This is the second of two parts. I encourage you to read both in one sitting or in relatively quick succession to get the full impact. (If you read the first part when it was published, I encourage you to review it before read this part.)
I didn’t realize how much happened in this time period until the last year or two. As I’ve written a few times before, I’ve been thinking a lot, for better or worse, about my life before my spinal surgery six years ago this month, and it occurs to me that an astonishing number of dramatic, meaningful events happened in the year before the surgery, not unlike the climax of a novel or, more appropriately in this case, the first or, again more appropriately here, second or third act of a drama.
In some ways, it has been difficult to write this, as it has brought up many emotions, but I sensed it would be good to write it out, let it go, unburden myself, so to speak, so that it would no longer weigh me down. At least not so much.
The year before my spinal surgery, which left me far more disabled, which changed everything in my life, was barely halfway over, and there were plenty more dramatic and significant events yet to come.
When I made it home without a van from the trip north in June, I was stuck. Literally. I had no van. Not only that, but we didn’t know if I’d be getting my van back or if I would be getting a new van. And we didn’t know for a few weeks.
It seemed that the auto mechanic and the insurance people kept going back and forth about whether or not my van was totaled – my dad kept giving me different reports – and I was in limbo in the meantime. Fortunately, I didn’t have much going on – no appointments and whatnot at the time – but I had to tell my attendant what to buy at the market, couldn’t escape to the beach on the weekend. I do have vague memories of going to an event or two in L.A in an attendant’s car, taking my manual wheelchair, but I’m not certain about what and when the occasions were. My dad was also in limbo, waiting to find out if he’d be getting my van back or would have to get me a new van, not to mention how I would get either down here in Claremont.
Finally, both to my surprise and my relief, it was determined that my van was totaled. Things were able to move forward then, once my dad received a payment from the insurance company. Within another week or so, he located a wheelchair-accessible van – a used one – at a dealership up in Santa Rosa, and it was delivered in the next week. (At the time, I was lead to believe that it was the only such van he could find and that it was lucky that he found it, but I have since realized that I was somewhat naïve to believe this and that it was really a matter of the price being right.)
By the time the van showed up at my house, it was almost mid-July, and I was tremendously relieved – not only because I finally had wheels but also, and more importantly, because it meant I was able to attend the California WorldFest, a weekend music festival featuring bands from all over the world which I had attended for about five years, in Grass Valley. Barely. As I recall, I got the van two or three days before I had to leave.
On the way up, I stayed in Berkeley with my friend Leslie, who I had encountered a month earlier after 30 years, in her hard-to-get, rent-subsidized, wheelchair-accessible apartment. While there, I learned that her attendants, including Ingrid, who had been so helpful when we met in June, were provided by Easy Does It, a remarkable service available to Berkeley’s disabled residents. I was also quite taken with Leslie’s cat, Goofy, who surprised me by not bothering me at night despite my sleeping next to the cat perch. And to my amusement, Ingrid offered us packaged cookies, calling them “crap” (I didn’t partake).
I also stopped by my parents. This time, my mother was up in her wheelchair and doing relatively well. She and my father and I went and sat outside and had a nice conversation. I don’t remember what was said, but my mom was at peace and pretty much said she would be alright and I would be alright.
As usual, I had a fantastic time at the festival, camping for three nights and spending the days enjoying an incredible smorgasbord of bands from all over the world on the grassy, woodsy Nevada County Fairgrounds. I’m pretty sure Carl, my Quaker friend who is similarly disabled and who I’d met a couple years earlier, came on the last day, and we – Virsil was with me on this trip, as I recall – went to his place at the Sierra Friends Center/Woolman School, where he worked and lived, outside Nevada City that night. I don’t remember how long we stayed there, but, as usual, it was very nice, and we went home via Lake Tahoe and the back-in-time drive down Highway 395 with the usual overnight stay in Bishop. A nifty way to break in the new van, which I was very glad to have but didn’t like as much because, for one thing, it wasn’t as convenient for me to sleep in with its folding ramp.
