“Have you had sex in the
past 48 hours?” questioned the counselor. 
“Yes.” 
“24? ”
“24 what?”
“Hours”
‘”Uh, yes.”
“More recent than 12?”
With a grin and a deep sense
of satisfaction, “Yes.”
The counselor then proceeded
to demonstrate, using his finger, how a condom rides down the organ, exposing
the shaft and consequently exposing the base, you know—The BASE, to potential
infection.  It seemed like the lead into
an infomercial for some type of device, much like a garter that could be
attached somewhere on the body to hold the condom in its appropriate location
for $19.95 (and if ordered within the next while, the order would be
tripled).  Just what was needed for the
threesome who had been waiting in the outer office for their time for direction
and instruction in safe sex. 
Upon leaving the Clinic, the
buddies compared the stash of condoms each had been given proclaiming there was
agreement that they were safe for the next while, at least 48 hours. 
A week later at coffee there
was a sense of relief and satisfaction knowing that each of the three had gotten
his tests back.  All was OK. 
“No syphilis,” the first
proclaimed.
“All is clear with me,”
stated another; only to be joined by the third, “I’m clean.”
There was a deep smile and
hug shared by the three, as they raised their mugs to their mouths and cheered
this most recent reporting.  Something
they have committed to on a routine basis.
AIDS, has become the focus
of health considerations for the GLBT community since the early 1980’s when the
death causing syndrome at the time was first identified.  Especially for men, AIDS was thought by some
to be God’s judgment and retribution for “unnatural relationships between men.”  This particular disease for a while ravaged
the bodies and lives of many of our brothers and sisters, as well. 
As a result of the focus on
AIDS since the 80’s, the disease is better managed within the culture.
AIDS has become part of my life.  Knowing that each of us to some extent live
with AIDS daily, even though it is not in my body, it has become part of my
culture and day-to-day existence.  AIDS
exists all around me and I don’t want it in me. 
Understanding how AIDS has
become part of our culture, and my day-to-day existence, I’m also drawn to the
realization that much of my reaction to life actually creates Dis-Ease.  
Dis-Ease
actually occurs within each of us as we experience the contraction that comes
with judgment, be it judgment about something or someone outside of me, or more
commonly, judgments against my own self. 
It has been suggested by some researchers that there is a physiological
reaction within the bodies various systems to the contraction that is
experienced within when judgment occurs. 
 Judgment causes the very cellular
structure to break down.  The cells
within the body vibrate in a completely dissonant way.  There is contraction.  The fluids do not move through the cells as
they were created to move.  The nutrients
do not become transported or delivered to the cells.  The waste matter is not processed
properly.  Everything gets clogged up,
and there is dis-ease.
Dis-ease
exists within me in a very physiological way. 
Its cause may result from actual physical infection or from the
contractions within resulting from my judgments against myself and others.  Certainly there are measures that I must take
to protect myself from external causes of infection resulting in disease, such
as those recommendations of the STD Clinic staff.  Equally, I must pay attention to the
contractions and disruptions to my bodies various systems that occur when I
experience judgments against myself and others.
I entered the office alone.  There were no buddies, no photo op.
“Have you made any judgments
against yourself or another in the past 48 hours?”
“Yes.” (I mean, after all,
do I want that politician representing me as a gay man?)
“24?”
“Yes.” (Well, the person in
the express checkout line had more than ten items.)
“More recently?”
“Yes.  Actually in the moments before sharing this
writing.”  Stated without a grin or sense
of satisfaction.
Oh for an infomercial
offering some type of device that would help me to self-monitor the judgments
that occur in my mind, moment-by-moment. 
The judgments that create contractions and dis-ease within that can serve to be more lethal than
actually contracting some other dreaded disease, such as AIDS.  The remedy?  Hmmmmmmmm! 
The remedy, self
forgiveness.  For each time I am judging
another, even the driver in front of me or the customer in the express checkout
ahead of me, I’m actually judging myself. 
Certainly those judgments against myself about being unworthy or in some
way, not enough; ripple through my body in the form of contraction that
disrupts the various systems within my body creating dis-ease which can be as life
altering as other forms of disease. 
I am learning what to do to
protect myself from dis-ease.  I take my
vitamins, practice safe sex and even wear my seatbelt.  The consideration that begs my attention is Am I as vigilant about monitoring the
judgments that can exist in my life experience in a very inconspicuous way?
 The judgments that are life altering especially
when I withdraw and step aside out of a sense of unworthiness.
Dis-ease.  I live with it silently.  Separately. 
Alone.  
Hey, what was that 800 number
again?