Being back home was a chance for a breather, but not for long. A week or two later, on a Sunday morning, someone called a left a message when I was getting up. It was July 24. I listened to the message once I was up, and it was my dad telling me to read the e-mail he had sent. I thought this was odd, especially as he sounded so quiet. I read the e-mail right then.
My mom had died. In the e-mail, my dad wrote about how my mom had been doing okay, relatively stable and comfortable, and had taken a sudden turn for the worse. He ended the e-mail saying my mom had always loved me very much. David was working, and I showed him the e-mail, and he hugged me as I cried a bit.
I went to meeting, but I don’t remember if I said anything about what had happened. I went to a birthday party that afternoon where some of my Quaker friends were. I don’t know if I broke the news there, but I think we talked about it. We were out on the patio, once they realized I was outside and the house was inaccessible.
I remember over the next few weeks, I was very emotional. I would just start crying. I was very thankful that I had seen my mom, calm and at peace, a few weeks earlier, and I imagined her telling my dad to hurry and get me a van so that I could come see her.
Also during this time, my relationship with Carl was evolving in surprising and exciting ways that made me very happy. I found out that the memorial for my mom was scheduled for mid-August, and Carl and I planned to spend time together before and after I was going to be in the Bay Area for the memorial.
The plan was that I would go with Virsil first to see Carl at Sierra Friends Center for a couple days, then to the Bay Area for a couple days, during which I would attend the memorial, and then finally to meet with Carl at Quaker Center in Ben Lomond in the Santa Cruz redwoods, a place I cherished from going there for years for year-end retreats. It was going to be a fun trip with some serious business in the middle. At least, that’s how I planned it.
At the Friends Center, it became evident that Carl’s and my relationship was continuing to evolve – rapidly, in surprising and confusing ways. I went to the Bay Area all the more rattled and was glad to be staying with Leslie.
On the morning of my mom’s memorial, I hadn’t urinated since the previous day and still couldn’t. I had had this problem before, and it became clear that I had to be catheterized – before the memorial at noon. I had been catheterized – a tube inserted into the penis – only a few times before, and it was still a very painful and relatively traumatic experience. (After the spinal surgery, when I had to have an internal catheter all the time and it had to be changed at least once a month, the process was routine and got to the point where I barely felt it.)
While I was nervous, to say the least, about having this procedure done and about getting to the memorial on time – not to mention still thinking about what was going on with Carl and me – Virsil and I set out on what ended up being a frantic search. We went to two places that wouldn’t do the catheterization before we ended up at an E.R that would. Miraculously, they took me rather quickly and then did the procedure and discharged me in under an hour, as I recall. Virsil and I were amazed that we literally pulled up to the memorial right in time and that I was in relatively good shape.
Actually, it was the second half of the memorial. It was a lunch, held at a dance studio owned by my sister-in-law. The first half had been a ceremony on a boat out on the bay, during which my mother’s ashes were scattered and which was inaccessible to me (and which I couldn’t have gone to anyway). This bothered me a bit, but the lunch was quite nice, with many relatives and friends I hadn’t seen in a long time, including one who was now a lesbian and was pleased that I too had come out. After everyone had gotten their food, people stood and shared memories of my mom – sort of like a Quaker memorial meeting – and my sister read a piece that I had written. All in all, it turned out to be a pleasant and also emotional and, yes, traumatic day. I remember going to Telegraph Avenue to buy something – I forget what – before happily returning to Leslie’s apartment.
I think it was the next day when Virsil and I headed down to the San Jose train station to pick up Carl and went on to spend a few hours in Santa Cruz before going on to the Quaker Center. Things didn’t go as planned, as Carl’s and my relationship was again quickly evolving in dramatic and difficult ways. Even so, I made the best of being in this beautiful spot amid the redwood trees that was so familiar and so cherished, and, on the morning before Virsil and I left to return to Claremont (did we stay overnight in San Luis Obispo?), I made a point of spending some time talking to Carl. I was very happy that we came to a resolution, as emotional and difficult as it was.
That Fall was relatively quiet – thank God! – although not without some significant happenings. For one thing, I was conflicted about a local men’s group that I was involved in. I had been quite pleased when I discovered and joined it – part of the Mankind Project – a year earlier, but it was more than the simple rap group that I was looking for. (It wasn’t really like the California Men’s Gathering, which I had been involved in for years, but I was looking for something more local, and I could get to these meetings in my chair.) Plus, I felt pressured to attend a weekend initiation, which cost $700 ($1400 with my attendant) and which they wouldn’t say anything about. While I was glad that there was group where men could look at their lives, express themselves authentically and recognize how they might improve themselves, I was uncomfortable with, among other things, cult-like aspects and the cost of participation. The trouble was that I wanted to stop going, but I didn’t want the guys to think I was giving up, couldn’t hack it – perhaps because I’m disabled. So, I kept going, although no longer every week, even though I was stressed and unhappy.
In late October, at Carl’s invitation, I went to the Fall quarterly meeting, a Quaker regional gathering, in Northern California at the Sierra Friends Center. It was a bit odd for me to be going – I usually attend the one in Southern California – but it was a way to see Carl. The weekend turned out to be weird and kind of difficult. It poured the whole time, making the site a big mudhole hard to navigate in a wheelchair, and, although I stayed at Carl’s house, I hardly saw him, since he was very busy with logistics for the meeting, which was part of his job at the center. I wondered at the time if this was his way of gently setting new boundaries in our friendship.
There was also the stressful presidential campaign, with Donald Trump (really?) all but stalking Hilary Clinton, and the surreal, stomach-churning election. After watching the exhausting election night coverage, perhaps foolishly, I was devastated by the result, leaving me in a daze for days. This was even worse – far worse! – than when Reagan or George W. Bush won. If anything, Carl, who was a straight-up Berner, seemed more upset than I was, barely speaking. The on-going news about Trump’s cabinet and advisor picks – Steve Bannon! – didn’t help.
In late December, after Christmas, I went north again – again! – to see my family, this time with David. Once again, we stayed with Leslie, and, since we arrived during Hanukah, I took her some chocolates imprinted with dreidels, and we watched as Leslie’s attendant lit the menorah and they recited a Hebrew prayer. A highlight of the trip, and really a highlight of my life, was spending a day with Carl, who was staying at a friend’s house in Berkeley. After having lunch at Nation’s, where, to David’s and my amazement and amusement, Carl promptly ordered another burger after finishing one, we spent some time in the all-but-abandoned China Camp park, and then I took Carl to meet my father. David and I sat in awe as Carl, who had studied computer science at Haverford College, and my dad, who had taught math at Harvey Mudd College, talk higher algebra, which neither of us understood at all. I felt that, with this visit, with my dad liking a guy who he knew I liked, he saw and appreciated me, who I was, more than perhaps he ever had. The day ended with Carl, David and I having dinner at Gaumenkitzel, a German restaurant I like in Berkeley, and then helping Carl get a burrito, at a tiny, surprisingly good Mexican restaurant (more like a stand) for the next day before dropping him off.
It was a month and a half later when, six years ago this month, in February, 2017, I got sick and ended up having life-saving emergency spinal surgery at nearly midnight on the 28th (as I wrote about in two previous posts - October 1 and 6, 2020).
In the months after the surgery, while I was in a “skilled nursing facility” – a nursing home (what happened after the surgery should be the subject of another post or two) – Carl moved back east (he would later return to California for a while). And, out of the blue, Leslie died in Aprilat age 55, a year or so younger than I was. I was stunned and overwhelmed, to say the very least, by how much and how fast everything was changing – I cried a lot - and my dream of Carl, Leslie and I getting a nice, big house in Berkeley – ha! – and pooling our attendant funds and hiring people to be there 24/7 was just that – a dream. (I have come to realize that seeing Leslie during this year, with her increased disability, was like seeing myself after the surgery.) I also thought that it was all-too-appropriate that I fell ill one month after Donald Trump was inaugurated as president, and I was grateful that my mom wasn’t around to see both.