About the Author

Donny Kaye-Is a native born Denverite.  He has lived his life posing as a
hetero-sexual male, while always knowing that his sexual orientation was that
of a gay male.  In recent years he has
confronted the pressures of society that forced him into deep denial regarding
his sexuality and an experience of living somewhat of a disintegrated
life.  “I never forgot for a minute that
I was what my childhood friends mocked, what I thought my parents would reject
and what my loving God supposedly condemned to limitless suffering.” StoryTime
at The Center has been essential to assisting him with not only telling the
stories of his childhood, adolescence and adulthood but also to merely recall
the stories of his past that were covered with lies and repressed in to the
deepest corners of his memory.  Within
the past two years he has “come out” not only to himself but to his wife of
four decades, his three children, their partners and countless extended family
and friends.  Donny is divorced and yet
remains closely connected with his family. 
He lives in the Capitol Hill Community of Denver, in integrity with
himself and in a way that has resulted in an experience of more fully realizing
integration within his life experiences. He participates in many functions of
the GLBTQ community.  

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The Gym by Donny Kaye

Gym class in 7th grade turned brutal. I attended one of Denver’s roughest junior high schools, which I’m sure was one of the considerations for the set for the filming of West Side Story. I say it was brutal in that it was, brutal!

The 7:00 a.m. class was huge. Mr. Brutal was our teacher of record. Having a last name that began with “S” meant that I was always number 78 or more, in the large gym classes that were basically intended to be a place to keep large numbers of the student body in a holding place so that other classes, such as math and social studies were smaller in numbers of students.

The class itself was more like a free-for-all than a class with objectives and standards. One morning, one of the smallest boys in the class was hoisted to the top of the two story ceiling on the climbing ropes. When his strength finally gave out from physical exhaustion and crying for help, he dropped to the floor breaking his arm and collar bone. The teachers supervising this “class” finally came to his rescue after one of the other students went to the office and asked for help.

Showers were mandatory. When you were handed a towel after showering the gym teacher recorded your gym number, which constituted that day’s grade for the class. I hated it! Eighty to a hundred pre-pubescent and pubescent boys along with the handful or two of older, rougher students (who were always more developed physically) made for the hour from hell. Towels were snapped at bare asses, size and development were always the source of taunting and the occasional erection that seemed to ‘come up’, so to speak, in a shower full of boys, became the focus of teasing and torment. Typically, lunch money was collected by the older, rougher boys in exchange for ‘protection’. Gaud help me on a day when I had to carry a cold lunch. Fried egg sandwiches and a Twinkie were not negotiable and only intensified the harassment. No wonder I missed forty-eight days of school that year!

The experience of gym class continued to be traumatic. By 10th grade, the only option for not taking gym was in exchange for ROTC class. The choice only created more conflict for me. By 12th grade, I finally had settled into a routine of participating in class as I needed, realizing that those days when we were turned loose to run Washington Park for our class period were the best. Running the park served to increase my speed as a runner so that I could get back to the showers before many of the others, shower and be with towel, dressing and “observing” by the time the majority of the guys were back from their run.

In college, classes like fencing, badminton and bowling didn’t require showering and seemed to be more user-friendly, at least as I was concerned. It really wasn’t until my early thirties that I began to realize how fulfilling the experience of a gym could be for a guy like me. Frequently I would fantasize about the gym, especially the showers and the possibility of meeting someone special. The fantasies always unfolded much like porn. You all have seen the story line; I’m headed to the steam room and someone catches my eye, asks to join me and—well you can imagine the rest of the story. Or another favorite is walking into the dressing area and there are two guys getting dressed, well sort of getting dressed! They seem to be having trouble with their undies or, oh my, the breathing is getting intense!!

At my age, one of the benefits of going to the gym, other than keeping my body somewhat in shape is that I now qualify for a “Silver Sneakers” pass. The gym is free, well sort of. It seems my health insurance company has realized the benefits of staying healthy through exercise. Yes, I still enjoy the lockers and the steam room can be intriguing. Depending on the time of day, there can be extremely gorgeous young guys working out. But who’s looking? Right! It causes me to wonder if they might be interested in my lunch money, just as the tormentors in my seventh grade gym class.

Even though my formation around the gym was not positive, I developed some life skills beyond survival, in gym. I enjoy riding my bicycle, running, and I walk most every day and have stayed reasonably fit and healthy.  

About the Author